Dreamless Night
PROLOGUE: THE TRAGEDY
I woke up with the old bells ringing in the hallways. Six o’clock. For some, that means a brand new day has begun. But for me, it means one more chapter of a really long play where nothing really happens. I was born in Bedfordshire, England; I lived in a pretty big farm that my family owned. That was until the accident.
It was a tender night in the middle of summer, and everyone was off to sleep. And then, all of a sudden, there was a big tumult in the house. There was a fire. My parents and I got up and moved as fast as we could, but we were too late and the fire was starting to consume the thatched roof. My dad told me and my mum to leave the place while he took whatever he could save from our belongings. I ran, but when I was finally out I realized my mother wasn’t with me. She must have passed out over the smoke or tripped and fell over the way, I can’t exactly tell. I was too frightened to go inside the house and find her, and I wouldn’t have strength to carry her if she was unconscious. I shouted for her and my dad until I was voiceless. They never came out.
By then, some peasants had seen the flames and were arriving with assistance. I remember being taken by Widow Willie into the barn and she offered me a glass of water. I spent the night at her place; she was the closest thing we had to a friend. From that night I knew what was going to happen, and that I probably wouldn’t be seeing the farm again, or what was left of it. I knew that old Willie wouldn’t be taking care of me forever, and I never met any of our relatives because they didn’t live in England, and apparently didn’t bother to visit us. In the morning I’d be moved to an orphanage in Shefford; The St. Rufus Home For Wayward Children.
Shefford is a small village in Central Bedfordshire. The St. Rufus Home is situated on High Street, next to the Roman Catholic Church. The orphanage’s red brick buildings are by far the most imposing in town. The windows have glazing bars, and are mostly sashes. Many of the children who reside there came from broken or poor families. St. Rufus has been opened recently and can take up to 65 kids between the ages of 5 and 16. I was received by an old priest, and I could swear his eyes were grey.
- What’s your name? - He asked.
- Gwenore Kent – I answered.
- And how old are you?
- I’m fourteen.
- Sign here. – He lent me a paper with something written in garbled Latin.
- I’m sorry sir, but I can’t read it. - I said.
- You don’t have to. Just sign.
- But I shouldn’t sign a document without reading it first…
- Then I’m afraid I’ll have to dump you off. Sign at once.
I had no choice but to sign the damn paper.
- Very well. Follow me, Miss Kent. I’ll take you to your dorms. You’ll be situated on the North ale, along with the other children from 12 to 14 years old. You’ll wake up everyday at six o’clock and you’ll start your daily chores. The lunch is at 12 o’clock. The chores end at six o’clock, then there’s dinner and the lights are turned off at eight o’clock. Any questions? No? Good.
He pointed to a wooden door at the end of the North ale hall. I was heading there when he stopped me:
- And I shall warn you that we don’t tolerate bad behavior of any kind in this institution, and breaking the rules implies severe consequences. Are we understood? Good. Have a good night.
I started out to the wooden door again. I opened it slowly and found that there were about twenty other kids sleeping on dirty couches. I saw an empty one, so I laid there, next to a boy. He was about my age, I guess. His eyes and hair were dark. Actually, they were almost black, but it could be just the light. He turned to me:
- Hi, I’m Theo. Short for Timotheo Greene. What’s your name?
- I’m Gwen. Short for Gwenore Kent. - I replied.
- You’re new here, aren’t ya?
- Yes, I arrived today. My parents died in an accident.
- I’m sorry.
- Me too. What about your parents?
- Never met them. I’ve been here since I was very young. My father disappeared while fighting in the Crimean War. My mother died giving birth to me.
- My condolences.
- Nevermind. You should probably get some sleep.
- Okay. See you tomorrow then.
- See ya.
Of course I couldn’t sleep. Being and orphan in 1868 is very tough. With the new industrial achievements, orphans or the illegitimate children from the poorest families can be bought for twenty or thirty shillings to work up to seven years. That’s less than the price of a terrier brew dog. Many are recruited at the age of 5, as chimney sweepers. The companies need small individuals with soft bones so they can crawl through the small chimneys. They can work up to 12 hours a day, same as the ones that work in mills, mines or foundries. Most of them die from tuberculosis or cancer over the smoke inhalation. I thought I was very lucky to be here and not out there. I couldn’t be more mistaken.
It was a tender night in the middle of summer, and everyone was off to sleep. And then, all of a sudden, there was a big tumult in the house. There was a fire. My parents and I got up and moved as fast as we could, but we were too late and the fire was starting to consume the thatched roof. My dad told me and my mum to leave the place while he took whatever he could save from our belongings. I ran, but when I was finally out I realized my mother wasn’t with me. She must have passed out over the smoke or tripped and fell over the way, I can’t exactly tell. I was too frightened to go inside the house and find her, and I wouldn’t have strength to carry her if she was unconscious. I shouted for her and my dad until I was voiceless. They never came out.
By then, some peasants had seen the flames and were arriving with assistance. I remember being taken by Widow Willie into the barn and she offered me a glass of water. I spent the night at her place; she was the closest thing we had to a friend. From that night I knew what was going to happen, and that I probably wouldn’t be seeing the farm again, or what was left of it. I knew that old Willie wouldn’t be taking care of me forever, and I never met any of our relatives because they didn’t live in England, and apparently didn’t bother to visit us. In the morning I’d be moved to an orphanage in Shefford; The St. Rufus Home For Wayward Children.
Shefford is a small village in Central Bedfordshire. The St. Rufus Home is situated on High Street, next to the Roman Catholic Church. The orphanage’s red brick buildings are by far the most imposing in town. The windows have glazing bars, and are mostly sashes. Many of the children who reside there came from broken or poor families. St. Rufus has been opened recently and can take up to 65 kids between the ages of 5 and 16. I was received by an old priest, and I could swear his eyes were grey.
- What’s your name? - He asked.
- Gwenore Kent – I answered.
- And how old are you?
- I’m fourteen.
- Sign here. – He lent me a paper with something written in garbled Latin.
- I’m sorry sir, but I can’t read it. - I said.
- You don’t have to. Just sign.
- But I shouldn’t sign a document without reading it first…
- Then I’m afraid I’ll have to dump you off. Sign at once.
I had no choice but to sign the damn paper.
- Very well. Follow me, Miss Kent. I’ll take you to your dorms. You’ll be situated on the North ale, along with the other children from 12 to 14 years old. You’ll wake up everyday at six o’clock and you’ll start your daily chores. The lunch is at 12 o’clock. The chores end at six o’clock, then there’s dinner and the lights are turned off at eight o’clock. Any questions? No? Good.
He pointed to a wooden door at the end of the North ale hall. I was heading there when he stopped me:
- And I shall warn you that we don’t tolerate bad behavior of any kind in this institution, and breaking the rules implies severe consequences. Are we understood? Good. Have a good night.
I started out to the wooden door again. I opened it slowly and found that there were about twenty other kids sleeping on dirty couches. I saw an empty one, so I laid there, next to a boy. He was about my age, I guess. His eyes and hair were dark. Actually, they were almost black, but it could be just the light. He turned to me:
- Hi, I’m Theo. Short for Timotheo Greene. What’s your name?
- I’m Gwen. Short for Gwenore Kent. - I replied.
- You’re new here, aren’t ya?
- Yes, I arrived today. My parents died in an accident.
- I’m sorry.
- Me too. What about your parents?
- Never met them. I’ve been here since I was very young. My father disappeared while fighting in the Crimean War. My mother died giving birth to me.
- My condolences.
- Nevermind. You should probably get some sleep.
- Okay. See you tomorrow then.
- See ya.
Of course I couldn’t sleep. Being and orphan in 1868 is very tough. With the new industrial achievements, orphans or the illegitimate children from the poorest families can be bought for twenty or thirty shillings to work up to seven years. That’s less than the price of a terrier brew dog. Many are recruited at the age of 5, as chimney sweepers. The companies need small individuals with soft bones so they can crawl through the small chimneys. They can work up to 12 hours a day, same as the ones that work in mills, mines or foundries. Most of them die from tuberculosis or cancer over the smoke inhalation. I thought I was very lucky to be here and not out there. I couldn’t be more mistaken.