Diary of a rich child in Victorian London
I awake to the
sound of crockery clinking and a general bustle downstairs, Millie, the maid
knocks politely on my door and enters almost immediately after – she never
waits for an answer. Morning Miss, she says with a small curtsey, time to get
ready for the day. Your father wants you in your white dress, it’s that
photograph today. I emerge from my bed slowly, the air is chilly as the fire
has not yet been lit.
Moments later,
I enter the parlour dressed in my finest white gown with my hair tied neatly in
bunches. Morning father, morning mother I say as I sit at the table. Morning
Emily, smiles mother. Father is reading the paper and doesn’t respond. We
breakfast mostly in silence, toast and eggs and a warming cup of tea with sugar
until mother announces that the chimney is to be swept today at seven and my
governess Mrs Henderson will be arriving shortly after that to attend to my
learning for the morning. Even on a Saturday, I have to learn, it’s not enough
that I attend school, father says; if I want a respectable position in society
and a good man to make me an honourable wife, I have to be learned. Most of the
time, I just want to play. I have a few friends at school but most of them have
a governess like me so we rarely get to play and have fun. I have toys and lots
of them; my dolls house is a delight and my grandmother purchased paints and
paper for my birthday that are lovely. I so do love painting.
Millie enters
to collect the breakfast items and lets us know that the sweep is here. I ask
to be excused and leave the table. I know I’m not supposed to go into the
drawing room when the chimney is being swept but I love to see other children
and the job is so fascinating; how boys fit up there is astounding. Father once
told me that chimneys are not straight, they are a complicated series of twists
and turns. I’d almost like to see one for myself if it weren’t so positively
filthy. Opening the door, I see the man gathering up his tools of the trade and
just see a naked boy scuttle up the chimney. One moment, his pale lower half
was hanging out of the chimney and then he was gone. I couldn’t help blushing
and coughing nervously. The man turned and saw me, Mornin’ missy.
The doorbell
rang, Mrs Henderson had arrived. Today would bring handwriting, poetry and
reading. Mrs Henderson is like a mother to me, her, Mrs Winters – the nanny –
and my real mother all look after me but really I just want my own mother.
She’s far too busy in the day though. Breakfasts and supper are the only time
we see each other. I am grateful that I live in my wonderful house but
sometimes, just sometimes I do wonder what it would be like to have a large
family and to do exciting things like climbing chimneys. If life were
different, I wonder what job I would do…
Morning Emily, time for handwriting, I have
a lovely poem about the seasons for you to scribe.
My day begins…
Diary of a poor child in Victorian London
My day starts
early, as it always does. If it’s not the wetting of the bed by one of my
brothers that wakes me and forces me to get out of bed, it’s my father. I’m
only nine-years-old yet I have to work. Every day. We all do actually, except
Maisie – she’s only two. There are nine of us in our family: mum, dad and seven
children and we all work, some work at the match factory on Fletcher Street,
although I’ve heard some scary things about that place – Phossy Jaw I’ve heard about – horrible; my two older brothers
shovel dung and mud off the road for the rich folk so they don’t dirty their
precious clothes; and my youngest brother, Edward, scuttles up chimneys all day
long and I have that joy too.
Today is a good
day, mother packs me off with some hard bread and a bit of cheese in a dirty
handkerchief. If I’m lucky, Bill – my owner – will grab me an apple from a
cart. I’ve been tempted to do that myself several times but I don’t want to get
into trouble. I heard from another sweep that he saw someone steal a hot roll
from a baker’s and he ended up inside. Prison, that is. I grab my lunch, kiss
Maisie and dodge a playful slap from Tommy, the eldest, he’s strong but he
isn’t as fast as I am. Father shouts at us all to get moving: it’s dawn he
says, time to get moving and get earning. Bread doesn’t grow on trees you know!
My meeting
place with Bill is outside the bakers, the smell of freshly-baked loaves is
almost too much to bear; if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he does it on
purpose to keep me shinning up those filthy chimneys. Chimneys don’t clean ‘emselves you know, boy. He sounds like my
father. Walking round the corner with his tools of the trade, comes Bill. He
sees me, spits and ruffles my hair. Ready to earn some bread, boy? He never
waits for an answer, just sniffs in the delicious scent of the bakers and
starts strolling off. Bill is tall, taller than my father and I have to run to
keep up with his monstrous strides.
We near the
first house and enter through the scullery. Bill prepares the grate, as ever.
Cloths out, tools placed on the hearth. I strip naked so as not to get soot on
the rich folks’ rug and place a hand on the chimney walls – good, not hot.
Taking a deep breath, I ready myself and enter the darkness. It’s easier now
than it used to be – I’ve done hundreds of these things but the darkness still
makes me feel so alone, so desperately alone. I often dream about being a rich
boy in a house like this when I clean and scrape choking soot from the
brickwork. If I were rich, I would give my sweep a hot chocolate and a fresh
loaf. Sweeps do such horrid, back-breaking work, they deserve it. I’m covered
in cuts and grazes and my hands are never clean. The darkness from the chimney
comes with me, like a constant reminder of my role in life.
Fourteen hours
later, exhausted and sore, I arrive home with my pay: one penny for fifteen
chimneys. Bill did get me an apple, so that’s a good thing. Soot cloaks me from
head to foot, it’s in my nose, my ears and everywhere. I hand the penny to
mother who ruffles my hair producing a mini-soot cloud, she smiles and tells me
that we will be eating soon. Another day is over.
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