Chapter 1: It’s 1893
The keys have been bruised and the strings broken, yet the moonlight glimmer on the black metal plate has its everlasting charm.
Her lips parched, she glides her pale fingers over the tarnished piano keys and begins to wander in a symphony of her own—or at least tries, since her delicate hands and feet are embraced by rusty shackles, affixing her to the resilient brick wall; her rosy cheeks, which once bloomed like wee blush pink tulips in spring, have now been blanketed by the tiniest of dust freckles; her champagne locks, which once possessed dominance over the most ruthless, have, since forever, not been caressed by her favourite purple comb. The glittery sunbeams peeking from the rusted window bars obstruct her vision, but so frail, dehydrated, famished is the lovely maiden to walk away; maybe pain has ultimately found its way to her heart, maybe she has accepted life’s infidelity, maybe now she has given her all. She gazes at her faded tulle gown, when fear and nostalgia whisper into her ears and, once again, she stumbles over the tarnished chains, bursting into tears.
…..It’s 1893. The birds are twittering; their mellifluous vocals blanket the small hut with utmost intimacy. Lily finishes piling up her faded bedsheets while fantasising about a life bathing in magnificence and lustre; a life in which she steps out of the room in velutinous slippers, attendants stand there with some hot cakes for breakfast, and the world adores her beauty; few governesses tie the laces of her vintage corset and adorn her with jewels while few polish her tiara, and she while sipping into some freshly brewed coffee, admires herself before the tall mulberry mirror.
She continues to dream and suddenly a voice calls out to her, "Lilian! It's your turn to do the dishes. I shall cook the dinner tonight."
Lily stares at her reflection in the mirror, tenderly sweeps off the dirt on her face, and wears back her cotton mittens. She slides her eyeballs across the small room thinking about the entire refurbishment that is needed but can’t be afforded. She heads to the kitchenette and sighs, "Oh Lord," as the gross dishes cluttering the sink grab her attention. "Mama Rose! Have we had guests here for breakfast? The dishes are a huge mess today," she exclaims. Playing with her braids and tying a fuchsia apron on her skirt, Lily clutches onto the sponge and begins her daily chores.
She recollects the golden, old times when she was not drooling with wealth, but was at least elated from within; after losing her father to a terminal illness, nevertheless, she was imprisoned in the most miserable cage of poverty and desolation. A majestic cottage instead of an impoverished hut, sensational silk gowns embellished with ribbons instead of poor old skirts, and pondering upon what to wear the next day instead of where to find the best customers for the buns is something that Lily fancies but she also realises that her Mama Rose needs her the most.
“Bee! Aren’t you done yet? Please come sit with me and help me assemble my finished pile of clothes.”Lily is recovered from her little transitional journey into her past and runs down to Mama Rose who, while comfortably lounging on the parlour couch, is working ceaselessly on a delicate sanguine gown for the mayor’s significant other.
“Isn’t that a sight Mama Rose?” exclaims Lily while skimming her fingers carefully through the expensive satin. Followed by a pause, she continues, “Only if I could also wear one of those. Only if we could also wear one of those. Isn’t it unfair Mama?” Lily’s voice gains more and more intensity, “Some people are just born into wealth while we just look at these fortunate folk with covetous eyes, day and night. Their needs are our wants! What did they do to enjoy the luxuries of life? What did they do to spend their evenings dressing into the most extravagant gowns, and riding off to balls and dinner parties, while all we have to do is wash dishes and sew, and live this dreadful poor life where we can not even buy ourselves presents on holidays! I really wish that Aunt Elizabeth’s girls don’t come to meet me this Christmas…they shall only despise me more.”
Immense hesitation is obviously embedded into her voice as she prattles on about their poverty, forgetting, for the tiniest second, the intense labour Mama Rose puts in each day to relieve the naïve, young girl from her indigence; forgetting for the tiniest second, that Mama Rose wakes up even before the first celestial ray reaches the undisturbed earth to bake hot buns for breakfast; forgetting for the tiniest second, that Mama Rose is the one who develops a sudden revulsion for her favourite desserts when there is just one piece of the yummy apple pie left.
Of course, Lily acknowledges this— her innocent heart, which is indeed suffused with love for Mama Rose, aches for their pathetic circumstances of deprivation; she misses her father, she never got to see her mother—perhaps it is rational, even for the most inappreciable amount, for her to act so ungracious erratically?
“Aunt Elizabeth, once again!… Go to your room young lady; you’ve said enough,” says Mama Rose while trying her very best to conceal her plethora of sentiments—sad and dejected mostly—with a flawless facade, while turning her face away. These subtle expressions on her face bring Lily to lay her head down on Mama’s warm lap; she sniffs and sobs, entering into an endless cycle of weeping, which is followed by Mama Rose wiping away these precious tears with her old floral skirt.
“Life isn’t always easy my child….wasn’t ever for me….you’re right, we haven’t been given a lot, but we need not to be ungrateful for what has been given to us—my child, yes! Your Aunt Elizabeth lives a fashionable life, but you don’t live a very troublesome one either—my child, yes! You lost your father and mother, but I also lost my little boy. I loved him so much and couldn’t be fonder of him. I couldn’t be prouder of the way he always pretended to be without fear of his illness, but it hurt… it hurt a lot when I lost him!…”
Mama Rose continues to sew while dampening up her exquisite work, unapologetically, with her tears, “…but then I found you, such a beautiful child, when I realised that happiness had finally found a way to my heart. Child, we are poor but we are happy! Isn’t that enough?”
Lily quickly lifts up her gaze as if she is utterly disappointed in Mama Rose’s answer, as if she will never agree to be labelled as poor and be made fun of her appearance, her house, her apparel or anything related to her. “Is it?” Lily asks Mama Rose, with her lips twitching, her eyes lachrymose and her heart stuffed up with guilt because Mama’s heart may have been ripped apart, as is apparent from the fact that Mama Rose finally stops the rapid motion of her well-versed fingers; nevertheless, Lily rushes up to her room, as she didn’t actually desire for an answer—the answer was as plain as a pike staff to both.
Lily tightly clutches onto her plush pillow, when her eyes catch sight of the blush silk scarf, swinging to and fro on the chair lying at the far end of the room, and she starts reminiscing about her late father, or Papi, as she called him; she picks up the rusty locket hanging from her neck and drowns in tears as she kisses her father’s portrait hidden inside the pendant. The portrait being too alluring and sophisticated yet so immature is the perfect illustration of the gallant young man, gone so soon; she continues to sob hysterically, grasping more and more firmly onto her pillow, while silently murmuring to herself under her breath.
“So stressed I was but not even the slightest tinge of despair ever touched my heart. I had manifested a fairytale for myself and Papi in which we were happy, we were tranquil…I had so much belief that everything would turn out just fine but nothing did! Papi! why aren’t you here?”…
