One of Us Buried by Johanna Craven (year 2 reading books TXT) 📕

When I stepped out of the factory that evening, three soldiers were approaching the building. I recognised the tallest as Lieutenant Blackwell.

I put my head down and quickened my pace.

“You. Stop.”

My chest tightened. I froze, looking ahead for Lottie, but she had disappeared. Two of the soldiers continued into the jail, but Blackwell took a few steps towards me, boots crunching on the road. Despite the dust, his uniform was immaculate, brass buttons gleaming and the braiding on his jacket inexplicably white. My heart began to speed.

“You came in on the Norfolk,” he said. It was not a question. His voice was deeper than I had been expecting. I could feel it in my chest. “I passed you this morning,” he said. “Saw you sleeping behind the church. There’s no need for that.”

I felt a flush of embarrassment.

“I know the system here is not so easy for…” He hesitated. “New arrivals.”

I almost laughed at that. Was he not part of the system, this polished officer in the New South Wales Corps? I kept my eyes on the ground, as though I might save myself from turning to stone by avoiding his eyes.

Somewhere between London and Parramatta, I had trained myself to not be afraid. I’d spent months in abject terror; a tearful mess in my Newgate cell, weak legged in the courtroom dock. I had no strength, because I’d come to believe it was my place to be weak. To let the men in my life carry me; to pick me up when I fell.

But one morning, in the dark and damp bowels of the prison ship, I came to see there was no one coming to rescue me. If I was to survive in this new life, I would have to find a way through my terror.

And so I steeled myself against my fear. Found some long-hidden part of me that vaguely resembled strength. The filth of the Norfolk, the mountains of ocean, whatever awaited me in New South Wales; I would find a way through it. Because my only other option was to die.

But standing in front of Lieutenant Blackwell, I felt that old fear returning. I felt unsteady around him, as though those expressionless eyes were prising away the wall I’d erected around myself to keep my terror at bay.

Full of hate, Lottie had said. But when I looked at Blackwell, I didn’t see hate. I didn’t see anger. I didn’t see anything at all. And that, I realised, was what made me feel so damn unbalanced.

“I have shelter,” he said after a moment.

I shook my head. “I know the price of shelter in this place.”

“Four shillings a week,” he said evenly.

“And what else?”

No response.

“I don’t have four shillings a week.” I put my head down and walked, making it clear our discussion was over.

*

That night, thunder rolled in across the mountains and the air thickened with approaching rain. Black clouds drained the colour from the sky.

I crouched with my back against the wall of the church. The awnings above my head were narrow and I knew they would do little to keep out the rain.

My stomach groaned. Hunger seemed to be seeping into every part of me; weakening my legs and tangling my thoughts. Tears pricked my eyes and I blinked them away. I couldn’t find the energy to cry.

It was my empty stomach that led me to the tavern. Lamps flickered in the windows, and I could hear a muffled roar of laughter coming from inside. I had never been in such a place before, and I was dimly aware that I ought to have been nervous. But things had gone too far for that. What room was there for emotions as petty as nervousness when my life had been pared down to a thing of survival?

I pushed open the door. The place was cramped and noisy, bathed in hot orange light. Men in grimy shirtsleeves were clustered at the bar, and at the crooked tables dotted around the room. I spotted a few women among them; faces I’d seen at the spinning wheels that day.

I glanced around, my heart thudding.

What was I seeking? Money? Food? A man who would use my body as payment for shelter from the rain? I wasn’t sure. I only knew that staying beneath the awnings of the church tonight would nudge me towards insanity.

I saw it then, on the edge of a table; a plate of roasted meat, two chunks of potato. A man sat with his back to it, howling with laughter, far too engrossed in the woman on his lap to bother with his supper. I edged towards the plate, as calmly as I could. Eyes down, cap pulled low. With my striped skirts and fiery hair, I knew I would draw attention. And before I could think, could hesitate, could judge myself, the potatoes were in my apron pocket.

The man whirled around at my movement. “Hey!”

He tipped the woman off his lap and made a grab for my wrist, but I was already darting towards the door. I clattered my way through chairs and bodies. Raced out into the street. I turned down the narrow alley beside the tavern and hurried into the thick darkness.

“Where the hell are you?” the man called. I could see the dark shape of him at the top of the alley. I pressed myself against the wall, holding my breath.

The sky opened suddenly, sending the man hurrying back into the tavern. I lifted my face upwards, grateful for the downpour. Water pelted the road, turning it to mud in seconds. I hurried back towards the church and pressed myself against the wall, trying to find shelter beneath the narrow awnings. Rivulets of water rolled from the roof and slid down the back