Fudge Ripple, Blueberry Yoghurt and Butterscotch
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Her Final Friend (Part I)
Rating: G
Challenge: Fudge Ripple #4: despair, Blueberry Yoghurt #11: out of my hands
Toppings/Extras: butterscotch
Wordcount: 600
Summary: Tilly Bishop appeals to her final friend for help.
Notes: Follows closely after Red Paint.
“’Ee don’t understand,” Jack Prowse said, his expression one of frustration. It was the middle of the night, and he squinted at Tilly Bishop through the doorway to his house. He had been roused by pebbles on the window, and now frowned at her. “I’ve been workin’ since six this mornin’, Tills, an’ it don’t get any easier. I can’t just take off to Readin’ with ‘ee, if I lose me job I’ve ‘ad it...”
He trailed off as his friend wiped her face with the back of one hand, slicking tears across her cheek. Her reddish hair sung pale moonlight sadly towards him and the gentle catching of her balmy breath squeezed at his usually leather-tough heart-as only Tilly could.
“Please help me, Jack, even if you do not come with me,” she said in a quiet, downtrodden voice. It was limp of its usual energy. “I do not know anything about travel... I know nothing about anything at all!”
How bizarre it was; one day she had parents, a sister, a large home to call her own. Her daily worries consisted only of remembering her daily prayers and learning her Latin. Now she had lost everything that previously had seemed her birthright, and the world had become an oppressive and dark maze in which she cowered, hiding from the latest threat to her life. She had run to the home Jack shared with his parents, six siblings and four cousins through the streets of London feeling damned and in blackest despair.
“Sleep in ‘ere tonight, Tilly, if ‘ee really don’t ‘ave anywhere else to go-we can talk about it in the mornin’,” Jack said, finally softening his tone. He was fifteen years old and worked under one of the tinkers of his street, peddling his wares all over London. His whole family of twelve worked aside from the youngest at three years old, yet they never seemed to have enough money.
Tilly hesitated. She had not told Jack about the plague, and felt wretched for it. There was a chance that she had it, after all. Her gaze dropped.
“No, Jack, I cannot come in.”
“What?”
“It is hard to explain,” Tilly whispered.
“I don’t care how ‘ard to explain it is, yer comin’ in ‘ere,” he said, pulling her by the arm. She clenched her fist and tried to resist, but it was marginally warmer within the house and her body was melting towards Jack. Only her mind resisted.
“They died of illness, Jack. I might be sick too,” she finally said.
“Tilly...”
“I won’t let anyone else die from it!” she said, moving away from him. Hesitantly, he had lifted a hand towards her. “Please-dear, kind Jack-can you tell me how I might get to Reading? My father has given me some coinage.”
“Stagecoach,” Jack said slowly, “But they’re dangerous, Tilly... the drivers are untrustworthy and ‘ighwaymen litter the roads. ‘Ee can’t go on yer own, yer a thirteen-year-old girl!”
“What else can I do?” Tilly suddenly shrieked. She was a mild-mannered girl, and to hear her young voice grow so ragged and high pierced Jack through the heart. More tears spilled from her eyes and she scrubbed at them with clear frustration. “You’re the only person I can come to, Jack-everyone else thinks I’m dead. I’m meant to be dead!”
Jack’s clenched square jaw slackened somewhat and his eyes widened. He looked almost as though he had been struck-which, in a sense, he had been.
“Plague,” he said, eyes moving from one of hers to the other. “It’s plague.”