𝑫𝑬𝑴𝑶𝑰𝑺𝑬𝑳𝑳𝑬

There wasn’t always dragons in the valley. Nor clean stream in the lake.

As long ago it may seem, ‘‘twas a time of true sadness. Glimpses of grey and weakened eyes met amongst the poverty fog. 1941, Lancashire - north of rural England. Father moved a lot for work and as follows so did I. But this town, this one little lost town held something profound. Something that didn’t want to be found. Far greater than a pirates treasure and beyond the wealth of even the deepest pockets.

Chapter 1 ~ The Great Depression.

I don’t think there had been such a devastating time in British economic history. The working class were either hardly working or overworked. Barely scraping two pennies together for bread and butter. The nation was in sheer lack, scrap for cash and resources. Kids were shining shoes for shillings and trading shit for sugar. Oddly, a common saying when asked what’s for dinner again.

Father was a governor. We were much more well off than the average, although he knew what it was to be of the people, for the people. And so we tended to remain within such areas, stay close to the matters. Hearing it firsthand from their civilians helped him understand what the neighbourhoods needed.

He was a busy man throughout the working week. Eight years old and no siblings it was up to me to create my own entertainment. Moving didn’t allow the stability of friends but what it did bring was excitement, of new surrounding. New faces. New buildings. I was very observant. Loved to draw and document each venture. Ever since the global sadness, I became very close what this town was so deprived of. Trees, woods, forests and leaves. Butterflies, blossom, bluebells; just green. Smoke of industrial buildings filled the air with polluted clouds and the smell of sewage streamed through the cobbled grounds. The stench was unbearable in the slums of terraced streets.

I would wander, on a hunt for just a patch of grass. Enough to spot a daisy or an ant. I wanted to study the infinite list of botanicals and tiny lives.

It was a usual Monday. Apathetic and gloomy. I was homeschooled, and grew fond of my after class treat that not only satisfied my sweet tooth; but strayed me away from the staring at the same four walls every damn day.

I headed down from the study room and into dad’s office humming away, promting a hand gesture for my pennies whilst he preoccupies the phone.

“Thank you PaPa.”

hugging him gently,

“M’off to Mr Tim’s I’ll bring you back some liquorice!”

Mr Tim was the best thing left. The most glorious confectioner of traditional Old English sweets. And just about the only ‘friend’ I truly made. Until later this week that is, unbeknown to me.

He had shelves and shelves of bonbons and hard boiled sweets, strawberry cables taller than me! It was a wonder emporium of flavours. Cosy too. On the rainy days I’d sit and draw the endless mason jars of candy. Or read back on my nature finds for the day.

The bell above his customer door dinged.

“Well if it isn’t the sweetest thing in this shop! How was school Zenala?”

“Boring today Mr. Tim.” She sighed in relief of it being over.

“I dread the end of a weekend to start a morning with math. Numbers have never been easy for me but Father insists I’ve inherited his perfected academia.”

“I just want to paint and draw mister Tim, maybe plant flowers in the summer. Do you have summer here? I don’t think I’ve seen the sun ever since.”