Emily Pt.1

Emily

These days, life is a rather simple ordeal. Breakfast precedes every event in the day, then I prepare, then I’m off to do business whereabouts. I’m not much like all those other aristocrats, who all know stuff like Latin and Ancient Greek, and who have big vocabularies, but I’m sure I’ll find it in me to tell you the story of how I met my wife, Emily.

A long time ago, I was what we called a “peasant.” My home was a dark flat in a low part of London, and all the buildings were squeezed together so there was just enough room. I saw kids in gangs on the street all the time, and they’d give me a hard time, say I’ve got nothin’ going with my life because I don’t go to school. Granted, it was a pretty analytical point for a bunch of poor kids, but I guess that shows their determination in belittling their fellow man. They did get me down sometimes. I’ll admit that because I’d rather just tell the truth. They didn’t seem to tell the truth much.

Because we couldn’t afford school, I just walked around the city all day. Sometimes I’d take a walk by the harbor and see my uncle. He was a good guy. He sat in at his dad’s Latin lectures when he was a kid, so he would always go on about Ancient Roman kings and wars. I’d walk up, and he’d yell, “Paulinius Tulinius Tarquinius Superbus the Fifty-Third! All hail!” I’d start walking all proud and he and all his friends would bow on the ground. Good lot, them.

I liked Trafalgar Square, too – now that was a nice place to be. I liked that because of those beautiful buildings around there, and the fountain, and that you could really see the sky. And all those ornate gables that rose about, the column, that gallery – they all seemed to say “Hello, how are you today?” when you looked at them. That’s how it was for me, at least. I think I was just a little insane in those days.

Last of all, I’d visit Hyde Park, my favorite place on the face of the earth. God really did a good job on that place. The Row, Carriage Drive, the Serpentine – if I could write volumes on any one subject in my life, they would be about the still and the peace around the Park. Grey or blue the day may be, it doesn’t a difference to me – I thought that up one day when I was walking on the Row and I heard a group of string players, whom I saw beneath a tent beside the Serpentine. No one was watching them, which was really curious, but they still played like they were going to hell otherwise. I stayed and watched for only a while because I had so much to do before the day was done. Those sorts of days were good, because I always busied myself around the city, or the park, and yet I never actually had anything to do.

But that was sort of the gist of walking around London, is that it looks good no matter what the weather is. I think a lot of people designed it so that it would still look good in the rain, because a lot of this gothic architecture seems to do that. Maybe people were generally just real sad or angry when they built that stuff. Besides that, whoever built it did a real good job on it. There’s nothing really that’s made to be only so good – it’s like they really put forth the extent of what they were given when they built the place. I mean, I couldn’t do nothing like any of that, but I’m sure others could, like those masons way back when. It’s that sort of history that makes walking around a place really enjoyable. There’s a grace about everything you look at, and it’s not something you point out or rave about, but it’s rather ingrained in your head all the while.

You can walk at your speed wherever you’re going, and there’s always time to look around and enjoy things while you do it. And there’s always something to enjoy, whether it’s some palace in the park or just a house that looks like it belongs in a book. When the sunshine’s all about everything, you can make out the features on it in good detail, like heaven put a few rays of grace on the faces of those glorious buildings about, and the gardens all around them. And if the rain’s got you, don’t worry about it – you’re just in a different world, looking at a different kind of beautiful.

Some days I’d just spend a long while standing between Kensington Palace and the pond out front of it. Other days I’d never stop walking, and I’d never be still for a moment. Doing these things was a real science to me. I was never really happy or sad, but just sort of complete. It’s all I wanted to do, and it’s all I did. I would stand by the gatepost about the busy places and just watch people. I wondered why they were all so busy, or what it was they were so concerned about, particularly in such a pretty place as London.

Of course, between the daylights, I had to have a place to sleep and eat. That was usually when the day was done, because I would have to go home. The place where I lived was, as I’ve said, pretty dim a place, but that wasn’t quite what I was worried about as I was walking back home. I had just got done looking around at all these accomplishments of building things with bare hands and now I had to go back to the boys on the corner and my parents of Ire. I walked with my hands in my pockets, and I looked at the ground. That wasn’t like me. I looked and waved and smiled at all my friends and neighbors I passed, because it was always a good affair to see them, but it would change as I got close to the complex. I wasn’t all that pressed to look about the world at that time.

When I got to the front door of the building, I really had to concentrate, because the halls were full of kids running about, who were usually about my age. They’d yell things at me, and I’d just have to pretend like they weren’t. When I got to my apartment, which was on the fourth floor, I knocked, because I didn’t have a key. My parents would yell from the other side,
“Who’s that there?”
“Paul,” I’d say.
They come stomping up from the other side, and it was always scary to hear that. The doorknob would rattle, and then the door would fly open, and my dad would be there in a stained button shirt, frowning at me, and he’d say, “Ain’t you got a key?”
“No,” I said.
“Why not?” he’d say.
“You said I’d lose it,” I’d say.
“Oh,” he says. “Right.” Then he’d walk in and leave me to shut the door.
I’d go straight to my room, because I didn’t want to get in front of my parents and have them hound me with questions. They used to ask, “Wha’ve you been doing,” and “Where you been,” and all I would be able to say is “Walking about,” and that wouldn’t make them happy at all. They’d want me to get a job. I just ignore them and run into my room. I really didn’t want a job.

My mum stood in the kitchen and did dishes while she yelled at my dad. I didn’t like hearing that. He’d just sit there and read books. When I wanted to try to act like I wasn’t there, I would sit at my desk by the window and write about what I’d done that day, and what I’d do the next. After that, I’d try to sneak out and get dinner. When I went to bed, my parents were always yelling, and so I might have had to squeeze the pillow over my head to drown it out. I didn’t sleep well, you know. I always had bags around my eyes. In the night, I might be awake real late, and I’d think about all the ugly things about me, around where I lived and why they were that way, and I’d start feeling really low. Some kids might have gotten in a fight on the street, or they’re pulling the close off some poor girl, or my mum’s screaming at my dad real loud, till Ms. Kent would come over and ask her nicely to be quiet. It all happened in some poorly put-up walls, through windows that no one wants to be there, in a part of a city where no one wants to be. I’d get close to crying, but I never would, and I never did. That’s not what a good man does.

I woke up before my parents always. I’d make myself tea and toast fast as I could, and then I’d set out. And no one else was really awake at that hour, so I just rushed out and was back in the good parts of the city again before anyone was there to hound me or what have you. It would always be bright about that time, and there’d still always be a good many people walking around. Maybe once or twice in the morning I’d stop and watch them, and wonder again what it was they were doing. They all looked pretty silly. That time of the day, the sun was a bit diagonal, so it’d shine right across the faces of the buildings, and it would look really beautiful. Everyone I passed would get a “Good morning” from me. And sometimes someone I passed would say, “Now there’s a good lad.” They day began there.

I remember it was a bright day sometime about April, when I made my way to the library to have a go at the books. I took to the library a lot, mainly because I hadn’t a day of school behind me, but also just because I liked to sit there and read things, and imagine. I sat at a huge table with an immense volume in front of me, and I read a sentence at a time. But I didn’t really just read through it, so to say – I skimmed along the lines, and I could feel when a good sentence was coming up. When I got to that sentence, I read real slowly, then I looked up at the window in the archway ahead of me and I’d think about it as I watched the clouds drift by. I was out of luck if it was a clear day. That day, I was reading the Odyssey. I remembered exactly the line I stopped at, for reasons I still can’t quite explain. It read,

“Lo, how men blame the gods!
From us, they say, comes evil!”

Zeus said that to all the other gods around him, in that fantastic hall they had. I’m pretty sure he’s the father of the gods, and he gathers the clouds. You gotta respect a guy like that, really. But when I left the library that day, I really put it into practice. I looked all about those rich people in carriages, for whom the streets are so wide, and they’re all done up in pristine white, to the point where everything and their horses are white, save for some idle details and the mustaches on their faces. They were always going about as a family, stopping here and there to pick up a bunch of flowers or get an ice cream. I thought it was a pretty good deal that they were born into that kind of life. Everyone I’ve ever known has hated them for it, but I don’t quite know what there is to hate. They seemed to me like they’re doing alright. Maybe it’s just all about money, I thought. That’s a shallow thing to get upset about.

So, my parents will be angry, the blokes will be low, my uncle will laugh, and I’ll be a moron who walks around London all his life. To be honest, I don’t know what there is to complain about, once you’ve squared away what it is that you are. The day went on, and I really started to feel a lot better about home, and my parents, and how honestly senseless all that yelling is. And if the boys give me a hard time, I’ll get through it, and I’ll be all right at the end, long as I know what’s good in life. The day got brighter and clearer as I started to feel better and better, and it seemed as though the planets aligned for me that day.

I made my way to the Park. It was an emerald day there, and the skies were completely clear overhead. All those canopies came together and stirred about in a breeze. All those blades of grass there on the lawn went on until the woods swallowed them up, not far off. I stood by a tree and watched a band play on a wooden stage by the lake. The women wore white, and the men black, and the kids ran about in blue and laughed. I just stood beside, dirty and rotten as I was, because I’m sure they wouldn’t want a poor boy like me sitting around the rows of chairs they had set up. So I stood by with my hands in my pockets and watched the band. They played the kind of music that carries through the air real nice, and has a pretty little melody to it. They stay with you, those songs, and they just make your life better once you hear them.

Then I got looking through the crowd sitting down. They were all dressed alike, so faces got lost once you saw another. The men mostly had those mustaches and hard faces, like they’re really serious all the time. The women either looked like toads done up in white powder or they were really pretty. Some looked older than granddad. I stopped when I saw one face in particular.

It was a girl, must have been about my age. She had long, blond, golden hair tied up behind her head. She had really rich, blue eyes, and skin like cream and silk. There was something about her, I have to say. There was something that made me notice her in particular. Really, she was too fair to be a mortal – she must have been a goddess or something. Maybe she was an angel. She fit the bill. And her face was the kind you could just stare at. And she looked extremely bored – she held her chin in her hand and her eyes were just locked on the band. I realized I was staring at her, and I felt really bad, because you just shouldn’t do that. Her dad, as I guessed the man sitting beside her was, leaned over and whispered something to her. Still, her head was just drooping over her palm, and she leaned lopsided on her right armrest.
Then she looked at me.
Square in the eyes.
I felt a jolt run through me, and I jarred immediately, and fell to the ground. Then I stumbled up and started walking as fast as I could through the woods behind me. Why? I don’t know. I just had to get away. What if she tells her dad, and he comes running after me? What’ll he do to me? Jaysus, I thought. My mum’s Irish, and I always think in Irish when I’m excited.

Then I heard footsteps other than mine behind me in the leaves. I sifted through the trunks a bit faster, from canopy spot to canopy spot, over logs and that, always getting faster, until we were in a running chase. My heart was beating really hard, because I don’t usually run, and he was probably gonna knock me about if he caught me. I just ran, and I didn’t think about anything else.

Then I was on the ground. Something had slammed me in the back really hard, and I fell to the ground like a lummox. My spine was killing me as I lay there, slowly coming to terms with things again. There was a hefty piece of wood lying on the ground beside me, some huge stick. And when I looked up, I didn’t see a mustached top-hatter, or even some bloke. It was the girl. She was all dressed in an ornate white dress and her gloves went up to her elbows. She stood proudly over me with her hands on her hips, so she looked really tall, and she glared at me with those eyes. I was confused and speechless. I propped myself up on my elbow and said,
“You hit me with a piece of wood!”
She was still breathing hard as she just uttered, “Yeh?”
I went again without words. Then I said, “That was a good piece of wood!”
“I just picked it up,” she said, looking over at it.
“Oh,” I said.
“Why were you looking at me?” she shouted suddenly. She used a voice that could burn down a village.
“I dunno,” I said.
“What were you doing?” she asked.
“I dunno,” I said.
“Is that what you do, you just look at people all day?”
“I dunno!”
“Do you know anything?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“I…Paul.”
“I’m Emily,” she said. But she didn’t say it in her burning villages voice. She took on a more peaceful tone.
I was perplexed. I said, “Do you think it’s okay to just throw pieces of wood at people?”
“Don’t be patronizing!” she shouted.
“I’m sorry!” I said.
“I’m being patronizing!” she shouted.
“Right, sorry!”
“And don’t be so meek!” she shouted.
“Sorry,” I said.
“What’d I tell you?” she shouted.
I just looked at her. Then she asked in her quiet voice,
“What’s your last name?”
“Uh, Charleton.”
“Why’d you say ‘uh’?” she shrieked.
“I don’t know!” I pleaded.
“Are you lying to me?” she shouted.
“No!”
“It sounds like ‘charlatan.’”
“Oh.”
“Do you know what that is?”
“No,” I said.
“A liar!” she shrieked. Then she paused. Then she picked up the bit of wood and shouted, “Get up!”
So I got up really fast.
“And stand up straight, with your chest out, for God’s sakes.”
I did, and my back started feeling better. The pain was gone.
“Now you can breathe better,” she said. “I don’t know why you peasants don’t stand up straight.”
“I don’t know, either,” I said.
She paused again. She looked at the wood. She smiled as she said,
“Are you afraid of girls with bits of wood?”
“I guess,” I said. “You threw it really hard. Hit me real good.”
She held it up and looked at it. Then she swung it at me but faked it out, and I shouted, “Oh god!” and cringed back. But she just burst out laughing. Her whole face scrunched up when she did, and she slapped her chest. It was a deep sort of “haw-haw” laugh.
I just got angry at her. I said, “God above! Is this how you deal with people?”
Her laughing died as she said, “I’m really sorry. I’m just mean like that.” She relaxed her shoulders and threw the stick to the ground. Then she told me, “I suggest we start running or something. My dad’s probably coming, and he’s a whole lot of fun. He’ll probably make you work in a factory or something. Come on.”
She grabbed my wrist, and suddenly we were dashing through the woods.