Queenie of Norwich: A compelling tale based on the true story of one woman's quest to beat the odds. by LK Wilde

Author:LK Wilde [Wilde, LK]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2022-01-26T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

March 1914

I ’ve been counting the days we’ve been at the mill and we’ve crossed the month mark. A whole month in that hellish building. There’s been lots of times over the years I’ve needed to be tough, but I don’t reckon nothing’s tested me as much as the mill has.

It only took me a week or so to get used to the hours on my feet, but I still can’t get used to the boredom. Every day the same thing, over and over and over, until you feel your brain slowly dying inside your head. It’s not even like you can chat away the hours. Most of the folk there have got pretty skilled in reading lips, but it’s no substitute for a good old chin wag. I miss the music too, the constant chime of an organ, a gramophone blasting out over the cake walk.

I’m beginning to find my way, find ways to soothe the boredom, but I got to be careful the old goat in charge don’t catch me. I’ve made a few friends too, not the type I’d confide in, but those what appreciate a little entertainment in their long day. I’ve picked up enough over my years with the fair to put on a show. I’ve invented a new dance. One where only your feet move while your body stays still. Unless the supervisor is walking down my line, he’d never know the jig going on below the machine. The other workers see it though, and I feel bad when they get in trouble for laughing.

I’ve also learned my voice is good at singing loud and in tune. When the supervisor goes on his break, it’s not unusual for me to burst into song, though the other folk are too scared of being caught to join in. Julia’s got wind of my antics, and tells me to save them for break times. I make the most of those times too. I’m careful enough that I don’t let on we’re showfolk, but I tell my new friends stories, that I say were told to me by a showman’s wife I met as a child. They lap it up.

The bell goes and we head outside for dinner. Chrissy’s packed up thick sandwiches and a hunk of cake what are the envy of every worker at the mill. Most workers trot off home for their dinner, but those that come from round about like we do, hang around me, waiting for my spiel to start.

“So, this old girl told me about an African prince.” Gasps go up from my crowd. “Yes,” I continue, “a real-life African prince. He was the handsomest man ever to grace the shores of England, and could perform magic like no one had seen before.”

“How did he get to England?” someone shouts.

“Well, that’s a story in itself right there. Word has it, he sent one of his servants out one night to the local village. The servant snuck into people’s homes stealing all the leather shoes he could find.

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