A Star in a Lifetime of Darkness

The ageing wooden bench creaked under her weight, but it was the only place she could sit near enough the coach stop that she would be seen. It was unsheltered; the rain had not long ceased to fall from the night sky, and the moulding panels were now passing their damp to her. It travelled through the linen and lace of her petticoat to reach her skin, and further still to seize the weakened muscles beneath. The bench was in a sorry state, and barely fit to be used as firewood—yet it remained, crooked and creaking, persevering nevertheless for those who required it.

Not too dissimilar from herself. She wrapped her beige woollen shawl tighter around her shoulders, gripping the fabric with blue fingertips. Perhaps they would escape the cold if she dug them further into the wool; perhaps the life within them would carry over, to warm her shoulders; then perhaps such a renewed warmth would dry the locks of hair that had tumbled from her head, gathering in a soaken mess at her nape and causing droplets of water to travel down her back, where rivulets became floods against each nerve of her spine. And yet her posture remained firm, though it formed a perfect riverbed; her grip did not waver even as her hands shook. The single gas lamp that lit the coach stop was not near enough that she could see much beyond an arm's length, but its light still reached her.

She would take that coach. She would take that coach, and for the first time in her thirty years of life, she would leave her place of birth. It was due to pass by when the clock tower struck eleven, and not a moment later would she rise from that bench, brush down her skirts as though it were not mud and mould that stained them, and lift her feet from the pavement of that sorry city for good. Where that coach would take her exactly, she did not quite know: she could not read the timetables, and had only been told the final destination. Still she would bid farewell to the people that had never showed kindness, to the streets that had never showed pity, and to the sky that had never shone stars.

When such a thing is possible, she thought, I can return to London.

She squinted up at the sky, as though to give the clouds one final chance to drift away and reveal the constellations beneath. They did not move, and she dropped her gaze again to the desolate road. This was not a bustling stop, and she hoped that the coach would not forgo it altogether. Then again, she had waited this long and was more than prepared to wait some more. Her shillings would remain safely in her bodice until another coach came to take her far away from London. Indeed, she was prepared for many things, and always had been—had always had to be.

What she was not prepared for, however, was to feel the wait of another person sink on to her bench: another vessel for the mould and damp to cling to, another passenger to encourage the coach to come this way after all. Many footsteps had passed nearby, but not quite close enough to be caught by the lamp of the coach stop, and so she had paid them no attention. In her moment of hopeful stargazing, she had not noticed the figure breach her pocket of light.

A quick glance to her side and the bowler hat's silhouette told her it was a man. She did not hazard another look, choosing to keep to herself. Had she done so, she would caught him glance back at her. As it was, he was but a quiet man sharing her bench, waiting for the coach to come. For a while he remained so, and she kept her gaze ahead, shifting her focus only between the soiled barren road and the sky that did not look so different.

It was only when another set of footsteps entered and left her hearing that the man dropped his silence. His voice was deep and clear, and it cut through the quiet like a steam engine as he spoke, though it didn't sound like it was directed at her. He did not introduce himself, nor did he explain his sudden urge to talk. He simply began to recount his life: according to his words, he was a doctor—a surgeon, to be exact. He had a wife and a child—a young girl whose name the woman did not quite catch, or the man did not quite say. He spoke of his workplace and colleagues, his parents, his childhood, and the medical records of his patients, which the woman felt certain he should not have been sharing. Nevertheless she listened, as there was not much else to listen to. The breadth of his single-sided conversation was so vast and vague that it seemed as though he was testing her: what was entertaining, and what was not? What could he say that would cause her to ask a question? Nothing, it would seem, as her lips remained shut. Mist tumbled from her nostrils like cigar smoke.

The sound of wooden rattling began to fill the air, and as if on cue the clock tower sang its first note. By the eleventh, the coach would reach its stop, and she would rise from that mouldy bench, feel the cold hit the damp stains it would leave on her petticoats, and she would cross the road to reach the first step in her journey. She lifted a hand to her breast to make sure her shillings were safely where she had placed them, and once satisfied, she stood.

“London is an awful place, you can imagine,” said the man, interrupting one of his own anecdotes. This time, she could not resist turning to the sound.

Before her was a fairly average-looking man, in a bowler hat and a black woollen coat. He was perhaps a decade older than her, though she couldn't have guessed for certain, as there were deep lines in his forehead where his brow may have furrowed. Other than that he was quite indistinguishable, and if he were to have slipped into a crowd, she was not sure she would ever have been able to pick him out again.

“Yes, quite an awful place,” he continued. His gaze was pointed upwards. “But I suppose, even awful places can surprise you in the nicest ways.” He nodded towards the sky, and her eyes followed his direction.

There, barely peaking out from one of the ashen clouds—as if it would be caught and punished if it dared to fully present itself—was a star. The woman could not suppress a gasp.

“There is no need to leave,” he said. “Only to wait.”

Her eyes fell back to his face, and the pair found themselves looking directly at each other for the first time since they had accidentally convened on the old wooden bench. He had a calm expression, as though he was used to imparting wisdom upon strangers in the night hours; and yet she did not feel any more at ease, nor did she think to consider his words for any longer than the seconds it took for them to be spoken. One single star after lifelong darkness was not truly worth her time.

She accorded him a weak curtsy, then turned to march towards the awaiting coach, from which the driver could be heard hailing to any passengers who may have been lurking beyond his sight.

Her shillings granted her a seat, and soon the coach was jolting her across the cobblestones and out of London. There were no windows facing the road behind, so she could not see the man, now standing, watching her go. She did not catch a final glimpse of the old wooden bench—it would surely still be there, rotting by the side of the road, if she ever chose to return.

She had left a sombre and dangerous place behind, but she would never know of just how cut-throat that district would become in the years that beckoned the end of the nineteenth century, especially for women like her.

The star would continue to twinkle, even when concealed by clouds.