My name is David Porter, and I’m a Londoner born and raised. I'm an old hand around here, in Notting Hill, where all the wealthy families know me well. I have no family of my own, though…no mother and no father. I was picked up from the orphanage by an old chimney sweep. He gave me a place to sleep between the sacks of soot in the cellar, and his wife Mary gives me a bowl of hot porridge every morning. I’m always black with soot, for I don’t often get the chance to take a bath. But I’m used to it now – a dirty face is a sign of hard work! I think that without the soot on my cheeks, the families of Notting Hill wouldn’t even recognise me! It’s a fine profession I have; a dangerous occupation, to be sure, but a service that folks couldn’t do without. In years to come, when I can’t climb up the chimneys anymore because I’m too big and strong, I'll become a fireman. A fireman looks after flames in a different sort of way, but one that’s just as useful as being a chimney sweep. What’s more, it’s often a careless chimney sweep who ends up bringing the firemen into a house, because blocked chimneys are the ones that catch fire. A friend of mine burned alive stuck up a chimney, no word of a lie; it’s a dangerous job I tell you. But I know that won’t happen to me, because I was born under a lucky star. My master often shouts at me, but he says it’s for my own good. I know that’s it’s not always for my good, because he pays me very little and I’m not sure he’s very nice, when it comes down to it, even if he did take me out of that horrid orphanage. The nuns used to give us cabbage at every meal; everything tasted of cabbage. Cabbage soup and nothing but. I was always hungry, because I refused to finish my dinner at night. “David Porter, you will be doing all the dishes tonight!” the nuns cried at me. I don’t know what my master does with the soot that I collect from the chimneys. It’s worth a fortune, for you can sell it on at the market for a few pennies, but I, David Porter, get no cut from it. Mary is kinder to me. “David Porter, you poor lad!” she coos when I get a smack from my master after he’s had a few too many.
Today I swept the chimneys of the richest family in Notting Hill, whose house is the most beautiful I’ve ever laid eyes on since I started sweeping. I saw huge rugs, immense chandeliers, paintings with gold frames, and sculptures like the ones you see in fountains. Everything glowed and shone; everywhere was clean, and looked as important as the inside of a church. I didn’t dare touch anything. Even the maid’s apron was as white as driven snow. I was afraid of treading dirt everywhere, feeling like a pauper in the king’s court with my black stains and the smell of the street on me. What’s more, I saw the gentleman’s daughter. She was about my age, but she acted like a proper little lady. Her dress was all frills and bows, and her braided blonde hair and her eyes were bright as flowers. I could even smell her perfume, which made me blush at my own odour. She seemed like she had a perfect life, and she carried a doll in her arms that was cleaner and prettier than most of the people I know. It’s silly, but at that moment I wished I could be a doll too, and be carried around by a girl like the gentleman’s daughter. When I’d finished my work it was she who handed me the coins and said, “Thank you!” Her words filled me with courage, but not hope. Hope is when you imagine that something is possible. It’s waiting for something you dream of. Hope is what I felt in my bed in the orphanage, when I used to tell myself stories. But now I don’t need to tell myself stories anymore, since I’m a big boy now.
Alan Alfredo Geday
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