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National Museums Liverpool blog
Plan UK and National Museums Liverpool, in association with the Guardian, ran a Young Reporters' Competition. Hundreds of entrants submitted essays on subjects related to slavery and freedom. This is the second placed entry by Chelsey Nicole-Porter.
Tomas,
In London, in the unfamiliar and grey of Arrivals, I looked for the sign with my name on, like you told me. Your brother speaks broken Lithuanian, and says very little… did he move away from home very young? He took my passport for safekeeping, like you said he would. He doesn’t look much like you.
He says I owe him money for the flight, but I’ve told him that you will sort it out, when you come. You have money… that’s what I noticed first about you.
You have money enough for a car of your own – silver and smug – that sits and brags by the roadside. It was there, in my street, the day that I met you.
The clouds were brittle and grey with ice that day, darkening the hollow cheeks of grocers who would not sell me anything. I was empty, walking home in the gathering dusk. You were sitting on the concrete stairs on the corner, smoking, waiting for something.
You watched me as I approached you, and my heart began to race my footsteps.
You stood in my path, discarded the cigarette.
I spun to cross the road but the iced gutter caught my heel and I fell. My ankle twisted and I was trapped on the bloodied concrete for a moment.
A moment, but it was enough.
Then you were there, helping me up. Your hands were soft and strong. Mine were too chapped, too rough to deserve you.
You laughed when I tried to pull away.
I felt young, self-conscious under your amusement.
“Tomas.” You granted me a murmured introduction. Then, “Are you hungry?”
Of course I was. You fed me. I was hungry every day and you fed me. Your money was my miracle.
You told me, “I’m going to London next week.”
I was warm, sleepy from the degtine we’d just shared, coiled up beside you on the carpet.
“For work,” you explained
“How long?” I asked through a haze of content.
“A month, a year, who knows? London is full of opportunity.”
“What’s it like?” I whispered.
You nudged at my hair, “It never sleeps. There is always light and warmth, always somewhere to go. It is easy to get a job, and keep it, to save up…”
“I wish I could go with you.”
You were so gentle, so different.
“Why not?” It was a challenge, and my heart faltered to hear it, “Why don’t you come?”
“Where would I get the money from?” I tried to laugh it off but there was an ache in my chest.
You smiled. Then, “I’d pay, kvailas…”
I refused and refused, but it did no good. From that moment, we both knew I was coming to London, to live with you in a city of light and warmth for a month, a year… forever?
I admit I was uncertain. I was unsure of what I meant to you, and why you’d chosen me, out of everyone in our town, why me? But I’m not fool enough to throw away my opportunities. You, my miracle, were the only chance of escape I had.
The day before the flight, I was so excited I couldn’t eat or sleep or cry or talk or laugh. In your car, on the way to the airport in Vilinus, I could hardly breathe for dreaming of us together in a city full of bright lights and warmth and places to go.
In the bustle and cold of Departures, you said goodbye and I started to feel sick. I wish we’d been on the same flight, because I was lonely on the plane, and frightened - I know, it is foolish – I was frightened of meeting your brother in London. But never mind, I am here now, and you’ll be arriving soon, won’t you?
I’m not sure when you’re coming, because your brother won’t answer my questions, but I hope it will be soon because he keeps saying that I have to pay him for the flight. You said I wouldn’t need to bring anything, you said… oh Tomas, without you here to reassure me I can’t help but feel afraid. London is so different to how you described it, Tomas: the world outside looks so dreary and dark, and I can’t see anywhere to go.
But there is some good news. Your brother says he has found me a job… though he is vague about the details. I start tomorrow.
I miss you,
Ona