My punishment took place during our only allotted recreation time.

Matron Webster had sent me to the upstairs hallway with a bucket of soapy water and a scrubbing brush, instructing me that she wanted to be able to see her face in the wood flooring before the sun set. The other girls headed out into the freezing winter air to stand around complaining about the cold and wishing they were inside instead. It made my extra chores seem like a dream, at least I could feel my fingers.

I crawled on my hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with the brush and listening to the girls outside, their voices travelling through the gaps in the window. A light, cold breeze slipped in through the cracks but the small amount of heat coming from the fire in Matron Webster’s office managed to counteract its effects. The only thing that suffered from my punishment were my knees which were not too keen about being dragged across the floor.

Still, scrubbing the floor helped to remove the soot and ash from my fingers and gave me a little time to think about our new benefactors. Most of those who financially supported the orphanage visited once a year and left it at that, they never spoke to us and certainly never made multiple trips in a month. For Mr and Mrs Atkinson to continue visiting seemed a little out of place, but I could not make a comment on it. The only thing that did not seem all that unusual was her need to stare at me for a prolonged period.

The scar on my face made me noticeable and with that came people’s desire to stare and discuss me. Many did so right behind me and often acted like I could not hear them, although I could, and I did not care for what they had to say. I had learnt to ignore the comments, but it would always be harder to avoid the stares and had become one of the reasons why I refused to attend any form of potential adoption meetings. Most people see the scar and make their mind up on the spot, I saved them the hassle by not turning up.

Footsteps echoed up the stairs and I turned my attention back to my cleaning, move down the hall with the brush and trying to appear busy and not that I had just been staring into the bucket of water for several minutes. Matron Webster appeared at the top of the stairs, her shawl pulled tightly around her shoulders and small wisps of greying hair having escaped her tight knot.

“Remember, I want to see my face in that floor,” she said when she reached her office door.

“Yes, Matron Webster,” I said.

“Mr and Mrs Atkinson seemed rather interested in you, they asked a lot of questions.” I looked up at her. “After thirteen years, we might finally be rid of you.”

“I don’t understand, Matron.”

“If they seemed interested in getting to know you, as they certainly appeared to be although I cannot imagine why, it could mean a potential adoption. Do not hold your breath, I am sure they will change their minds once they get to know you as I do.”

“I don’t think I want to be adopted.”

“Well, you will have to tell them that before they make a fool of themselves trying to impress you, though why they would do that if beyond me.” She paused. “On with your chores or you’ll have to scrub the stairs as well.”

With that Matron Webster opened her office door, a blast of heat coming from the fireplace, and slammed it shut. I sat on my knees in the middle of the hallway, a thousand different thoughts running through my mind. In almost seven years, no one had considered adopting me and none of my foster placement when I had been a child worked out. Matron had tried to put me into service since I had been old enough to, but her plans had never worked out. I had been six the last time I had seen the outside world in person.

The idea of anyone wanting to adopt me continued to play on my mind throughout the afternoon and into the early evening. I mindlessly scrubbed the floor, not paying the slightest bit of attention to what I was doing, thoughts of a potential adoption continued to plague my mind. Even when I had finished my chores and joined the other girls in the dining hall for supper the thoughts lingered at the back of my head.

I ate my supper – chicken, peas and carrots – without really tasting any of it. Matron Webster watched me from her spot at the far end of the rom, her eyes never leaving me throughout supper. She no doubt had the same thoughts that I did; confusion as to why anyone would consider adopting me. I did not fill the usual criteria for possible adoption.

Those who had been adopted previously had been young, they looked sweet and innocent with long hair and an unblemished face. My hair had never been longer than my chin and the scar on my face had become a deterrent for everyone, including some of the other girls. The idea of anyone wanting to adopt me had always been too ludicrous to comprehend and I could not help but feel the entire thing had been a joke. Even Matron Webster said they would no doubt change their minds when they had gotten to know me.

After supper, we retreated to the dormitory for our only free time of the entire day. Charity sat on her bed with a needle and thread, aiming to try and repair a small hole that had appeared at the hem of her skirt. Sally used the one hairbrush we had to brush her hair more times than a normal person and Ethel lay with her head over the edge of her bed, trying to touch her nose with her tongue. I lay on my bed, the springs groaning and creaking for age and stared up at the ceiling.

“You’re quiet over there, Lizzie,” Charity said, stabbing herself in the finger with the needle.

“Thinking.”

“About?”

“Matron said that our new benefactors kept asking about me, she thinks that might want to adopt me.”

“You? Why you?” Sally asked. She spun around so fast that she almost sent the hairbrush flying across the room.

“No idea. I doubt it’s true, though. They probably saw the state of me and wanted to know if I was one of the more trouble girls.”

“Still, it could be a good thing,” Ethel added.

“How?”

“You could be out of here in time for Christmas and get something more than an orange. And have a real Christmas tree! I haven’t seen one in person since I was five.”

“You know how I feel about Christmas.”

Ethel looked at me and sat her, swinging her legs over the edge of her bed and standing up. She walked the short distance from her bed to mine and perched on the edge of it, the springs not all that pleased at the additional weight. I knew what she wanted to say before she had said it.

We had all spent most of our lives in the orphanage, but many of the others had been able to experience a true Christmas during their temporary foster placements when they were young. I never had that luxury. The Christmas at the orphanage which consisted of an orange and a Chapel service seemed extravagant in comparison to the Christmas I had had at my foster home. Ethel did not understand that. No one did.

“Don’t say it,” I said.

“This could be a good thing, Lizzie. We all want to get out of here and being adopted sounds better than the workhouse or service.”

“I’d take service over adoption any day of the week.”

“I’ll have them if you don’t,” Sally piped up.

Ethel reached across me and grabbed my pillow from behind my head, throwing it as hard as she could across the room. It hit Sally square in the face. She gasped and grabbed her own pillow, throwing it back but somehow missing Ethel, who was sitting up, and instead hit me. I took the pillow and sat up, hurling it across to her as hard as I could and watching it miss her and hit Charity instead.

Before I knew it, pillows were flying across the room with no one sure whose pillow they were throwing or where their own had ended up. By the time pillows stopped hurtling across the room, no one had any idea where theirs had gone and just grabbed the one closest too them, dropping it onto their bed. It had taken my mind of Matron’s comments, but the moment we stopped, the came flooding back.

Everyone else tried to clean up the mess of feathers from the pillows and I walked to the window at the far end of the room. It was a small, square window that did not open. The wooden frame was splintered and let in both cold air and rain, one of the panes were cracked and a thin layer of frost covered the glass.

I peered out of the window and across the London landscape. Smoke billowed from chimneys and through the frost, I could just make out people going about their business, all of whom were wrapped up against the winter air. The clouds had started to darken, the threat of snow growing stronger and stronger along with the air changing and becoming more bitter.

Amongst the people, I spotted children running across the streets, weaving in and out of adults and just enjoying themselves before it rained or became too cold to be outside. I watched them through the window, part of me wishing I could just float out of the window to join them. They had no worries, nothing to care about, and most likely didn’t have to spend most of their day scrubbing floors and dusting.

“You know, not everyone is like your foster parents,” Charity said, joining me at the window.

“It’s not like I have much to compare them to. I know of them and Matron, none of whom have been all that good at being role models.”

“Or you’re determined to see the negative in everything, even if there is nothing there to see.” She paused. “Plenty of us would kill to be a position of having potential parents, they’ve chosen you, Lizzie, why is that such a bad thing?”

“I never wanted to be chosen, you know that. I am perfectly content in the shadows where no one can see me, or judge me, or make comments about me behind my back. Being adopted isn’t staying in the shadows. It means new people who I have never met before who know nothing about me.”

“You can’t lurk in the shadows forever, sometimes you have to stretch your wings.”

“Where did you get that from?”

“The cook.”

I laughed and shook my head, turning my attention back to the window and watching a little girl dart amongst the ground. Even from my window, I could see the biggest smile on her face, and I could just imagine her laughing as her brother chased her through the streets. They seemed to carefree and innocent, they did not have to hide from anyone.

Charity may have meant well, and I knew she was only trying to help me as best she could, but I could never be the same as those children on the street. I would be the normal child the Atkinson’s no doubt wanted and I definitely did not fit in to their social sphere, I never would. My life had been written for me, a life in service where I can hide from prying eyes and not have to worry about the looks.

“Just give them a chance, Lizzie. Who knows, you might find you enjoy the idea. That, and I want to see the look on Sally’s face if you get out of here before she does.”

“You can be so mean.”

“I’m glad you noticed.”

The dormitory door banged open and Charity and I turned around. Matron stood in the doorway, her eyes roaming the room but not appearing to notice the few small feathers that continued to float through the air after our previous events. She walked in, surveying the room and checking all our beds to make sure we were not hiding anything that we were not supposed to have. After a few minutes, she spoke.

“Bed.”

“Yes, Matron.”

“Now!”

We all scrambled into action, grabbing our nightdress and changing from our drab, grey dresses into the flimsy cloth that acted as out nightwear but also offered no protection from the cold. I draped my dress and bonnet over the end of my bed, tucking my hair behind my ears and climbing into bed. Matron waited until we were all in bed before leading us in our nightly prayers.

When we were done, she took her candle and left with a simple instruction of going straight to bed with no talking. The rest of the girls settled against their mattresses and I listened to the sound of their breathing as it changed when the fell asleep. I stared up into the darkness, Charity’s comments soaring through my head as I tried to make sense of them all and figure out what I wanted to do.

Part of me wanted to tell Mr and Mrs Atkinson that I would never be interested in adoption, but the other part wanted to at least try it. My only experience outside of the orphanage had been with my foster family and I had nothing else to compare it to. I did not want it to go the same way, but I could hardly say no without at least trying to get to know.

Perhaps Charity had been right. Maybe it was time to try and spread my wings.