Mid 1935, Stepney - London

Leonard jolted awake, his thin blanket tangled around him, his shirt clinging to his back with cold sweat. The small room, shared with his older siblings, was dark and quiet, the only sound the soft breathing of Thomas and Beatrice, still deep in sleep. He lay still, staring up at the ceiling, trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart. The remnants of the dream that had woken him clung to the edges of his mind—hazy images of people he once knew, places that felt familiar but distant, like echoes from another life.

He didn’t move, afraid to disturb his siblings. The early morning light had yet to filter through the grimy window, and the air was thick with the stale smell of the previous day’s dinner. Leonard took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he tried to shake the lingering sense of loss that had settled in his chest. Over the last few years, he had found that focusing on his breathing, slowing it down and steadying it, helped him regain control when thoughts of his first life overwhelmed him.

As he lay there, Leonard closed his eyes again, this time not to sleep, but to centre himself. He inhaled deeply, holding the breath for a moment before exhaling slowly, repeating the process until the tightness in his chest began to ease. The dream, like many others, was already slipping away, leaving only the vague unease it always did. He willed himself to remember something more concrete, something real, this life.

With a final, steadying breath, Leonard untangled himself from the blanket, careful not to make a sound. The early morning quiet felt heavy around him, but his mind was calmer now, his thoughts more ordered. Leonard had managed to drift back to sleep after his early morning meditation, but his rest was cut short, “Come on, Leonard. Wake up, love,” his mother said, gently shaking his shoulder. He blinked his eyes open, groggy and disoriented.

“What’s going on?” he mumbled, still half-asleep.

His mother smiled down at Leonard, her face lit with a rare excitement. “It’s the King’s Jubilee today, remember?” she said, her voice carrying a gentle warmth. She moved to the other side of the room, stopping by Thomas’s bed and then Beatrice’s, giving each of them a light shake. “Come on, up you get. We’ve got a special breakfast waiting for you.

The mention of a special breakfast was enough to fully rouse Leonard. He sat up, the promise of something different, something special, driving away the last traces of sleep. He had completely forgotten about the Jubilee. But now, with his mother’s excitement palpable, he felt a flicker of anticipation.

Thomas and Beatrice were already stirring in their beds, rubbing sleep from their eyes as they stretched and yawned. Margaret moved efficiently around the room; her excitement evident in every gesture. “Up you get, wash your faces now,” she urged, her voice a mixture of urgency and delight. “I’ve laid out your good clothes—today’s a special occasion.”

The children shuffled into the small bathroom, their drowsiness giving way to the promise of something different from the usual routine. As they splashed cold water on their faces, Beatrice couldn’t resist teasing her brother.

“Better scrub up properly, Thomas,” she said with a grin, nudging him playfully. “You might find yourself a princess at the procession later.”

Thomas rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his lips. “Oh, sure, Beatrice. And I suppose you’ll be off to marry a prince, then?”

“Maybe I will,” Beatrice replied, her tone mock serious as she dried her face with a towel. “But only after you’ve shown me where they’re hiding all these royal suitors.”

Leonard chuckled quietly at their banter, feeling a warmth he hadn’t felt in a while. There was something about this morning—the light-heartedness, the anticipation—that made him feel like things were almost normal, if only for a little while.

Once they were washed and dressed in their best clothes, they hurried to the kitchen, where the mouthwatering smell of sizzling sausages greeted them.

The kitchen table was laden with food—more than Leonard had seen in a long time. There were sausages, fresh bread, and even a small bowl of fruit, the kind of spread they usually only had on birthdays or when the family had a little extra money to spare. Leonard’s stomach growled as he took his seat, the sight and smell of the food making his mouth water.

But the mood in the kitchen was not entirely jubilant. As they began to eat, Leonard’s father, Edward, sat at the head of the table, his face set in a deep frown. He stabbed at a sausage with his fork, his movements sharp and irritated.

“King’s Jubilee,” Edward muttered, his voice thick with disdain. “A lot of fuss over nothing, if you ask me. What’s the King ever done for the likes of us? We’re still here, scraping by, while he sits in his palace.”

Margaret glanced at him, a frown creasing her brow, but her tone remained light, almost pleading. “Oh, Edward, let’s not ruin the day. The children have something to look forward to for once. It’s a day to be grateful, to enjoy what we have.”

Edward grunted, clearly unimpressed. “Grateful for what? More hard work at the docks tomorrow? More mouths to feed and bills we can’t pay?” He shook his head, shovelling a piece of bread into his mouth with a grim determination. “All this is just a farce. It doesn’t change a thing.”

Leonard and his siblings ate in silence, the tension at the table heavy and uncomfortable. The sausages, though delicious, sat uneasily in Leonard’s stomach as he listened to his parents. He wanted to share his mother’s excitement, to feel the joy she was trying to bring into the day, but his father’s bitterness was hard to ignore.

Margaret tried to maintain the lightness in her voice. “It’s a special day, Edward. For the children. There will be festivities, and they’ll have something to remember, something happy.”

Edward snorted but said nothing more. The silence stretched on, broken only by the clink of cutlery and the occasional cough or rustle of clothing. Leonard focused on his food, determined to enjoy it despite the tension, but the words of his father lingered in his mind.

When the meal was over, Margaret began clearing the plates, her cheerful demeanour forced but persistent. “Hurry up and get ready, children. We’ll go out to see the festivities soon.”

Leonard nodded, though the excitement he’d felt earlier had dimmed somewhat. He caught Thomas and Beatrice’s eyes—they were as quiet as he was, the usual chatter and laughter that might have accompanied such a meal noticeably absent. They were children who had learned to keep their heads down and stay out of adult disputes, and today was no different.

As Leonard helped his mother with the dishes, he couldn’t help but think about his father’s words. But he also saw the glimmer of hope in his mother’s eyes, the way she was trying so hard to make the day special for them. He resolved to make the best of it, to enjoy the day for her sake if nothing else.

The streets of Stepney were unusually lively as Leonard and his family stepped out. The air buzzed with excitement, and the usual greyness of the neighbourhood was brightened by colourful banners and Union Jack flags fluttering from windows and lampposts. It was as if the whole of London had come alive in celebration, the city casting off its usual gloom in honour of the King.

As they made their way down the street, they were greeted by familiar faces. Mr. and Mrs. Cooper, an elderly couple who lived a few doors down, were already outside, chatting with Mrs. Fielding, a plump, rosy-cheeked woman known for her gossip and good nature. Mrs. Fielding spotted the Harringtons first and waved them over.

“Morning, Margaret! Edward! Isn’t it a grand day?” Mrs. Fielding called out, her round face beaming with joy.

“It is, it is,” Margaret replied with a warm smile, nudging Edward slightly as if encouraging him to join in the enthusiasm.

Edward, usually so gruff and distant, managed a small smile, his earlier bitterness softened by the festive atmosphere. “Morning, Mrs. Fielding. Mr. and Mrs. Cooper,” he said, nodding to each of them.

“Out to see the procession, are you?” Mr. Cooper asked, his voice creaky with age but filled with a kind of reverence for the day.

“We are,” Margaret answered. “The children have been looking forward to it. It’s not every day we get to celebrate like this.”

Mrs. Cooper, a frail woman with a gentle smile, looked down at Leonard, Thomas, and Beatrice. “And how are you three? Excited to see the King’s celebration?”

Leonard nodded, feeling a flicker of excitement in his chest. “Yes, ma’am,” he said quietly, though his eyes were wide with anticipation.

“Well, we’d better get a good spot then!” Mrs. Fielding declared, clapping her hands together. “Come on, let’s go before it gets too crowded.”

The group made their way to the main street, joining the growing throng of people who had come out to watch the festivities. The atmosphere was infectious—cheerful chatter filled the air, and even the most hardened faces seemed to soften with the joy of the day. As they walked, Leonard couldn’t help but marvel at the sight before him.

The street was a sea of colour. Banners in red, white, and blue hung from every available surface, and children waved small flags, their faces painted with patriotic designs. There were street vendors selling roasted chestnuts and sweets, their carts surrounded by eager customers. Musicians played lively tunes, and everywhere Leonard looked, there were smiling faces.

They found a spot near the curb where they could see the procession as it passed by. The crowd around them was thick, but the atmosphere was warm and friendly. As the band came into view, playing a rousing march, Leonard felt his heart swell with a kind of pride he didn’t fully understand.

The procession itself was a grand affair. Soldiers in bright uniforms marched in time to the music, their boots striking the cobblestones in unison. Behind them, floats decorated with flowers and flags carried dignitaries and figures dressed in elaborate costumes, waving to the crowd as they passed. The children around Leonard cheered and waved their flags, and even Edward, standing beside Margaret, seemed to be caught up in the moment.

“God save the King!” someone shouted from the crowd, and the cry was taken up by others, spreading like wildfire through the mass of people. Leonard looked up at his father, surprised to see a faint smile on his lips as he echoed the sentiment, his earlier cynicism forgotten in the face of the collective joy.

After the procession passed, the Harringtons joined the flow of people heading toward the Thames. The river was a sight to behold, its banks lined with even more banners and flags. Boats decorated with bunting floated on the water, their colourful displays reflected in the rippling surface below. The children gasped in delight as they took in the scene.

“Look at that, Thomas!” Beatrice pointed to a boat covered in flowers, its bright petals a stark contrast to the murky water of the Thames. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Thomas nodded; his usual nonchalance replaced by genuine awe. “Yeah, it really is.”

They walked along the riverbank, taking in the sights and sounds of the celebration. Street performers entertained the crowds with juggling and acrobatics, while a group of singers led the crowd in a rendition of “Rule, Britannia!” Leonard found himself humming along, the melody lifting his spirits.

As they walked, Leonard noticed how his father’s usual frown had softened. Edward’s face, so often lined with worry and anger, seemed almost relaxed as he took in the festivities. Margaret, too, looked happier than Leonard had seen her in a long time, her eyes bright with the joy of the day.

The family eventually found a spot to rest, sitting on a bench near the river. Leonard looked around at his family—his mother, beaming as she watched the children play; his father, leaning back with a contented sigh; and his siblings, laughing together in a way that felt like a glimpse of better times.

For a moment, everything seemed right. The worries of their daily life, the struggles and hardships, all faded into the background, replaced by the simple pleasure of being together on a day that felt special.

As the day wore on and the sun began to set, the Harringtons made their way back home, tired but happy. The streets, once crowded and bustling, were now quieting down, the excitement of the day slowly giving way to the stillness of the evening.

Leonard felt a warmth in his chest, not just from the festivities, but from the rare feeling of closeness with his family. For the first time in a long while, he felt a flicker of hope that perhaps things could get better.

“Did you enjoy the day, Leo?” His mother asked as they neared their home.

“Yes, Mum,” Leonard replied, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “I did.”

Margaret smiled back, her expression soft and filled with love. “I’m glad.”

As they stepped inside their modest home, Leonard looked back at the street one last time, the banners still fluttering in the evening breeze.

Thursday morning came far too quickly, the brief escape of the King’s Jubilee already fading into memory. He stirred in bed as he heard the soft creak of the floorboards, signalling his sister’s early rise. Beatrice always tried her best not to disturb him as she dressed in the early hours for work, but Leonard was a light sleeper, and the quiet rustling was enough to pull him from his slumber. A few minutes later, he heard Thomas moving about, the familiar shuffle of his brother's feet as he prepared for another long day at the docks with their father.

Leonard dozed lightly, savouring the last moments of warmth beneath his blanket. By the time his mother came to wake him, the house was eerily quiet. His father, Thomas, and Beatrice had already left, their early departures a stark contrast to the leisurely start they’d enjoyed just the day before. Margaret’s touch was gentle but firm, her voice lacking the jubilant tone it had carried on Jubilee morning.

“Time to get up, Leo,” she said softly, her face etched with the familiar lines of fatigue.

Leonard nodded, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he pushed himself up. The kitchen, once again, was a much more sombre place. The table, which had been so full of life and abundance yesterday, now bore the remnants of the previous day’s breakfast—cold sausages and a few slices of stale bread. There was no excitement, no sense of occasion, just the reality of their daily life creeping back in.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, Margaret moving about the kitchen in her usual efficient manner, though the weariness in her movements was unmistakable. Leonard ate without complaint, the food tasteless in his mouth compared to the feast they had enjoyed just twenty-four hours ago. When he was finished, he washed his face, changed into his school clothes, and set out for the day.

The walk to school was short but dreary. The streets, so full of colour and life just yesterday, had returned to their usual grey state, the celebratory banners already sagging or being taken down. Leonard’s school stood at the end of a narrow, grimy street, the building itself a reflection of the hopelessness that seemed to hang over the neighbourhood. The bricks were darkened with soot, the windows small and cloudy with dirt. The air inside was always damp and cold, the walls bare and uninviting. It was a place that screamed of helplessness, perfectly fitting the dispirited mood that clung to its students like a second skin.

Leonard wasn’t the only one who felt it. The other children around his age, many of whom trudged to school with the same weary steps, carried the same gloom in their expressions. The joy of the Jubilee had been fleeting, leaving behind a sense of despair that settled back in as quickly as it had been lifted.

As he turned the corner near the school, Leonard spotted two familiar figures waiting for him. The first was a chubby boy named Charlie Marsh, whose father worked the docks with Leonard’s father. Charlie was always a bit out of breath, his round cheeks flushed as he waved Leonard over. Next to him was Henry Fletcher, a lanky boy with a mop of unruly brown hair and sharp, intelligent eyes. Henry was the son of a widowed seamstress who took in mending work from the wealthier parts of London. His father had died in an accident at the factory years ago, leaving Henry as the man of the house long before he was ready for the responsibility.

“Leonard!” Charlie called out, his voice bright despite the gloom that seemed to hover around them. “Did you see the procession yesterday? Wasn’t it amazing?”

Leonard nodded as he joined them, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It was. I couldn’t believe how many people were there.”

“I know, right?” Charlie said, his face lighting up as he remembered. “And the sweets! My mum got me a whole bag of those sugar drops. They were the best!”

Henry chuckled, shaking his head. “You and your sweets, Charlie. But yeah, the parade was something. We walked down to the Thames afterward—did you see all the boats?”

Leonard nodded again, the warmth of the memory creeping back into his chest. “We did. They were all decked out in flowers and flags. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

The three boys continued to chat as they walked, even as they approached the looming, dismal school building. The memories of the Jubilee offered a brief respite from the drudgery that awaited them inside. But as they neared the school gates, their conversation began to taper off, the weight of reality settling back on their shoulders.

Just ahead, standing opposite the school gate, were three boys known for causing trouble. At the centre of them was Billy Cray, a broad-shouldered boy with a mop of dirty-blond hair and a perpetual scowl etched across his freckled face. Billy was notorious in the schoolyard for his bullying ways, always quick to pick on those he considered weaker. Flanking him were his two lackeys, Tommy Griggs and Eddie Rowe, who rarely said much themselves but were always ready to laugh at whatever mean-spirited remark Billy threw out.

As soon as they spotted Charlie, Billy’s eyes lit up with malicious glee. “Oi, Marsh!” he called out, his voice dripping with mockery. “You look like a right little piglet, all pink and sweaty!” He screwed up his face, snorting loudly as he mimicked a pig, his nostrils flaring comically. Tommy and Eddie snickered behind him, their grins wide and cruel.

Charlie’s round face flushed even redder, his steps faltering as the insult landed. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words seemed to stick in his throat.

Leonard felt a surge of anger rise in his chest, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He wanted to defend his friend, but before he could speak, Henry stepped forward, his eyes narrowing at Billy.

“Shut your gob, Cray,” Henry said coolly, his voice sharp and cutting through the laughter. “You’d be pink too if you weren’t so filthy all the time. When’s the last time you had a bath, eh? I reckon the pigs are cleaner than you.”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

The smile faded from Tommy and Eddie’s faces, their snickers dying in their throats as they exchanged uncertain glances. Even Billy’s sneer wavered for a moment, though he quickly recovered, turning his attention to Leonard instead.

“Well, if it ain’t Harrington,” Billy sneered, his tone shifting to something more spiteful. “Need your servants to help you across the street, posh boy? Or are you still crying over your daddy’s shop?”

Leonard’s jaw tightened, but he forced himself to stay calm. Billy’s words stung, but he wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeing it. Instead, he met Billy’s glare with a steady gaze, refusing to look away.

Henry, sensing the tension, took a step closer to Leonard, ready to back him up if needed. “Come on, Leonard,” Henry said, his voice deliberately casual, as if Billy’s taunts were nothing more than an annoying buzz in the background. “Let’s not waste our time with these muppets. We’ve got better things to do.”

Leonard gave a small nod, grateful for Henry’s support. Together with Charlie, they walked past Billy and his cronies, ignoring the final jeers that followed them.

As they passed through the school gates, Leonard could still feel the sting of Billy’s words, but he pushed it aside.

The classroom buzzed with the low murmur of children settling into their seats, the creak of old wood and the rustle of worn books filling the air. Leonard took his place near the back, where he preferred to sit—close enough to hear everything, but far enough to avoid unwanted attention. The room was as dreary as ever, the dim light filtering through the dirty windows casting long shadows on the faded walls.

Mr. Wainwright, their teacher, stood at the front of the class with his usual sour expression. He was a tall, thin man with a sharp nose and a perpetual sneer that seemed to take pleasure in the discomfort of his students. His reputation as a harsh and unforgiving teacher was well-earned. He delighted in mocking those who struggled with the material, particularly when it came to reading and interpreting literature.

“All right, class,” Mr. Wainwright began, his voice dripping with condescension. “Today, we’ll be discussing the meaning behind this passage from the text. Cray!” he snapped, his eyes locking onto Billy, who had been staring blankly at his book.

Billy’s head jerked up, his expression a mix of surprise and annoyance. “Y-Yes, sir?”

Mr. Wainwright’s sneer deepened. “Perhaps you can enlighten us with the meaning of the passage I just read?”

Billy blinked, clearly caught off guard. He fumbled with the book in front of him, scanning the page desperately as if the answer might leap out at him. “Uh… I don’t know, sir,” he finally muttered, his voice barely audible.

Mr. Wainwright’s eyes glinted with a cruel satisfaction. “Didn’t think so,” he said, his tone cutting. “It seems, Cray, that you haven’t been paying attention. Perhaps you should spend less time playing the fool and more time learning to read.”

A few students snickered, but most kept their heads down, not wanting to draw the teacher’s ire. Leonard watched the exchange, feeling a small, guilty satisfaction at seeing Billy put in his place. But the way Mr. Wainwright did it left a sour taste in his mouth. There was a difference between discipline and cruelty, and Leonard couldn’t help but feel that Mr. Wainwright crossed that line far too often.

“Perhaps someone with a brain in their head can help us out,” Mr. Wainwright continued, scanning the room before his gaze settled on Leonard. “Harrington, why don’t you tell us what the passage means?”

Leonard took a deep breath, recalling the text. “The passage is about the character’s realization that his actions have consequences, sir. He’s starting to understand that what he did affected the people around him, and he feels guilty for it.”

Mr. Wainwright nodded curtly. “Correct. At least someone in this class is capable of thinking.”

Billy shot a glare at Leonard, his face flushing with embarrassment. Leonard kept his eyes forward, resisting the urge to engage, especially with Mr. Wainwright watching.

The lesson dragged on. Mr. Wainwright read passages and posed questions, often targeting those who struggled, enjoying their discomfort. Soon, his attention returned to Billy.

“Cray,” he barked, making the boy jump. “What’s the meaning of the next passage?”

Billy hesitated, his eyes darting around the room. “Uh… I think it’s about… the character being sad, sir?” he ventured, uncertain.

Mr. Wainwright’s lips curled into a mocking smile. “Sad? That’s the best you can come up with? How insightful,” he sneered, sarcasm heavy in his tone. “No, Cray, it’s not about simply being sad. It seems you’ve learned nothing.”

Laughter from a few students deepened Billy’s embarrassment. Leonard felt a pang of sympathy, knowing Billy wouldn’t extend the same kindness to him.

“Harrington,” Mr. Wainwright said, turning to Leonard. “Care to provide the correct interpretation?”

“The passage is about how the character feels isolated, sir. He’s struggling with loneliness and can’t connect with others,” Leonard answered, his voice steady.

Mr. Wainwright nodded curtly, as if Leonard’s answer was expected. “Correct. At least someone in this class is capable of thinking.”

Without a hint of praise, Mr. Wainwright added, “The rest of you should pay attention, or you’ll end up as clueless as Cray.”

The class continued with Mr. Wainwright picking out students one by one, tossing questions their way like darts aimed at a target. Each time Billy failed to answer correctly, Mr. Wainwright would make a cutting remark about his intelligence, all the while turning to Leonard for the correct answer.

By the end of the lesson, Billy was visibly sulking, his face red with humiliation. Leonard, though somewhat pleased to have answered correctly, felt uneasy. He knew Billy was a bully, but seeing him torn down in front of the entire class left Leonard feeling conflicted.

The morning dragged on, the gloom of the school day slowly creeping back over Leonard as he sat through another lesson, this time in History. The classroom, dimly lit and perpetually cold, did little to lift the spirits of the children who filled it. Mr. Andrews, the history teacher, was an older man with a tired voice that seemed to drone endlessly, but at least he wasn’t as cruel as Mr. Wainwright.

“Now, as you all know,” Mr. Andrews began, tapping a pointer against the blackboard where he had written the date—6th May 1935— “we celebrated King George V’s Silver Jubilee yesterday. A significant event, marking twenty-five years of his reign.”

Leonard half-listened, his mind still replaying the sights and sounds of the Jubilee. He could see the colourful banners, the crowds cheering, and the grand procession that had paraded through the streets. Mr. Andrews continued, detailing how the King’s reign had seen great changes in the country, from the First World War to the ongoing economic struggles.

“Can anyone tell me what year King George V came to the throne?” Mr. Andrews asked, his eyes sweeping over the class.

Henry raised his hand, and Mr. Andrews nodded at him to speak. “1910, sir,” Henry answered confidently.

“Correct, Fletcher. And what is the significance of his reign during the First World War?”

There was a pause before another student answered, and the lesson continued with discussions about the King’s role during the war, the post-war years, and how the Jubilee was meant to lift the spirits of a nation still reeling from hard times. They had a short break, which was followed by lunch time. The mess hall was a large, echoing room filled with long wooden tables and benches, the kind of place where every sound seemed to bounce off the walls and amplify. Leonard walked in with Charlie and Henry, clutching his modest lunch—a small sandwich wrapped in wax paper and a bruised apple from home. Most of the children brought their own lunches, as buying food at school was too expensive for many families, including Leonard’s.

The room buzzed with the clatter of trays and the murmur of children talking as they ate. Leonard and his friends found a spot at one of the tables, settling in among the other students who were busy unwrapping their own lunches.

As Leonard reached into his bag to pull out his sandwich, he didn’t notice Billy Cray approaching from behind. Billy, still nursing the humiliation from earlier in class, saw an opportunity for payback. As Leonard turned to sit down, Billy stuck out his foot, tripping Leonard just as he was about to sit.

Leonard stumbled, his lunch flying from his hands and landing with a splat on the floor. The sandwich, now half-crushed, lay smeared across the dusty tiles, while the apple rolled away, coming to a stop against the wall.

A moment of stunned silence hung in the air, broken only by the harsh sound of Billy’s laughter. “Watch where you’re going, Harrington!” Billy sneered, his voice loud enough to carry across the room.

Someone from across the hall shouted, “Clumsy Clod!” The name echoed through the mess hall, and soon the entire room erupted into laughter, the sound swelling as more and more students joined in.

Leonard felt his face flush with heat, a mix of embarrassment and anger boiling up inside him. The laughter around him seemed to grow louder, feeding the storm of emotions swirling within. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as a surge of something unfamiliar and powerful welled up inside him.

For a moment, Leonard’s vision seemed to narrow, his gaze locking onto Billy, who was still smirking with satisfaction. But as Leonard looked deeper into Billy’s eyes, he was struck by a strange sense of indifference. The anger that had threatened to spill over suddenly faded, leaving Leonard with a hollow, empty feeling. It was as if Billy’s petty cruelty didn’t even matter—it was nothing in the grand scheme of things. The power that had surged within him dissipated just as quickly as it had come, leaving Leonard feeling oddly detached.

Before he could dwell on it further, Charlie was at his side, helping him up. “You all right, Leonard?” Charlie asked, his voice filled with concern as he glanced warily at Billy.

Leonard nodded, though his pride was wounded more than anything else. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he muttered, forcing himself to ignore the lingering chuckles from around the room.

Henry picked up what remained of Leonard’s lunch, a look of sympathy on his face. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

The three boys made their way to the bathroom, Leonard walking with his head down, trying to block out the stares and whispers. Inside the bathroom, Leonard leaned over the sink, splashing cold water on his face and scrubbing at the stains on his clothes. The water did little to remove the grime, but the act of cleaning himself helped to calm his nerves.

Charlie stood by the door, keeping watch as Henry handed Leonard a slightly worn towel. “Don’t let him get to you,” Henry said quietly. “Billy’s just a bully. You know that.”

Leonard nodded, though he still felt the sting of the incident. “I know. It’s just… sometimes I wish I could do something about it.”

Charlie, always the optimist, offered a small smile. “You’re smarter than him, Leonard. That’s worth a lot more than anything he’s got.”

Leonard managed a faint smile in return. “Thanks, Charlie. And thanks for helping me.”

As they finished cleaning up, Leonard couldn’t shake the memory of the surge of power he had felt earlier. It was something new, something he didn’t quite understand, but for now, he was just grateful to have friends like Charlie and Henry by his side.

Together, they left the bathroom, ready to face the rest of the day, knowing that they had each other’s backs no matter what came their way.

The rest of the day was uneventful, though the echoes of the mess hall incident lingered. In the corridors and classrooms, Leonard could still hear the occasional snicker, the nickname “Clumsy Clod” whispered behind his back by a few of the other students. He did his best to ignore it, focusing instead on the arithmetic lesson that followed lunch.

The teacher, Mrs. Wilkins, was a no-nonsense woman who didn’t tolerate distractions in her class. As she led them through a series of problems on the blackboard, Leonard concentrated on the numbers, finding some solace in the order and logic of mathematics. Still, the sting of the day’s events clung to him, and he couldn’t help but notice how every now and then, someone would glance his way and smirk.

But Leonard kept his head down, determined to make it through the day without letting Billy—or anyone else—get the better of him. As the final bell rang and the students began to gather their things, Leonard felt a sense of relief. The day was over, and despite everything, he had made it through. Charlie and Henry walked alongside him as they left the building, the afternoon sun casting long shadows on the pavement.

“You coming to play in the park, Leonard?” Henry asked, a hopeful note in his voice. Charlie nodded in agreement, clearly eager for some light-hearted fun after the day they’d had.

Leonard shook his head, offering a small, apologetic smile. “Not today. I’ve got something else I need to do.” Charlie looked a bit disappointed, but he shrugged it off.

“All right. Maybe tomorrow, then.”

“Yeah, maybe tomorrow,” Leonard echoed. They exchanged quick goodbyes before Leonard turned in the direction of the library, while his friends headed toward the park.

The library was a short walk away, nestled on a quieter street lined with old, weathered buildings. The structure itself was tall and imposing, its stone facade darkened by years of London’s soot and rain. But to Leonard, it was a sanctuary, a place where the world’s noise and chaos faded into the background, replaced by the soft rustle of pages and the comforting scent of old books.

He pushed open the heavy wooden doors, the creak of the hinges familiar and welcoming. Inside, the library was dimly lit, with tall shelves packed tightly with books that seemed to reach up to the ceiling. The floor was covered in worn rugs that muffled the sound of footsteps, and the air was cool and still, a stark contrast to the bustling streets outside.

Mrs. Thompson, the librarian, was a stern-looking woman with grey hair pulled back into a neat bun and sharp eyes that missed nothing. She stood behind the front desk, her expression softening as she spotted Leonard entering. Despite her severe appearance, she had always been kind to him, recognizing the boy’s thirst for knowledge.

“Leonard,” she called out in her crisp, no-nonsense voice, beckoning him over with a wave of her hand. “Come here, I’ve got something for you.”

Leonard approached the desk, curious as to what Mrs. Thompson might have in store. She reached beneath the counter and pulled out a book, its dark cover embossed with gold lettering that gleamed faintly in the low light.

“I didn’t have the chance to give you anything for the King’s Jubilee,” Mrs. Thompson said, a rare smile touching her lips. “So, consider this my present to you.”

Leonard’s eyes widened as he read the title: “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes” by Arthur Conan Doyle. “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson,” Leonard said, his voice filled with awe and gratitude. “But… isn’t this a bit too advanced for me?”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Thompson replied, her tone firm but kind. “You’re more than capable of understanding it. I believe you’ll find it quite fascinating. Just take your time with it and come to me if you have any questions.”

Leonard nodded, carefully taking the book from her hands as if it were a precious treasure. “I will. Thank you.”

She gave him a satisfied nod. “Now go on, find a quiet spot, and enjoy.”

Leonard walked deeper into the library, his feet carrying him to a familiar corner near the back where he often sat. The corner was secluded, with a large, comfortable chair nestled between two tall shelves. It was his favourite place to read, away from prying eyes and the distractions of the outside world.

He settled into the chair, the book resting heavily in his lap. For a moment, he just stared at the cover, tracing the embossed letters with his fingertips, marvelling at the gift he had been given. Then, with a deep breath, he opened the book to the first page, the crisp sound of the turning paper echoing in the stillness.

Leonard lost himself in the words, the outside world fading away as he delved into the mysteries of Sherlock Holmes. The intricate plots, the sharp intellect of the detective, and the vivid descriptions of Victorian London captured his imagination, transporting him to another time and place.

But even as he read, Leonard kept an eye on the clock hanging on the wall across from him. He knew he couldn’t stay too long—his mother would worry if he didn’t come home at his usual time. Still, he lingered for as long as he dared, savouring every word, every sentence, feeling a strange sense of accomplishment as he grasped the meanings and nuances within the text.

Eventually, as the shadows in the library grew longer, Leonard reluctantly closed the book, marking his place carefully. He stood up, cradling the book to his chest, and took one last look around the quiet sanctuary that had provided him with so much comfort.

With a small sigh, he made his way back to the front desk, where Mrs. Thompson gave him a knowing look. “Don’t worry, Leonard,” she said softly. “The book will be here for you whenever you want to continue.”

Leonard nodded, feeling a warmth in his chest. “Thank you again, Mrs. Thompson. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

With that, he left the library, stepping back into the bustling streets of London, the weight of the day’s events feeling a little lighter on his shoulders. As he walked home, he thought about the book waiting for him, and for the first time since the mess hall incident, he felt a genuine sense of excitement. He approached the entrance to the building where his family lived, an old, creaking structure that had seen better days. The front door was heavy, the paint chipped and peeling, and it groaned loudly as Leonard pushed it open. The hallway beyond was narrow and poorly lit, with the stale scent of dampness clinging to the air.

As he stepped inside, the familiar creak of the floorboards echoed under his feet. The sound was joined by muffled voices from behind several closed doors, snippets of conversation mixing with the faint strains of a radio playing somewhere above. Leonard was used to the noise by now; it was a constant backdrop in the building, a reminder of the lives crammed into every inch of space.

He climbed the stairs carefully, the wooden steps creaking beneath his weight. The air was thick and stale, carrying the lingering scents of cooked food, unwashed laundry, and the faint trace of cigarette smoke. As he reached the second floor, Leonard’s progress was halted by the sight of Miss Edwards standing in the hallway.

Miss Edwards was a woman of striking appearance, though the years had begun to wear on her. Her clothes were scant and ill-fitted, leaving little to the imagination, and her lips were painted a deep red that contrasted sharply with her pale skin. She stood with one hand on her hip, a cigarette dangling from the other, its tip glowing as she took a long drag. Beside her, two younger girls, not much older than Beatrice, stood in similar attire, their eyes distant and vacant.

Leonard glanced past Miss Edwards into the open doorway of her flat, where he could see two men lounging inside. One of them was bare-chested, his shirt draped carelessly over a chair. The man noticed Leonard’s glance and smirked, his eyes narrowing with a hint of amusement. He didn’t speak at first, merely returning his attention to the conversation, but the atmosphere inside the flat was heavy with something Leonard didn’t fully understand but instinctively knew was best avoided.

As Leonard began to move past, the other man in the flat, still fully dressed but with a leering expression, called out in a loud, mocking voice, “Oi, Lizzie, stop wasting time out there and get in here! I’ve paid good money, and I expect you to earn it.” His voice carried a crude edge that made Leonard’s skin crawl.

Miss Edwards, without so much as a glance at Leonard, took another drag from her cigarette and turned back toward the flat. The bare-chested man gave Leonard a wink, his smirk widening into a grin as he added, “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll understand soon enough.” The way he said it made Leonard’s stomach turn, but he kept his head down and quickened his pace up the stairs, eager to put the scene behind him. The woman disappeared into the flat without a word, closing the door behind her with a decisive click, leaving Leonard alone on the landing.

As he reached his own door, the sounds of the building faded slightly, replaced by the more familiar hum of home. He could hear his mother moving about in the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans a welcome sound. Leonard pushed open the door, the warmth of the flat enveloping him as he stepped inside.

The smell of simmering stew filled the small kitchen as Leonard stood beside his mother, carefully cutting potatoes into even chunks. The rhythmic sound of the knife on the cutting board was comforting, a familiar task that allowed him to focus on something simple after a long day. Margaret stirred the pot, adding the potatoes Leonard had prepared, her movements practiced and efficient.

It wasn’t long before Beatrice came in, her cheeks flushed from the cool evening air. She smiled at Leonard as she washed her hands at the sink, then moved to set the table, placing the chipped bowls and mismatched spoons in their usual spots.

A few minutes later, the front door creaked open, and the heavy footsteps of Edward and Thomas echoed through the small hallway. They entered the kitchen together, both men looking tired and worn from a day’s work at the docks. Edward’s face was lined with exhaustion, his shoulders slumped, while Thomas, though younger, bore a similar expression of weariness.

“Wash up, both of you,” Margaret instructed, her voice gentle but firm.

His father and Thomas complied, scrubbing the grime of the day from their hands before taking their seats at the table. Leonard watched them out of the corner of his eye, noting the subtle ways his father’s posture shifted, the way he carried the weight of their struggles in every movement.

Once they were all seated, Margaret folded her hands and bowed her head. “Let us say grace.”

The family followed suit, murmuring the familiar words together. The ritual was brief, but it held a certain solemnity, a moment of quiet reflection before the meal.

“Amen,” Margaret concluded, and the sound of spoons clinking against bowls soon filled the room as they began to eat.

The stew was hearty, filled with chunks of meat, potatoes, and a few vegetables. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was warm and filling, a comfort on a chilly evening. As they ate, Margaret turned her attention to Thomas and Edward, as she often did, eager to hear about their day.

“How was work today?” she asked, looking at Thomas first.

Thomas shrugged, his spoon pausing mid-air. “Busy as usual. A few of the crates were heavier than normal, but nothing we couldn’t handle.”

Edward grunted in agreement, though he didn’t elaborate. He rarely did, his answers typically short and to the point. “More of the same,” he said gruffly, taking another spoonful of stew.

Margaret nodded, accepting the usual terse responses before turning to Beatrice. “And how about you, love? How was your day?”

Beatrice wiped her mouth with a napkin before speaking. “It was fine. Mrs. Whitfield had me dusting the drawing room again—she’s very particular about the bookshelves. Arthur—the footman—was there, too, making sure everything was in order for some guests they’re expecting tomorrow.”

Leonard noticed the slight smile that touched Beatrice’s lips when she mentioned Arthur, but he didn’t comment. He knew better than to tease her in front of their parents.

As the conversation continued, Leonard kept his head down, focusing on his meal. He wasn’t expecting his father to ask him anything; Edward usually didn’t care much about what went on in Leonard’s school life. It was safer that way, Leonard had learned, especially after the incident with the burned book. Being too smart, too eager to share what he had learned, seemed to provoke something in his father—a sense of inadequacy, perhaps—that Leonard didn’t fully understand but had come to avoid.

But tonight, to Leonard’s surprise, Edward’s gaze settled on him. “And what about you, Leonard?” his father asked, his voice gruff but not unkind. “How was school today?”

Leonard looked up, momentarily startled. He could feel the eyes of his family on him, the weight of his father’s unexpected interest pressing down. He chose his words carefully, knowing that saying too much or the wrong thing could tip the delicate balance.

“It was fine, sir,” Leonard replied, keeping his tone neutral. “We had a history lesson about the King’s Jubilee, and we read some passages in English class. Nothing too exciting.”

Edward grunted, seemingly satisfied with the response. He nodded slightly before returning his attention to his stew, the moment of connection passing as quickly as it had come.

Margaret, ever perceptive, gave Leonard a small, reassuring smile before turning the conversation back to more mundane topics. The rest of the meal passed without incident, the family eating in a comfortable, if subdued, silence.

Later that evening, as Leonard prepared for bed, he thought again of the library and the book Mrs. Thompson had given him. It was a small comfort, a reminder that there were places where his intelligence and curiosity were valued, even if those places weren’t always within his own home.