The Poverty of Soul: The Story of Emily from York
Emily grew like roadside weeds—unwanted, wild. No one raised her, spoiled her, or showed her kindness. Her clothes came from charity bins, often threadbare rags that barely covered her bony knees. Her shoes were always too big, worn through. Her mother chopped her hair bluntly, a “pudding bowl” cut, to avoid the bother of styling, but it stuck out in every direction, as if rebelling against neglect.
She never went to nursery—her parents had no time for her. All they cared about was where to find their next drink. Her father was a violent drunk; her mother, Margaret, was perpetually hungover, lost in a haze of smoke. Emily hid in stairwells when they turned violent. Running meant escaping bruises; if she was too slow, she covered them later. Neighbours would sigh and shake their heads: Margaret had always been flighty, they said, but after she took up with that convict, she was beyond saving. They pitied Emily, bringing her food and secondhand clothes. But if the clothes were decent, Margaret pawned them for gin. So the girl remained in rags.
When school began, Emily clung to learning like a lifeline. Books became her sanctuary, a world where no one hit, shouted, or shamed her. She read voraciously, haunted the library, raised her hand in class, hoping someone might hear her quiet but steady voice.
Yet children are cruel, especially to those who are different. Poor, odd, with her ridiculous haircut, Emily was swiftly branded “Pitiful.” Worse, classmates’ parents forbade friendship with her—”the drunkard’s daughter,” they whispered, “bad influence.” Teachers, though they saw promise in her, stayed silent. Easier to look away than defend a girl with no family or connections. So Emily grew up—alone against the world.
Her refuge was an ancient oak in the park by the pond. Under its branches, she built her haven, bringing books to read and dreams to nurse. Sometimes she even slept there, when home was unbearable. Only stray dogs and cats listened—the only ones who never betrayed her.
Her father died when she was fourteen, frozen in a snowdrift after a binge. Only Margaret and Emily attended the funeral. The girl felt no grief—just shame and relief. Afterward, Margaret spiralled further, rage and stupor alternating. Work was long forgotten. To survive, Emily scrubbed stairwells for spare pence, buying dog-eared medical books. She dreamed of becoming a doctor, of dragging her mother back from the abyss.
But school remained merciless. One day, late for class, she dropped a psychiatry book—right in front of Regina, the beautiful class tyrant. Regina snatched it up, read the title, and sneered:
“Oh, psychiatry! You’re not just pitiful, you’re mad, like your mother!”
Emily couldn’t bear it. Sobbing, she fled to her oak, collapsing into the snow. “Why are they so cruel? What did I ever do?” she whispered against the bark.
Then she saw the dog on the pond. It trotted onto thin ice—and plunged through. She screamed and rushed to save it, crawling across the treacherous surface. She grabbed the dog—just as the ice gave way. Cold punched her chest; breath fled. She fought—for the dog, for herself, for every fragile hope she’d ever held.
When strength nearly failed, and the ice seemed a tombstone—someone pulled her out. It was James. The new boy, recently transferred from York. Handsome, clever, reserved. Girls swooned over him, yet he reached for Emily.
“Come on. You’ll freeze. My mother’s a doctor—she’ll help.”
He took the dog too. Sheltered them both. The next day, he walked into class beside Emily. Regina gaped:
“You’re serious?! She’s pitiful!”
“Only the soul can be pitiful,” he replied evenly. “You can’t hide it behind clothes or makeup. The harder you try, the clearer it shows.”
Regina paled and fled. Silence settled over the room. And for the first time, Emily felt she wasn’t alone. She had a friend now. And the dog, Lily, whom she’d saved. But most of all—a chance. A chance for a new life.
