Narrative - Hemline Code

Chapter One

The thread slips between my fingers, too fine to see in this light. We’re only allowed half an hour of lamp oil now, and I’ve already used my share. I blink hard, but the headache's already blooming behind my right eye. It always starts with a tiny spark, like someone striking a match close to my skull.

  Outside, someone’s chopping wood. The thunk travels through the weatherboard walls.

  The fire's been out since last night. Not enough kindling, and no coins to spare for more. I reach for the skirt. The message goes under the hem, stitched into the curve. White on white. I never read them — it’s safer that way. It won’t be seen unless someone knows where to look.

  The pain is dull now, pressing behind my eyes like a warning. No time to lie down. No point, either. Mother will be back before dusk, and the parcel has to be at Miss Rowe’s by then. It’s not just a skirt I’m delivering. It’s news. Good or bad – I don’t ask.

  I tuck it into brown paper and loop the twine twice before tying it off. The kettle groans on the stove, still half-frozen. I run a hand over my plait and pull on my coat. It smells like smoke and lavender. Lavender Lucy, I recite.

Outside, frost covers the fence like sugar. I step out carefully. The headache will follow me all the way to town, but I’ve walked through worse.

  And I’ve been told this message matters.

  I pull my coat tighter as I turn the corner. Smoke curls from chimneys, the ones that still have wood left. I glance down. Our boots all leave the same trail in the frost—straight lines, no detours. No one wanders anymore.

As I near the square, the sound of clacking draws my attention. Two boys toss stones at a frozen post outside the schoolhouse. A teacher stands beside the door, arms crossed, not stopping them. Must be waiting for their parents to pick them up. She wears a yellow ribbon at her collar—thin and frayed. It’s supposed to mean she’s loyal to someone who’s been taken.

  The cuffs of my coat scratch at my wrists, stiff with wear. I leave them where they are though. If you look too cold, someone might report you for begging—and if you look too warm, they think you're hiding something.

  The guards outside Rations Depot slouch against the wall, rifles slung across their backs. One’s lighting a cigarette with a match that looks far too new to come from ration kits. A dray rumbles past, its wooden wheels spitting gravel toward me. I catch a glimpse of crates in the back—all five marked with red tape, which means off-limits. A small child standing near the curb points at them, and his mother yanks his hand away so hard he stumbles backwards.

  I cross to the laneway beside the flour mill and notice Liam out front, as always, sweeping his slow, practised strokes. He looks up, leaning on the broom as I approach. He’s sixteen too, but he could easily pass for twenty with his broad shoulders and square jawline.

  ‘Headache’s back?’ he asks, looking concerned.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘You get that crease between your eyes.’

  He’s right. But I shrug. ‘It’ll pass.’

  He glances at the brown-paper parcel under my arm and then looks away. ‘Be careful Lu, Mr Spencer from next door said they’ve started opening things again.’

  I grip the parcel tighter and nod. My temples throb.

  Miss Rowe’s place next to the mill looks shut from the outside, same as always. The old POST OFFICE sign hangs crooked, curtains drawn, flowerbox empty.

  Only the door handle is still polished. I knock twice and the door opens.

  Inside, it’s warm and smells like dried cloves and sealing wax. She takes the parcel without a word and her eyes flick to me.

  ‘You didn’t read it?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I assure her.

  ‘Good.’

  She presses a coin into my palm. I expect the weight of it, but not the way her fingers close over mine, firm.

  ‘They’ve arrested two carters this week, Lucy. One from Ashby. One from here.’ She whispers, looking out toward the front window.

  My mouth goes dry.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They didn’t say.’ She straightens up. ‘But we can guess.’

  I nod once and leave.

I take the long way home, through what used to be Market Lane. There’s no market anymore—just broken crates and the skeletons of old stalls. Someone’s spray-painted a symbol on a street lantern. It’s been half-scrubbed off, but the shape is still there. Three lines. One crossed through them.

  I’ve seen it before—carved into benches and etched into walls—but the one at the station, the day they took Father, has always stayed with me. I still remember his face. How calm he looked, even as they pulled him from the queue. He turned toward me speaking softly—'It’ll be okay, Lavender Lucy.’

  I hated that nickname. I told him it made me sound like a silly girl. But now I repeat it often. He was the only one who ever called me that.

  My fingers find the coin tucked safely in my pocket. I trace its edge, and sure enough—it’s marked.

  A shout cuts across the square, interrupting my thoughts. Two guards drag an older man through the street—blood staining his temple. People stop and stare, but no one steps in. Ever since the strikes, they’ve made a point of showing us what happens if you’re non-compliant.

  I lower my head and walk faster, pretending not to notice. The streets are getting dark now. Just a few hundred metres and I’ll be past the square and near our front gate.

  Behind me, a voice calls out. I quicken my pace, heart pounding,

clutching the coin in my pocket.

  ‘Hey! Stop there!’

  The boots on the pavement grow louder. Two sets, maybe three. I duck behind an abandoned cart and into a narrow lane, pressing myself against the cold wall. I hold my breath until the footsteps fade.

  I step out into the street, certain they’ve gone.

  Then — A hand clamps down on my shoulder.