Sweep: The Story of a Girl and Her Monster

by Jonathan Auxier

  Nan hesitated. She knew what Charlie looked like. And the way he had looked in front of Crudd—smoldering and huge. If he hadn’t been a monster before, he was then. “Actually, I think I was wrong to say what I just said. My whole life, folks have treated me like I was nothing—just because of how I looked. And maybe that’s the problem. If we all could just ignore the way other people looked, then we could see who they really were.”

  Charlie nodded. “He called me a monster. Just like those other people.” He looked down, kneading his thick fingers. “I tried reading about golems in our book of beasts. I saw the word ‘monster’ there, too.”

  Nan put her hand on his. His fingers were warm and crumbly and just the right size. As though they had been made for her. “So what if you are a monster?” She squeezed his hand. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER

  Nan continued to worry about Charlie. He seemed to have returned to his sweet, Charlie self, but anytime she looked at him, she couldn’t help but recall the vision of him standing over Crudd. She made Charlie promise to stay inside the house. “No more rooftop walks,” she told him. “Even after dark.”

  Charlie seemed disappointed, but he did not argue.

  In the weeks that followed, Nan made a habit of visiting Miss Bloom’s library. She and the teacher had devised a system. Miss Bloom would leave a lamp burning in the window as a way to let Nan know it was safe.

  Every time Nan came, she brought back whatever book she had borrowed from the library and Miss Bloom would give her a new book to read.

  The teacher would ask Nan all sorts of questions about her life as a climber. And the way she listened, it was as though she really wanted to hear the answers. Nan told her whatever she could, except for a few things. She never said anything about Charlie. And she never said anything about the Sweep.

  She made a point of reading and returning the books as quickly as time would allow. The bigger the book, the faster she read it. She could see how impressed Miss Bloom was when she returned a book like Great Expectations or The Pilgrim’s Progress in only a few days’ time. Miss Bloom would ask Nan questions about the story. She seemed interested in Nan’s opinions, but Nan thought the questions might also be a way of testing to see if Nan had actually read the books. She was a teacher, after all.

  “My goodness,” Miss Bloom said one night when Nan appeared with her copy of Robinson Crusoe, which she had read aloud to Charlie over the course of a single rainy Wednesday. “No sooner do I lend you a book than it is back in my hand.”

  “It’s not hard when the stories are good,” Nan said. “And I figure you might need them for your real students.”

  Miss Bloom tilted her head and held Nan’s gaze. “I can’t help but notice that there is one book that you have not returned.”

  Nan felt her heart sink. She had been dreading this question. “The poems,” she said.

  “Songs of Innocence, by William Blake.” Miss Bloom gave a patient smile. “Am I to assume you are still reading it?”

  Nan dug her toe into the tassels of the rug. “I did read it—well, most of it. But then I . . . misplaced it.” This was not an exact lie. Nan had misplaced it. In a burning hearth.

  The woman raised an eyebrow. “You are usually so careful with the books I give you. Would you like another copy to read?”

  Nan chewed the inside of her cheek. “That’s very kind, but . . . I’m not sure I like that William Blake fellow very much. His poems are pretty, but it seems to me he doesn’t know much about the world the way it really is.”

  Miss Bloom nodded. “I think I can guess which poem gave you that impression.” There was a hint of a smile on her face. “Did something happen to the book?”

  Nan released a slow breath. “I may have . . . dropped it . . . in the fireplace.”

  Miss Bloom’s expression changed. “You should not have done that.” She sounded more like a teacher than she usually did. “No good has ever come from destroying a book.”

  Nan felt her cheeks grow hot. “I couldn’t help it! All that stuff about happy little sweeps doing their happy little jobs! And folks like you believe it. Because it’s easier to think that than to face what’s really going on, how bad it really is.” She could feel her eyes welling up. “I thought you were different than the rest of them. I thought you understood.”

  Miss Bloom released a deep breath. “I understand that I cannot possibly understand.” She shivered, as though warding off a chill, and walked across the room.

  Nan followed. “Are you very upset with me?”

  “A little surprised. But surprising me seems to be one of your talents.” The woman knelt down and perused the shelf. “There is a lesson here. Just because a book makes you feel bad does not mean it is bad.” She removed a small book and offered it to Nan. “You might discover that Mister Blake is more sympathetic to your plight than you first thought.”

  Nan took the book from her hand. It looked just like the other book of poetry. The title, however, was different. “Songs of . . . Experience?” Nan said.

  “Blake meant them to be read together—first Innocence, then Experience. The twin stages of life. I suspect you’ll find this collection a bit more accurate.” She gestured for Nan to sit. “Take a look.”

  “Now?” Nan had her doubts. She was pretty certain that anything this man had to say she didn’t want to hear.

  Miss Bloom nodded, so Nan sat down in her chair by the fire. She opened the book. It had tiny decorations around the edges, just like the other book. Only these pictures were different. The characters in them did not look so sweet or so happy. Nan turned the pages and stopped at a poem in the middle.

  “The Chimney Sweeper,” she said aloud. “This poem was in the other book.” Only now that she looked more closely, she could see that it was not the same poem. It was shorter and began differently. “He wrote two poems with the same name,” she said. “Why would he do that?”

  “Read it,” Miss Bloom said.

  Nan read it.

  A little black thing among the snow;

  Crying weep! weep! in notes of woe!

  Where are thy father and mother? Say!—

  They are both gone up to the church to pray.

  Her voice caught in her throat. This poem felt different. She could see the steeple towering over the child. She could see the stream of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen filing through the gates—could see them stepping right over the crying child, a tattered bundle in the snow.

  Because I was happy upon the heath,

  And smiled among the winter’s snow:

  They clothed me in the clothes of death,

  And taught me to sing the notes of woe.

  Nan could see her own ragged clothes, drenched by sleet, covered in holes. She could hear the cries of Whittles and Shilling-Tom, desperately calling for work.

  And because I am happy, and dance and sing,

  They think they have done me no injury:

  And are gone to praise God and his Priest and King

  Who make up a heaven of our misery.

  Nan blinked, and she felt tears burning in her eyes. She was angry. But not at the poem. At the way that the poem felt like her own true life. The anger twisted inside her like a knot.

  She felt Miss Bloom’s hand on her shoulder. “Some of us do see,” the woman whispered.

  Nan put the book down. “What does seeing do?” She brushed a tear from her cheek. “We’re still out there. Getting shoved into flues. Burning, falling, starving, dying.”

  She stood up, feeling the angry knot tighten. “Do you know what I found in an old newspaper? There was some inventor fellow who made a mechanical brush that could go up a chimney all on its own—no climber needed. That was ages ago, but no one even knows about it. Why? Because the life of a boy or girl is worth less than a few rods of steel.” She sniffed, brushing the wet from her cheeks. “The truth is folks don’t help us because they need us. Because keeping themselves w
arm is more important than keeping us alive.” She gestured to the hearth, which even now was crackling and warm. “Children are dying so folks like you can have a cozy read by the fire!”

  Miss Bloom did not respond in anger. “There are people who want to change that world. Ever since your incident—”

  “You mean ever since I was almost burned alive?”

  Miss Bloom nodded. “. . . I have begun to wonder what can be done. And I think I might have an idea.”

  Nan could tell she was serious. “What kind of idea?”

  “Tell me.” Miss Bloom folded her hands. “What do you know of ‘friendly societies’?”

  THE MAYHEW MOTHERS FRIENDLY SOCIETY

  “What is a friendly society?” Charlie asked the day after Nan’s visit with Miss Bloom. “I think it must have very many friends.”

  “Nothing so exciting.” Nan wrung water from her dripping hair. “A friendly society is just a room full of rich ladies who want to help the poor.”

  “Oh, yes,” Charlie said. “That is very nice of those ladies.”

  Miss Bloom had given Nan a special kind of hair soap called “shampoo” that made an enormous quantity of bubbles. Charlie was using the leftover bubbles from Nan’s bath to make himself a nose and ears. The white suds crackled and turned black at his touch.

  “ ‘Nice’ is one word for it.” Nan tossed her towel aside. This particular friendly society was composed of mothers of the students at Miss Mayhew’s Seminary for Young Ladies. Miss Bloom had told the mothers about Nan, and they very much wanted to meet her and hear her testimonial. “Miss Bloom seemed to think these ladies might be able to help climbers.” She glared at the dress strewn across the bench. “But I’m not sure it’s worth the price.”

  Miss Bloom had given her a pink dress along with a wool coat and pair of boots. She wanted Nan to wear them when she talked to the friendly society. “We need these women to see past the soot,” Miss Bloom had said. “We need to show them the smart, strong little girl that you are. The real you.”

  Nan didn’t much care for the “real” her. She had already scrubbed her face and hands raw. Her hair reeked of shampoo. The sweet smell made her want to retch and sneeze at the same time—like someone flicking her in the nostrils each time she breathed.

  She picked up the dress the way one might pick up a soiled handkerchief. “I don’t even know which end is the top.” She held it up to the mirror and tried to imagine what she would look like inside it. The skirt seemed to be made of endless frills. “If Miss Bloom thinks I’m wearing this thing without trousers, she’ll be disappointed.”

  Toby’s voice rang out from the hall. “You sure you can trust this teacher lady not to tell them who you are?” Toby was at the house for some reason. Nan had made him wait outside while she changed; she felt silly enough about the dress without him mocking her. He went on, “Crudd’s still got it out for you—doubly so after what happened with him and Charlie. I heard he’s offering six crowns to anyone who turns you in.”

  “I trust Miss Bloom,” Nan said. “It’s the other ladies I’m not sure about.” She tried to step into the dress through the neck like a pair of trousers. That didn’t work. She pulled the whole thing over her head like a shirt. The fabric was scratchy and stiff. “How do people wear things like this?” she muttered, smoothing her skirt in front of the mirror.

  “Your bottom is much bigger now,” Charlie said. “And very colorful.”

  Nan looked at her face, which did not look like her face at all. Her hair, which she had let grow through the winter, was a tangled mess. “Maybe some ribbons will help.” She took up a bit of hair ribbon that Miss Bloom had given her.

  “Are you done yet?” Toby called. “Let’s have a look!”

  “Toby, no!” Nan shouted, turning around.

  But it was too late. Toby pushed through the door and then stopped dead in his tracks. “Oh, Smudge,” he whispered, removing his cap.

  “I . . . I didn’t get the ribbon tied.” Nan felt her cheeks burn. “What do you think?” She kept her eyes on the floor. She couldn’t bear to look at him.

  “Isn’t she very colorful?” Charlie said from the tub.

  Toby just stared at her, his eyes wide as saucers. “You . . .” He shook his head. “You look . . . ridiculous.”

  Nan snatched her wet towel and threw it at him. Toby stepped to dodge it but slipped on a soapy puddle. “Whaaa!” He tumbled backward over the rim of the tub and hit the water with a terrific splash.

  His head emerged a moment later, sputtering and soaked.

  Nan pulled the ribbon from her hair. “Now who looks ridiculous?” She took up her shirt and trousers and marched toward the hall.

  “What about the friendly society?” Toby called.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” she said, and slammed the door.

  Nan knew she wasn’t the right person to address the friendly society. Miss Bloom needed someone who knew how to talk to rich folks. Someone who had once been rich himself.

  “Hello, Newt,” she said. “Got a minute?”

  Newt was sweeping a house in Hackney. When he heard Nan’s voice, he startled and very nearly fell down an open chimney. “I knew it!” he said as hopped down from the stack. He gave Nan a hug, which surprised her. “I just knew you’d come back! I told the boys that it was you and not Father Christmas who gave us those presents, but they wouldn’t believe me.” He stepped back, shaking his head. “You should have seen Roger’s face when he opened his box to find a ripe horse apple. He looked about ready to cry.”

  Nan smiled. “Now that I wish I’d seen.” She opened the flap of her bag and sat down on the roof. “I brought food.” She pulled out a half a loaf of bread.

  The boy grabbed the food from her hands and began eating. Nan watched his face. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunk deep in their sockets. He had burns and scrapes on his shaved head. He looked nothing like the sweet-faced innocent she had known only a few months earlier.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here,” she said.

  Newt didn’t answer. He just kept eating. He looked as if he was afraid Nan might snatch the bread from his tiny hands.

  “I’ve come here because I need you to do me a favor,” she said.

  Newt slowed his chewing. “I don’t want trouble.”

  “Trust me.” Nan took an envelope from her pocket and handed it to him. “You’ll go to twenty-seven Eaton Street at six o’clock tonight. Don’t tell anybody where you’re going—especially not Crudd or Roger. When you get there, give this letter to a woman named Miss Bloom. She’ll explain everything.”

  Newt couldn’t read, but he studied the envelope all the same. “What am I meant to do there?” he said. “Is it a sweeping job?” He suddenly looked excited. “Is it a sweeping job with you?”

  “It’s not a sweeping job,” Nan said. “Miss Bloom will take you to some very nice people—rich ladies who want to meet a climber. Not a sweep but a climber. You need to tell them about your life—about the job. I need you to tell them the truth—the real truth of what it’s like.” She met his eye. “And you need to tell them about Before.”

  Newt blinked at her. “B-B-Before?” Nan thought for a moment that he might have truly forgotten. Most climbers did, sooner or later. He hung his head. “I’m not sure I can,” he said. “I might start to cry.” Already his little lip was quivering.

  “That’s the point.” Nan put her hands over his. “These people will see you cry and want to help you. And,” she added, “there will be food.”

  That clinched it.

  Newt promised to do as she’d asked. As Nan turned to leave, he caught her arm. “Why me?” he said. “You could have picked Whittles or Shilling-Tom. Why me?”

  Nan wasn’t sure of how to answer. Whittles and Shilling-Tom were best mates. And whatever happened, they would have each other. It was the same with her and Charlie. Newt was alone. “Remember how you used to beg me to hear about the Sweep before bed?”

/>   He nodded. “Feels like ages ago.”

  “I think that little boy is still inside you. Somewhere. It’s him these ladies need to meet.”

  Newt kicked his bare foot against the stack. “I miss the dreams,” he said. “After you left, they stopped.” This made sense; when Nan left, she had taken Charlie with her. “I miss the Sweep,” he said.

  Nan looked past him to St. Florian’s Church in the distance. “I do, too.”

  She turned and walked away.

  WAITING FOR SPRING

  February ended with an unseasonably warm wind from the east. The air was still cold, and there were mountains of gray slush in the streets. But even so, there was a sweet smell in the air that carried the promise of things to come.

  Nan decided that she should skip sweeping in favor of a snow fight. A mild day in winter was too good to waste. The weather would make the snowballs heavier, which meant they would hold together and hurt just enough to be fun. Plus, she couldn’t be sure how much longer the snow might stick around.

  “Charlie, get your mitts!” she called into the hall. “It’s time for a snow battle. Come on!” She took up her coat and the boots that Miss Bloom had insisted she keep. The boots were stiff and felt strange on her feet. Nan had not spoken to Miss Bloom since sending Newt in her stead. She hoped the woman would understand. She hoped the friendly society could help.

  Charlie startled her when his head appeared in the fireplace. He was upside down and smoldering with excitement. “Is a water-baby the one with wings?” he said.

  Nan looked up from her boots. “No, that’s fairies,” she said. She had been reading him a book called The Water Babies, which Miss Bloom had given them. It was about a little climbing boy who fell down a chimney and landed in a magical underwater world full of fairies. Charlie loved it, and he had made Nan read it a second time. That is the sign that you really love a book.

  Charlie said, “I think there is a fairy in the Nothing Room. I heard sounds up there. And when I looked in, I saw a fairy in the, um . . .” He gestured with his hands. “. . . in the roof branches.” Charlie sometimes forgot words when he got excited.