FAREWELL SAINT PETERSBURG by Mike Steeden

by mikesteeden

The pretty young maid, going by the name Eliza, was blessed with ebony hair and olive skin. What is more, she was a Romani gypsy girl born of Mother Russia and a cunning adolescent to boot. Moreover, in her wildest dreams she’d seen herself in a foreign land, even though she had never before heard of, let alone seen, the ocean she would need to cross, its expanse, its waves, its storms, its white horses, its thousand-and-one high seas temperaments. All she’d ever known when growing up were the various rough-end streets and tatty caravans of an otherwise stunningly beautiful Saint Petersburg. Little did she know that her city was only a ‘telescope away’ from the Baltic Sea.

Whatever, on this summer’s day in the year 1839, Eliza was about to fulfil that dream of hers, readying herself to travel alone off to the Port of Tyne in the North East of England. Importantly, she’d determined that the crewmen in charge of the fabled three-masted sailing ship that transported merchandise and, above all as far as she was concerned, genuine passengers always kept an eye out for anyone hiding in the vessel. On account of that possible hindrance she was well aware that once she’d got on the ship she must never be known to anyone as to her presence on board, for that would put an end to her ‘travelling for free,’ as well as a jolly good thrashing in front of everybody onboard from the ship’s renowned violent Captain as a punishment. It was with that in mind she would be hiding in the cargo bay along with a pile of luggage belonging to the many affluent travellers.

To her delight, during her adventure across the water, she would be fed and cared for by a friendly young deckhand going by the name of Dmitri who she’d met previously and almost fell for when working behind the bar of a heart-pounding tavern for intoxication. She found him amusing when not spoiling for a fight with the great unwashed when drunk. As for Dmitri’s view of himself, he was a generally gentle whippersnapper who long since had more than a soft spot for Eliza, and certainly didn’t want to see her farewell although he knew in his heart that he would.

It was in late afternoon, a fortunately scorching one at that, where Eliza would leave her homeland for ever. Crucially, wherever she’d journeyed in her small world, she always dressed herself with a certain vagabond’s panache, although she referred to it as, ‘Romany style’. No matter the circumstances, and on her sneaky arrival in the ship, she was bent on making sure she’d clad herself to perfection, even risking her golden necklace, bracelets, and headscarves, all of which embellished with golden coins aplenty. Her immaculate kaleidoscopic skirt, without fail, was essential for a young gypsy girl, even though it had to be long enough to be worn below her knees as lower legs that are visible to the public were considered taboo in Romani culture. In Eliza’s opinion, should she take a stroll on the upper deck to get a pinch of fresh air while well-dressed, it would keep the shipmen at bay for she would not appear to be a scruffy stowaway. Better still in her way of thinking, her entire virginal legs should be conspicuous, thus pompous concealment would be a thing of the past plus she could show off her seductiveness, to the jealous. Although completely ignorant of the English people, she had already concluded that in England there would be no more ‘Ho hum; so boring’ high and mighty days. To her, the Brits didn’t care what their women were dressed in. Little did she know that across the sea, akin to Mother Russia, a woman showing anything below her neck was considered to be that of a common streetwalker, and in no way were wholesome females showing themselves off in front of others. Plainly, the poor girl had much to learn, say la vie.

Regardless of her potential blundering abroad, sat together at an archaic table hidden in a dark corner inside a poor man’s watering hole, a watering hole with only debatable, so-called candlelight’s for illumination, no windows, and, for good measure, immersed in dense cigarette smoke. It was there that Dmitri, for the umpteenth time, had agreed to insure Eliza’s welfare when journeying. Once more he told her of his bright idea that would hide her within the ship’s hold without problems. What he didn’t say, although he’d like to have done, was that he wasn’t too keen about her departure, although in his nightmares and in real life, the girl he dreamed of had plainly thought otherwise. Even though she was an immature maiden who believed she knew everything, but seldom did, for once she was genuinely determined to escape her homeland for what she hoped to be a paradise. Her reasoning, diddly-squat, as was the way with the young, excited girl.

What she overlooked was her becoming a peasant who came from abroad and who wanted to work in the farms in England. Sadly that meant that she would be treated as if a common serf, not even a local peasant. That was the way in 1839 when Blighty was in the throws of the Industrial Revolution and farms meant little. What a shame, or was it? Only time would tell.

FAREWELL SAINT PETERSBURG by Mike Steeden

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