The Spit Boy Girl

I wake up at the crack of dawn, dreading the cold, dreary winter day ahead. Everyone else wakes up at four o'clock — I don't blame them — it's the latest they can wake up, but I have to do so before the others, so they don't see me getting changed. I turn over in my iron bed, only covered by a thin blanket, shivering as I stepped out onto the wooden floor — a hotel for splinters. I quickly changed, and had barely finished when Thomas and George were sitting up and rubbing their eyes. I immediately busied myself in making my sheet straight on the bed, so I wouldn't need to turn around and see all the boys getting changed, stark naked in the room.

By four-thirty, all of us were rounded up and ready, having just finished our soggy, cold porridge — the perfect breakfast to match my mood — on our hard, wooden benches which, like always, hurt terribly. We trailed up the stairs from our cellar room to the kitchens, where me, Thomas, Robert and Henry had our first shift. I sighed as I poked myself with the sharp metal rod I was putting the meat on — a leg of beef today. I had done this so many times, it didn't hurt anymore.

Oh, I'm ever so rude, I suppose you don't get taught manners as a spit boy. But still — let me introduce myself. My name is Anne Daniels, and I am a 19-year-old Tudor spit boy. No, spit boys aren't girls but I am. I have to pretend to be a boy, 'Edmund York', to do this job, so I can 'provide' food for my homeless family — my mumma and my 5-year-old sister, Elsie. They live on the streets just outside Hampton Court palace — here — where I live and work. Today the time me and my family agreed to 'meet' was eight o'clock in the morning, which was now! I walked casually over to the table of raw beef, pretending to get the next stock. I quickly took a small portion and hid it in my itchy pocket. My hands were nimble and fast — I had done this every day for three months now — and had never been caught, ever.

Ten minutes later, I had given Mumma the beef, had a speedy cuddle with Elsie to stop her crying, and was back outside the cellar. It was one of those half buried into the ground rooms, with a window just above the ground line. I laid down on the grass and edged my way in — feet first — as always. I fell to the cold, hard floor below, and heard a male gasp. Was it one of the other spit boys?  I thought, as I came to a landing. No, it was too posh.  I slowly turned around and saw... James? Yes, it was James Turner, the groom of the stool! 

"What are you doing in here?" I asked, so shocked I forgot to put on my 'boy voice'. He looked at me stubbornly.

"Why did you  just come through the window?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," I replied.

"Fine, whatever, I don't even care," he said, carelessly.

"Wait," I had a sudden thought, "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

"As long as you don't breathe a word that I was in here," he promised, and I gave him a silent nod.

Note from @bookish-bxbe :

Hi! I hoped you enjoyed that super short story! I might continue it, I might not, but for now it's finished! As it's set in the Tudor period, I thought I'd give some meanings of words you might not understand. Here you go:

Spit boy:   A spit boy was a Tudor job. It was the bottom of the kitchen staff. Their job was to turn the enormous iron spits used to roast large quantities of meat. It was hard and painful, and they had to do this for hours on end. The spits were over big open fires which gave off a lot of heat. To make matters worse, they had to be fully clothed. They had to wake up at 4am to prepare the fire and then worked for 6 solid hours, without any washroom breaks. 

Groom of the Stool:  The Groom of the Stool, has gone down in history as one of the grossest jobs available. As the name suggests the Groom of the Stool was responsible for attending to the King's toileting needs. The Groom would care for the King's toilet, known in the Tudor period as a 'Stool'. He would be responsible for supplying water, towels and a washbowl for the King when he had finished his business. There is some debate as to whether or not the Groom of the Stool was responsible for wiping the King's behind, with some believing he did and others thinking his duties did not extend to that extreme. While being responsible for the King's bodily functions may seem quite disgusting for us in today's times when going to the bathroom is considered to be a private matter, it was very, very different in the Tudor age. It was a high level job, as only the best were allowed to touch the King's behind.

Thanks for reading — check out some of my others works! Ash x

P.S. This is the end of the story but if you have any ideas for what might happen next, comment them and your idea could be part two...