Introduction
Emmaline Creary
Friendship ... is born at the moment when one man says to another "What! You too? I thought that no one but myself . . .
Appearance
Notable Features
She usually avoids eye contact, and will look past the person whose speaking to her. Often she looks over their shoulder, but sometimes she looks at her feet. Occasionally, if she’s especially interested in something or someone, she will stare open mouthed at whatever or whoever it is.Emiline's posture and gestures are unusual. Her shoulders are hunched, and she seems to skulk rather than walk. She twists her fingers together, bites her lip, tilts her head, and sways from side to side while having conversations. If she gets excited, she hops from one foot to the other, claps or flaps her hands, and—sometimes—squeals.
Personal Style
Emmaline has three expressions—a blank, empty look, a big grin or a small, crooked smile--though that one she wears seldom, as its a dead giveaway that she's been up to mischief. She has dark brown hair that’s naturally curly and often worn up, with loose strands framing her face. Her eyes are dark brown, and don't sit properly in her face. They also bulge slightly. Her nose is large and somewhat beakish. Her chin, mouth, and all the rest of her besides, is small, almost elfin.Her clothes are tattered and threadbare. Most are a faded gray blue in color, but some are red or brown, or a mix of various colors. She dresses in layers when she can, and is rarely seen without a blanket or quilt wrapped around her shoulders. She insists on wearing the same pair of boots every day, rain or shine, even though she’s outgrowing them. She adores hats of all sorts, and is also rarely seen without the white mob cap, trimmed in lace, that she stole from some poor housemaid's laundry pile one day. When she isn't wearing it, she's sleeping with it, cuddled opposite Tilly in her arms.
Circumstances
Currently
Emmaline hummed to herself as she arranged her flowers. A recent arrival to London, she had only taken up the job of flower selling of late, when all others remained barred to her. She had not the skills to rise above the rank of scullery maid in a great house, and thus far, no one had any interest in hiring a girl nearing spinsterhood to do the work of a child nearly half her age. She had sought employment in homes and inns, boarding schools and factories, and all took one look at her ragged clothes, pronounced Irish accent, and hands that could not stay still, and dismissed her out of hand.At last, she chanced upon selling flowers, and, desperate to avoid falling into prostitution, she began to trade in flowers. She made enough at into keep from dying in the gutter, but barely more than that, and so she turned to mudlarking. Though her sight was so poor as to render everything a confusing jumble of shapes and colors--and then only if the sights she beheld were immediately before her face, for she could not see out to either side, nor below her nose, nor above her brows--her fingers were quick and nimble and often acted as her eyes, particularly when she plumbed the murky waters of the Thames, searching for hidden treasures she could sell to feed herself.
When desperation drove her to it, she stole, filching meat pies and pastries from where they cooled on windowsills. If she felt especially bold, she would walk amongst the market stalls, slipping wares into her pockets, as many as she could before someone caught on and inevitably raised the alarm. She was swift and adept at finding small spaces in which to squirrel herself away, and so far, she had managed to avoid coming to the attention of the law. Escaping guilt was far less easy, and remorse often drove her back to the scenes of her crimes. She still had no money to spend food, but she did have the baubles she fished from the Thames, washed and polished, and--sometimes--the leftover flowers she had not sold. These she would leave, a bauble, a bundle of flowers, or both, to pay for the food she took. Never certain that this was sufficient, she remained hopeful that these would at least appease her victims.
Health & Capabilities
Emmaline is nearly always plagued with one ailment or another. Thanks to how often she spends in the cold and damp, she has a persistent cough. At times, she feels unable to properly draw anir into her lungs. She is malnourished most of the time, which just exacerbates her propensity for catching every cold and fever that comes along. She seems to have a year round case of the sniffles, and her eyes are frequently red rimmed and watery.Physically, she is not very strong, both because of her poor health and the extreme state of deprivation that comprises her existence. She struggles to lift items weighing over ten pounds and has difficulty maneuvering even smaller items, if they’re bulky. What she lacks in physical strength, however, she makes up for in dexterity. Her fingers are nimble, allowing her to fish even small items from crevices in the river bottom or to stitch up clothing with surprising speed.
Socioeconomics
Emmaline is desperately poor. She manages to afford a tiny garret flat, but there are months she struggles to make rent. More often, she feels she has to choose between feeding herself and paying the rent.Skills & Talents
SewingImaginative
Nice singing voice
Identity
Hobbies
Emmaline doesn’t truly have time for hobbies, but when she can get some time to herself, she does enjoy storytelling. She typically lacks an audience, however, so will often make do with whatever bits and bobs she hasn’t sold, and they become a stand-in for an audience of people. She also loves collecting little things—rocks and dried flowers and twigs.Personality
Emmaline is frightened by practically everything--strangers, loud noises, sudden movements, thunderstorms, the dark, small spaces, shouting, people touching her, barking dogs, and many other things besides, Her fear drives her to tears, but she's just as likely to run from the source of her terror. If she's especially frightened, she will flee and then hide under the nearest available large piece of her furniture, refusing to come out until whatever has scared her has gone away again.Emmaline struggles to speak--stammering when she can manage it--and so most of the time, she keeps quiet. When she does talk, it's mainly to her doll, Tilly. Occasionally she’ll say a word or two to strangers, but those are usually monosyllabic or scripts she's memorized to get herself out of situations. When by herself or with Tilly, she speaks more. What most have overheard is her mumbling snatches of nursery rhymes, lullabies and half remembered prayers. Sometimes she’ll cobble together half remembered phrases she’s stolen from others in an attempt to have a proper conversation, but usually she gives up midway through and wanders off.
Upset Emmaline is very different from happy or frightened Emmaline. Upset Emmaline is loud--bursting into ear splitting sobs or shouting. Often she throws herself to the floor, kicking and screaming, or wedges herself into the nearest, smallest corner, and rocks, with her hands pressed over her ears. If Tilly is nearby, and Emmaline is calmer, she will scold and shake and smack Tilly, berating the doll with reproaches she herself heard from her parents.
Emmaline is meek and shy, and startles easily, especially around strangers. Emmaline is autistic, and has language and developmental delays, as well as auditory and visual processing difficulties. These all impact her personality. Desperate to be good--as that equals safety for her--Emmaline is obedient to a fault, complying to all requests, even those that would see her harmed.
She is a placid, kind, doormat of a girl who seems to have been born lacking a spine. Able to find beauty and wonder in the common and ordinary, Emmaline thrills over a particularly well formed rock or brightly colored flower the way others would at fine gowns and jewels. Equally content to sit and watch raindrops trickling down a window as she is to stare into a fire, Emmaline is happiest when life is easy, quiet, calm and predictable.
She enjoys simple, repetitive tasks, as they enable her to engage in her favorite pastime--daydreaming. Emmaline loves stories of all sorts, though fantasy is her favorite. She has an entire series of tales she's woven inside her head, all following the adventures of a particular family of mice through their generations, as they live, love, and run from the family cat, inside the walls of a great house. If she were braver, Emmaline might actually tell her stories to another person, but, as it is, she simply tells them to herself.
Though she doesn't usually, there are certain, very specific conditions under which Emmaline will get upset, and balk at a request. She can't quite bring herself to say no, but she will express her displeasure. These conditions typically involve exposure to one of her sensory sensitivities--wearing wool, being made to wash dishes, being given porridge with lumps in it, or meat that is mostly gristle, or being made to wear shoes. Usually, when faced with these situations, Emmaline just cries for a bit and then acquiesces, but if she's faced several in a row, she will have a meltdown.
To an outside observer, however, these episodes look like an overgrown child throwing a fit, for Emmaline will not only cry, but also kick, flail about, throw things, and, on occasion, bite people, if they try to touch or restrain her while she's in this state. After she is calm again, she is immediately contrite, and will often retreat into herself and not speak or interact much for several hours following an episode. The most one might get from her then are a few monosyllabic answers. She is typically herself again in a day or two.
Background
History
<b>TW child physical abuse, ableism, death</b>Emmaline Crane anrrived in the world small and pale, with a squeaking, mewling cry that quickly faded. She was slow to roll over, then slow to sit up, then slow to crawl. Each thing babies did, Emmy did late—sometimes by weeks, but more often by months—or not at all.
By one year old she barely spoke, hardly walked, and would growl and cry if her mother or father got too close. By three she was no better. She rocked, chewed on her hands, and stared at the floor or the ceiling or the wall for hours. She spoke only one or two words. Most of those were repetitions of things someone said to her, spoken with no inflection or else identical to the tone she’d heard the words in originally. When she did say something original, which wasn’t often, she spoke in a sing song way, or shrieked, or ran her words together in a garbled mess nobody could understand.
She wasn't just peculiar in her behavior and speech. She had other oddities as well. She couldn’t see like the other children could. She missed all the details that made up faces and expressions and body language. She squinted in the bright sunshine but stared at candles. Though nobody bothered trying to teach her to read, if they had, they'd have discovered that she could not see normal print, but she could make out newspaper headlines alright.
Her ears did not work right either. She seemed not to hear when spoken to, but before what was said could be repeated, she’d responded. She could not understand anything in a crowd. Noises hurt her ears, or frightened her. Often, she mixed up sounds or heard entire words wrong, and then the mispronunciation got repeated when she tried to parrot others' speech.
She did not seem to notice or care if it was hot or cold outside, and would dart about bare headed and barefoot in winter or stand so close to the fire that sweat dripped from her. In summer, if the mood took her, she would go out of doors wrapped head to foot in a heavy cloak, and when her mother or father tried to take it off, she would throw herself to the ground, kicking and screaming.
She insisted on wearing the same few dresses again and again, no matter how threadbare and tattered they were. She would squirm away from hairbrushes, stockings and wool garments, or anything with high collars, seams, or a snug fit. New clothes were ripped off and thrown to the floor, and old ones rescued from the rag bin.
She was equally particular about her food. If its texture was not either puréed like custard or mousse, or as tough as tanned leather, she struggled to eat it. She was equally contrary about taste, and insisted on food being spicy or salty or sweet, and would turn her nose up at the bland, simple fare she was offered.
Neither her mother nor father countenanced such behaviors. Even when Emmy was an infant, her mother would punish her for squirming or fussing with pinches and swats. Crawling towards danger--the hearth fire, the open door--or throwing a fit earned her an open handed spanking. As she grew, her mother would punish her with the flat of the hairbrush, while her father favored the belt in dealing with his daughter's numerous transgressions.
The discipline at first merely made the child more skittish, more prone to tears, and more frightened, but at last, slowly, she began to learn. By the time she was eight, Emmy was a model child. She would eat what she was given, wear what she was given, and do as she was told, without a murmur of complaint or hesitation. She was a perfect doll--except she couldn’t be left alone. She would sit, wherever she was told to, for hours, forgetting to eat or drink or use the toilet. She would stare into space, or rock, or hum. She didn’t seem to hear when she was spoken to, unless the speaker said her name a few times.
Her mother eventually managed to teach her a few simple chores—sweeping and mopping—but even this required supervision, or else she would stop in the middle of a task, lured away by some pretty flower or an animal she’d seen outside. Punishment only made her cry and hide when her mother tried to have her help, and after a while, her mother gave up.
When Emmy was ten, she received Tilly as a birthday present. Tilly was a rag doll, with dark brown yarn hair and black button eyes. She wore a green and white plaid dress and a white apron. Emmy clung to the doll, and soon began to ask that the doll be included in all her activities.
Usually, the answer was yes, particularly once her mother and father realized they could exploit the girl's love of her doll to ensure her continued good behavior. And so, Yes, Tilly could sit at the table too—as long as she cleaned her plate. Yes, Tilly could go to Mass—as long as she sat still like a good girl, so she didn't get Emmy into trouble. Yes, Tilly could come to market—as long as she was a good girl and didn’t wander off or touch the goods on sale. Yes, Tilly could sleep in Emmy’s bed—but she had to <I>stay</I> in bed and not make Emmy get up to get her a drink, or keep her awake by playing.
Sometimes Tilly was bad like Emmy was, and so Emmy shook her and shouted and spanked, just as her parents did. Afterward, Emmy would hug her and rock her and say, <b> “Love you,”</b> like her mother had when Emmy was little, and her mother had thought she could learn to be good. Tilly was better at being good than Emmy was, and soon Emmy just had to say, <b> “No, Tilly bad girl,”</b> and Tilly would be good again. Emmy often wished it was that easy for her.
Shortly after Emmy’s sixteenth birthday, her mother and father loaded her and Tilly and everything else Emmy owned into the back of a cart and headed into town. Perched at the top of the wagon, Emmy noticed the changes in the countryside and grinned. Perhaps they were going somewhere grand and exciting!
She squealed and flapped her hands, til Da reached over and smacked her leg. <I> “Stop that.”</i> he said, and his voice had hurt Emmy’s ears more than his hand had hurt her leg. After, she sat quietly, hands in her lap, and watched as the land rolled by beside her.
To her great surprise, they eventually arrived, not in the nearby town, but to London itself. The city was enormous, so full of noise and glamour that Emmy would kick and thrash and cry each time her parents forced her from the tiny one room flat. At last, though, she grew to tolerate the sensory onslaught--by shutting it out and fleeing into her daydreams--and so her parents assumed she had adjusted.
Four years after they had arrived, her parents passed away in one of the many outbreaks of disease that swept through the city. The landlady, taking pity on the now destitute girl, allowed her to let the same little attic room. From her, too, Emmy found her job as a flower seller, and in this way, she managed to eke out a living.
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