Little Black Book Challenge

It was a day like any other that would turn out to be the pivotal moment when my life would change forever.

The greyness of the morning, everything overshadowed with rain clouds, had set the ball rolling for what I thought would be another miserable twenty-four hours without end.

Homeless, freezing, and with nowhere else to go I set myself in my usual spot: the doorway of one of the many abandoned shops in town. Like me, they were forgotten, left to waste away from the inside out. My stomach growled and I tried desperately to ignore the half-eaten sandwich that was wrapped up in my pocket. I was hungry but not yet ravenous. But it was calling me.

Instead of answering the call, I pulled my woolly hat from my greasy head, and with cold numb fingers arranged it on the pavement in front of me.

My mouth was dry as sandpaper, my throat raw, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a sip of something that wasn't rainwater. Tilting my head back I allowed a few drops to land on my tongue, holding there until my throat was less painful.

Then I began to sing.

The people around me seemed not to notice. They hurried about their business, eager to get to work, holding umbrellas or hoods steady against the window. A newspaper shielded the head of an unfortunate who hadn't had the foresight to bring either.

How I would have loved to have been one of those people; to have someplace to be that wasn't here, to have a job to be late for, hurrying in the rain as if it were the worst part of my day.

But I knew better. The worst part of my day would be picking up my meagre belongings; an old tattered sleeping bag and my hat, and heading home to the nook under the bridge that offered little respite from the winter elements. While they settled in at home, had dinner with their families and nestled into their warm beds, I would spend another night out in the cold, alone.

I had been singing on and off with the ebb and flow of people for almost an hour when a man chanced upon me. He wore a hood over his head and a scarf around the lower half of his face, making it impossible for me to see anything but his blue eyes, gazing out at me from beneath a black umbrella as he reached into his coat pocket.

I avoided staring directly at him. Those who were generous enough to approach were often scared off whenever I looked at them directly so instead I squinted my eyes against the rain and continued to sing.

"You have a beautiful voice." He offered even as he crouched to place something within my old, tattered hat.

"Thank you," I responded but he was already gone, hurrying away from the street, obviously eager to be somewhere.

My eyes almost bulged with astonishment when I leaned forward and rummaged into the folds of the hat to find a note lodged safely inside. It was not a five or even a ten but a twenty! To many, it would have been nothing but to me it was everything.

In fact, it was more than I could get in a week, most times. That kind of money could get me a hot meal and a new scarf, maybe even a pair of gloves that weren't filled with holes.

I took the note from my hat and stored it in the safest place I could think of: my bra.

Feeling as though my luck might be beginning to change, I continued to sing, more upbeat than before.

Half the day passed before I decided that the cold had become too bitter to hold out any longer. Since the kind stranger's charity, I'd only received a few copper coins, discarded absentmindedly from pockets, most of them not even making it into my proffered hat. Those were the ones I was picking up, struggling to get my nails under to get them off the rain-slick pavement, when I noticed something peeking out from a discarded leaflet.

I might not have given it any notice if not for the way the rain, that had turned into more of a downpour, was bouncing off of its waxy surface.

I shoved the coins into my pocket, the only one in my coat that was still intact, and then crouched to retrieve the intriguing item from the floor.

It was a book. Not a fiction book or any kind of book to be read for study but a little black book with the initials A.C emblazoned in fine gold on the front cover. And it was no bigger than my hand.

I turned it over but there was nothing on the back, no marks or symbols that could give me any clue as to what lay inside. It could have been anything; an address book or even some kind of notepad.

Still intrigued, I turned to the first page and read the words, 'If lost, please return to Alice Cooper at 345 Church Street'. The writing was smudged but not all that difficult to read.

Another flick to the next page told me exactly what the book contained. The heading read: 'Dear Diary'.

Instantly, I slammed the book shut. I couldn't read somebody else's diary. It was too personal. After my mum had died when I was only twelve years old my therapist had encouraged me to keep one for myself. I'd done so and the trauma whenever I caught someone anywhere near it had been horrendous. To have another living being know my innermost thoughts was unbearable.

That had been four years ago. Before my stepfather had turned to the bottle and the abuse had started. Before I'd been forced to run away and beg for what little I could on the streets.

But that journal had been small, glittery and unfinished, insignificant when I really thought about it. I hadn't even bothered to bring it along with me. Whether my stepfather had read about all the nasty things I thought about him, I didn't care. But this person, this Alice Cooper, had cared enough to write her address on the very first page.

There was only one thing to do. Return it.

Church street was only a five-minute walk from my usual spot and I passed it on my way home to my bridge anyway. What harm could it do? I was already soaked through and freezing. Maybe its owner would be kind enough to offer me a hot drink in gratitude for returning their journal.

It didn't take me long to find the place which turned out to be a small boutique shop just down from the church for which the street had most likely gotten its name.

It was quiet. In fact, there was only a single patron inside who hurriedly paid for their knick-knacks and got the hell out of there as soon as they saw me approaching the counter. I paid it little mind. I'd grown used to people avoiding me.

But the man behind the counter simply smiled and asked, "May I help you miss?"

"Is...is there an Alice Cooper here?" I asked, feeling slightly silly.

The man's eyes darkened and I was almost sure that I saw his chin wobble. There was something so familiar about his eyes.

"I haven't heard that name in many years. I'm afraid she isn't here. May I ask what this is about?"

"I...umm...I found this." I said digging in my pocket for the journal I'd placed there in the hopes of stopping any further damage from the rain. "I was hoping to get it back to her."

"Oh my!" The man, who must have been in his late fifties, gasped and presently took the book from my outstretched hand, "You are an angel! I thought for sure I would never see it again."

"Do you think you could get it back to her? To Alice, I mean."

The man sighed, a deep sigh filled with something I knew well: grief.

"I'm afraid she passed away some years ago. Other than the shop, this is all I have left of her." The man explained, indicating the book, "When I lost it this morning I didn't think I'd ever see it again. I thought it would end up swept away into the rubbish or something."

"Well, I think maybe luck has been on both of our sides today." I couldn't help but smile but my heart was breaking for the poor man who was obviously close to tears.

"I do believe you might be right." He nodded.

"Well, I should probably be going." I smiled back at him, unsure as to whether I may have outstayed my welcome. He was clutching the book close to his chest and I was beginning to get the impression he wished to be left alone with his grief.

"No, oh, no, do stay!" He protested as I turned away from the counter, "Let me pay you for your kindness!"

"Oh, no, you've given me more than enough," I protested. I remembered now why I had recognised his eyes. He had been the blue-eyed gentleman who complimented my voice and left me the note.

"I insist."

I was about to protest again but he disappeared into the storeroom behind him and returned with a leather wallet in hand.

"That journal is priceless," he said as he opened the wallet and pulled out the few notes inside, "But I suppose this shall have to do."

"No. I couldn't."

"Please take it."

I shook my head firmly, half worried that I might offend him.

"Then perhaps I could offer you something else?" He suggested. Perhaps I would get that hot drink after all.

But when he spoke again it wasn't to offer a drink. Instead, it was to offer something so much more.

"I've been looking for someone to help me about the place," he gestured at the shop all around us but I couldn't quite understand his meaning. Perhaps I did but it was too astonishing for my mind to comprehend. "I'm getting on in my years you see and without my Alice, this place lacks a woman's touch. Maybe you'd be willing to help me? For a fair wage, of course."

I distantly remembered something my mother had once said about, 'give a man a fish and he shall eat for a day but teach a man to fish and he shall eat for the rest of his life'.

"Are...are you offering me a job?" I gasped, utterly amazed.

"I suppose I am." He smirked back at me. "But I do have one condition."

"Name it," I said the words before I even realised they were on my tongue.

"You'll have to sweep and mop. I always hated it and Alice always said I did a poor job. Always missed a spot." He chuckled and I couldn't help but join in.

"Are you sure? I'm not exactly what you'd call...presentable." I looked down at my tattered clothes, still soaked from being out in the rain and the way my brown hair hung in lank, greasy strands, too long to tame.

"First month's wages upfront so you can get yourself sorted," he insisted as though the deal was done.

I wanted to ask him whether he was absolutely sure but I couldn't stand the thought of him suddenly resending such an amazing offer. I'd never had a job before, save for my singing, but I'd swept and mopped the floors every Sunday, at least before my mum had passed away.

"I won't let you down!" I promised him excitedly.

When he offered me his hand you could have bowled me over with a feather. People barely even looked me in the eye or got within sniffing distance.

I hurried to remove my holey glove and shook his hand as firmly as I could.

"I'll be glad to have you, Miss…."

"Amber, my name is Amber."

"Jack," he offered up, "Welcome to the team Amber!"

That one small act of kindness in which I had half hoped to receive a hot drink for my trouble had turned out to be the moment that turned my life around.

That first month's wage paid for a room in the local hostel where I had access to a hot shower and a bed and I used the rest sparingly to keep my hunger at bay.

Though I did many tasks at the boutique; restocking the shelves, organising the storeroom, even working the till; my favourite task of all was sweeping and mopping the floor. It always reminded me of the day Jack Cooper gave me a second chance.