England, 1910

(A small village amidst the mountains on a warm summer’s eve. We see the narrator, a young woman, roughly the age of seventeen, laying in an empty farm-field under an oak-tree, shut-eyed. The story she is portraying comes in the form of a dream sequence, spoken to her illegitimate lover, voicing her opinion upon the nation’s laws regarding the relationship of working-classes. We see that this woman is an upper-class citizen, though unlike many of her fellow peers – she has much respect for those less-fortunate than herself. This is shown throughout, as we see, through her eyes, her thoughts regarding the inability to show her true feelings to the man that she truly loves.)

I drift again and dream of you on the mountaintop, the wind beneath your wings. You turn to me and smile; your glistening teeth pearled; complimenting the surrounding view purposefully; beautifully. You reach out your hand. Towards me. I gaze at you, for some time, my smoky eyes locking in yours. I see your empathy, your love; compassion. I reach forward, and grasp your outstretched arm, ensuring that I keep my balance, and do not topple over, causing you to injure. Or worse.
Your hand is warm – the hand of a baker’s son; working in the ovens all morning.
Yet you are not a baker’s son. You are but a peasant. And you and I should not be seen together. We are not regarded as equals. Not in this age; this era.
But you and I, we do not mind. “As long as we’re together” you say, “Life will be worth living”.
And I endow this. From the moment I first met you, I have never felt happier.
Before you arrived, I was alone. Isolated. My life felt worthless.

You confided in me; you trusted me – you still do. And I felt, at last, that I had someone with whom I could share my burden, enlighten of my sorrow. Some almost-stranger of who would listen, and sympathise and advise.

You care for me more than others do. Family has never been a cause of pleasure for me, though it has always been for you.
You have cared for your family your whole life – you’ve fed, and you’ve earned – not much, but a little – and protected…
Your three brothers and sister, all of a lesser age, depend upon you. Solely you.
Your single mother struggling to earn enough, scraping together every shilling she can gather.

In desperate need of assistance.
But all too afraid.

5 shillings a week. For 50 hours of work. As a chain maker in Cradley Heath.
And you, in the ironworks for hours on end. The dirt and the grime, the constant blackness…






Yet, I have never once heard you complain. Throughout the several years we have been in acquaintance, not once have you bore grudge, though I know that many in your position would do this without a second glance.
I, on the other hand, cannot pass a day without some form of criticism, or whine. And you have never once told me to stop, or refused to listen. Not once have you emphasised that it should be you in my shoes – with the grudge. As it is your life that is full of poorness, and hunger, and loss. That it is you that should complain, as you and your family are treated as vermin by the upper-class. By people like me. That your father died when you were eleven years old, in a coal-mining incident. And nothing was done about it. No awards. No compensation. Not even a commiserative glance. Only a life no longer filled with economical closure.
Not that you were ever rich…

Unlike me…

My life has always been filled by money and richness; my father drowning me in expensive gifts and clothing, yet he has never shown such love as I feel between your family and you.
You are my family. My father showers me with immaculate objects; objects that neither you nor your family would ever be expected to encounter in your lives. Yet, he does not treat me as a daughter. Not as your mother treats you.

I am constantly expected to be ‘lady-like’, to follow rules and to be at my parents’ disposal at all times. I have no privacy; no time to myself – my life is clustered by evening balls and dinners and formal gatherings; being introduced to many a person to whom I may be betrothed in the near-future.
Though, this angers me deeply, as I understand my future. The future that I want; that I need.


You and I, as you promised many weeks ago, you and I will be together. We will marry, and raise children and start a home. Together.
When nobody will mind that you are working-class, and wear reach-me-downs, and I’m daughter of a knut; raised to be the perfect wife to a highly-educated wrangler.
In a time and a place where all that will matter is that we are truly in love; where people can understand that being together is the only thing that the both of us can ever dream of.

I hope that, some day, our dream may come true.

But, for now, I must follow my father’s wishes, as much as I understand that I will never be the daughter that he hoped for; the daughter that would make him proud, and marry into a good family.
Just as my mother.

It is clear to see that he knows I have no interest in the potential ‘lovers’ he introduces almost every week-end, during the balls and the dinners and the continuous formal events, though his constant hassling drives me insane.
“I have brought this young gentleman to your acquaintance, my dear. I think that you will both have much to share together.”
And then, he leaves, to ‘discuss arrangements’ with Lord Byron or Lord Chamberlain or another man of power and brilliance in his, and in many others’, eyes.
And I am left alone; defenceless; horrified by the array of ‘gentlemen’, much like my father, who care for nothing but a hearty meal; and that prepared by their ‘‘caring’’ and ‘‘loyal’’ wife.
And that wife, potentially, being me.

My father does not see people like you as equals within our community. He sees the working class as sewer rats, useless, not worth tuppence. But I do not agree.
I feel all should be equal; after all, the only difference between you and me is our economical standards. We should not be treated differently. Not as we are being treated here.
I do not enjoy having to lie to everyone every time I seek to meet with you – my family, my friends… I deem it inappropriate, unnecessary… That you and I should be able to meet, when-ever; where- ever, without causing any form of hassle, to anyone. That you and I should openly parade the streets, our hands bound together, confessing our love to one another, without my father’s stares. Or any stares for that matter.
I feel that we should be accepted. Together. No matter our class; our working order… the fact that you and I should never be together.
But that, somehow, it’s a necessity.

My father deems your mother as useless in this day and age; he sees her as unable, an old, frail woman. He does not understand…
“She’s a chit” he mutters, “No use to anyone.”
And my heart aches that I cannot scream out, and tell him that he is wrong. That your mother is the most wonderful woman that I have ever met. That she is kind, and loyal, and caring, better than my mother has ever been to me…

But I cannot. As much as I wish that I could.

And wishing seems to be all that I can do at this moment…

I know that you feel as me regarding this; regarding us, and I understand that you also hope that, one day, we will be able to live the life that we have always dreamed. The both of us – together…
But I understand that you, as I, must carry on, and attempt also to adjust to the life that’s been set out for you.

We are as Romeo and Juliet, you and I, but I know for certain that our fate will not turn to theirs; that our ending will be a fairy-tale…
That you will arrive one day, and sweep me off my feet. Once again.
Once again, in a time where you will be well able to declare your love, to have my hand in marriage, to be a part of my life forever. In a time where we will be considered as equal people; as equal in life, and in love, and in all other aspects. Equal, and able to be together… the life of a fairytale, a princess. And you, my handsome prince; my knight in shining armour; my saviour.

I know that, one day, our dream will come true…

(The scene ends as we see the young woman awaken from her sleep, recovering from her dream-like state that was seen only moments earlier. She sighs, eases herself from the flocculent ground, and brushes the stray strands of grass from her long, flowing dress. We see her stride purposely to the farthest side of the field, before reaching a style. She raises her skirt, and, as unladylike as she can possibly manage, climbs over, ensuring that she does not stumble in her inappropriate footwear. She proceeds to walk along a narrow pathway, until she reaches a small cottage, surrounded on all sides by a forestry of evergreen trees. There is a man standing outside the house, leaning against the wall, as if waiting. We see the woman slowly approach him, with caution, and turn to either side, as if to ensure that nobody is watching. She then holds out her pale hand, to caress the slender cheek of the unknown creature standing before her. There is a momentary pause, before the man tilts his head, ever so slightly, pressing his tender-looking lips upon hers. Her lips form a smile as she pulls away, arranging her arms into an enclosure around his waist; coiling arms wrapping their way around him.

We sense that this could be the man portrayed within the young woman’s dream; her true love.

Suddenly, we hear a voice; a woman’s; calling to the man. He turns towards the open door of the house, and calls back, telling the woman - supposedly his mother – that the young woman is here. The mother leaves the house, and walks slowly towards the source of her son’s booming voice, slowly as she is an elderly woman; widowed and over-worked. As she reaches the couple, she wraps her corrugated arm around them both, basking them in love and affection. The young woman gives a smile of gratitude, before bidding farewell, and walking back in the direction that she came. She walks monotonously across the field, passing the oak tree, to a large house lying but a few metres behind…)

Our dream will come true, my love, I promise you. For every day I cannot be with you; be a part of you, I feel a day closer to our life together…
We are made for each other, you and I, it is clear to see. And I will not rest until we are able to be together. Until we are able to show the world our true affections, with no more suitors, no expectations. No more worries of our love being prevented, by anyone and everyone…

I know, one day, our dream will come true…

(The door of the house comes into sight, as she walks closer towards the mountainous object placed on her path. We see her jolt open the door, and peer inside for a moment. It is seemingly empty. She turns back towards the door, almost simultaneously directing her eyes into the distance outside. She sighs…
She clings to the door, and finally, though as if a strenuous task, pulls it inwards; towards her, securing that it fastens tightly shut behind…)


(P.O.V. of lover)

My darling, I love you with my whole heart; deeply, passionately. I promise that, one day, we can announce our love to the world – to our friends, our families… Your father…
In an age where no-one can denounce us. Where no-one can question our motives; our feelings…
For each other…

I promise to return for you. To return to our life together.
I promise that we’ll keep to all of the promises that I made to you, all those years ago…
When we were young and life was simple…

I hope that, one day, the world can accept us; accept our love. I hope that we can be together – to marry, to raise a family…
To love one another as no other being has loved before…

We will live our lives as you dreamt; together, regardless of our differences…
The white wicker cottage in the orchard, of which you constantly envisage, with the front lawn and porch, and white roses placed neatly in flowerpots.

I’ll build you that wicker cottage, dear, in the countryside. Where the mountains reach the emerald sky, and the trees expand far beyond life itself. We’ll live there, together, in the summer; in the winter…
I’ll paint the doors a pristine white, and shutter the windows, so that we can share moments of privacy, away from the world, and its burdens…
Away from those who see themselves as inferior…

We will have no part in their problems or businesses – the world will be ours and ours only…

We’ll sit on the porch, on wooden chairs; or blankets when it’s warm, in the months of July…
We’ll sit on the porch and listen to the birds, repeating their heartfelt song in the wind …
We’ll sit, and watch the moon appear, and leave its mark on our hearts…
On our lives…
On our forever…


I promised you that we’d marry, one day.
One day, when all is well in the world.
One day, when class-order means nothing.
One day.
Someday.
I promise you.

But, for now, I must leave…
I must leave, and earn a living for myself…

As much as it pains me to leave, I know that I must…
That it’s a necessity…

(The scene ends as the young man rises from the bench, and positions himself in a motionless stance; his arms placed stiffly either side of his delicate yet muscular body. He peers towards the gravelled pathway, where the woman was seen only moments earlier, and sighs. A deep, meaningful sigh, portraying his longing; his frustration. The scene closes with the man walking purposefully away.)