Chapter 114 – School Opening (4)

"Hey, Sid. What do you want to do in the future?"

Sydney Chaplin wasn't sure how to answer that question.

He knew why his roommate, Cyril Wilde, was asking—it was an assignment from their homeroom class on the first day of school.

– Hello, everyone! I'm Candice from the Nightingale Nursing School.

– For our first day, let's all talk about our dreams!

– Think about it until this time tomorrow, and then we'll each present one!

Apparently, it was some sort of directive from above… but for Sydney, it was nothing but a burden.

So instead, he turned the question back on Cyril.

"Then what about you, Cyril? What are you planning to do?"

"Who knows? If all else fails, maybe I'll just join the army."

"Hey, come on."

Sydney, exasperated, threw the book he had been reading at Cyril's bed. Catching it with a laugh, Cyril shook his head.

"I mean, you've seen my father."

"Well… yeah, I have."

Cyril Wilde's father was none other than the Oscar Wilde.

Sydney Chaplin, along with his younger brother Charlie, had once been indebted to him. But as far as famous playwrights went… well, he had been far from glamorous.

– Stand up straight, Oscar. Why is this manuscript so short?

– Well, we had a time and budget constraint with Salomé this time, so – Aaah!!

– You writers always have so much to say! Got it? This here's your debt contract! A slacker like you will never pay it off!

– P-please, have mercy! I'm working on three plays at once! At this rate, I'll die!

– Die? Hah! Back in my day, if you didn't write at least 5,000 words a day, you wouldn't survive! This is nothing to complain about!

– W-what kind of nonsense is that?!

… Or maybe it was simply a matter of being outclassed by his opponent.

That said, given how entertaining his plays turned out to be, his talent probably was as remarkable as his reputation suggested.

"Anyway," Cyril nodded, "Vyvyan and I didn't exactly grow up unloved, but our father was a wastrel who squandered his talent."

"Uh… yeah."

Is this what a normal father-son relationship looks like? Sydney had no idea how to respond to how casually Cyril criticized his father.

Then again, considering his own family situation, he wasn't exactly in a position to judge.

As Sydney remained silent, Cyril spoke again, this time in a more subdued tone.

"And, well, there's nothing to say I won't end up like him."

"Which is why you're considering the army?"

"Yeah. At least as an officer, I wouldn't starve."

"Hmm…"

Wait, so he actually had put some real thought into this?

Sydney felt strangely betrayed. He had thought of Cyril as a kindred spirit. What a bastard.

"What about you? Still haven't figured out what you want to do?"

"Honestly? No."

Lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, Sydney mumbled his answer without much enthusiasm.

Seeing his friend like that, Cyril scratched his head nonchalantly and suggested, "Well, if you're still stuck, why don't you just join me in the army? At least we'd get fed."

"Yeah, right. You realize I don't have the money to get into an academy like you, right?"

"My father doesn't exactly have money… but if I ask, he might get you in too."

Maybe. But Sydney had no interest in that path. More than anything, he simply couldn't see how it had anything to do with his dream.

A dream, huh…

The very idea of worrying about something like that felt absurdly luxurious.

From childhood, Sydney Chaplin had never been in an environment where such things were permitted.

Now, he had a ceiling over his head, a bed, a pillow, blankets, and—most importantly—even his own room (though he had a roommate). But even having those things felt unfamiliar.

His father had abandoned him. His mother had lost her mind.

To feed his younger brother, he had done whatever it took, eventually landing in an orphanage, and then, somehow, a job at a theater.

A dream?

Maybe for Charlie.

Charlie genuinely loved acting. Even Hanslow Jin and Oscar Wilde had called him a genius.

But Sydney's own acting? It didn't even come close. And that made him wonder if he really needed to keep pursuing it at all.

Still… as long as he didn't end up like his mother, who threw her life away on the wrong man, or his father, who was a complete waste of a human being…

But… honestly.

Just as an uncomfortable doubt began creeping into his chest, he hugged his pillow and pushed the thoughts away.

"Sydney? Sydney Chaplin?"

"Ah, yes?"

When he opened the door, he found a nurse from the Nightingale Nursing School standing in the hallway.

"Are you available right now?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. The head nurse has requested to see you. Please report to the faculty office."

"Understood."

Nodding, Sydney watched as the nurse moved on to check other students' rooms. Then he headed off in the opposite direction.

What could this be about?

That thought occupied his mind as he walked across the yard—until he heard a commotion near the entrance.

"Ugh… J-just one more drink…!"

"He's in bad shape."

"Shall we sedate him before transport, doctor?"

"Yes, do that."

Another drunkard?

Sydney Chaplin sighed.

With some of the school buildings still vacant, and with nurses from the Nightingale School now around, the locals from Whitechapel—unable to shake their old habits—sometimes wandered in, drunk, looking for a place to rest.

Rather than letting them roam around, they were… well, sedated and given a place to sleep it off.

The dormitories were far enough away that students weren't directly affected, but it was still within school grounds, so they weren't exactly out of sight either.

Not that it's anything new. If you lived here long enough, you got used to drunks, prostitutes, and criminals.

But then, Sydney realized something that made him pause.

He had just described those things in the past tense.

At some point…

Come to think of it, they had been appearing less and less.

Even outside the school, things are looking cleaner.

No more puddles of vomit. No more rotting food scraps. No more swarms of rats and stray cats fighting over them.

Sydney Chaplin found himself shocked at how much those things had started feeling like relics of the past.

But he had no time to dwell on it.

Before he knew it, he had arrived at the faculty office.

"Head Nurse, this is Sydney Chaplin."

"Come in."

When he opened the door, he realized that the head nurse wasn't the only one waiting for him.

Constance Wilde, the vice principal—and Cyril Wilde's mother—was also there.

"Hello, Sydney."

"A-ah, hello."

Having been indebted to Oscar Wilde before, Sydney was already familiar with Constance.

As she gestured for him to take a seat, she spoke.

"Sydney, I heard that your mother has been admitted to a mental hospital."

"... Yes."

"We're planning to transfer her to the Nightingale Nursing School for care. What do you think?"

"What?"

Sydney's eyes widened. Suddenly?

However, the head nurse shook her head and said,

"It's not sudden, Mr. Sydney Chaplin."

"Th-then why?"

"It is a special directive from the writer Hanslow Jin. A request to provide special care at the nursing school for particularly critical parents."

"... What!?"

"You don't need to worry about the hospitalization fees. The foundation has agreed to cover them."

The words "Why?" escaped naturally.

Why were so many good things happening all at once? As Sydney sat there in confusion, Constance Wilde, the deputy headmistress, spoke calmly.

"So, you can let go of all your other worries now."

"... What do you mean?"

"It means... you don't have to pretend to be so grown-up all the time."

Constance Wilde gently stroked Sydney Chaplin's head.

And at that moment, Sydney suddenly realized—tears were streaming down his face.

Come to think of it, this was the first time.

The first time someone had stroked his head.

The first time tears had fallen from his eyes like rain.

'Then…!'

And – 

'Then, I can finally—!'

Be honest about his dreams.

***

There is a saying: 修身齊家治國平天下. (T/N: xiūshēn qíjiā zhìguó píng tiānxià, meaning "Cultivate the self, regulate the family, govern the state, bring peace to the world.")

It means that before you take on great tasks, you must first put your own house in order.

Even the famous Jean-Jacques Rousseau abandoned his own children in an orphanage while preaching philosophy, only to be fiercely criticized by Voltaire.

So, whether it's entertaining Tolstoy, successfully regulating lead, founding a school, or collaborating with Nightingale or Chamberlain… to do any of these things properly, you first need to take care of your own affairs.

And I failed to do that.

"Hmph. I hate Hanslow."

"L-Lady!?"

"I don't know anyone named Hanslow."

"N-No, please!!"

"I like Daddy more than Hanslow."

"Khhh!!"

Agatha Mary Clarissa Miller.

Six years old this year.

With Monty and Madge off at school for the new term, she was the last bright spark left in the Ashfield household—a refreshing presence and the only remaining vitamin in the Miller family.

And now, she stood with her arms crossed, completely ignoring me.

It felt as if the sky was collapsing.

"N-No! I did this all for you, my lady!!"

"Hmph. Don't care. I hate you."

"Kuhahaak!!"

Coughing up metaphorical blood, I had no choice but to criticize myself.

Stand tall, past Hanslow Jin, you fool! Why didn't you spend more time playing with Lady Mary!?

Sure, I could make excuses. I did try my best for her!

But the truth was, after Madge encouraged me to take a trip and I enjoyed a break in France, I hadn't really rested much. And I hadn't played with Mary nearly enough.

I thought I had earned some points by bringing her books by Edith Nesbit or George MacDonald, or taking her to plays at the Savoy Theatre…

But apparently, nothing could replace actually playing together. Damn. What a grave miscalculation…!

"Tsk. You should have come down more often."

"Mr. Miller…! Wait, but you often came up to London too!"

He was the one who introduced me to Nightingale, for goodness' sake!

But Mr. Miller, still smug, casually picked up Mary and flashed a triumphant grin.

"Heh heh. True. But didn't you just say you 'went up' to London? Which means I was mostly here in Torquay, unlike you!"

"Damn it!"

How did I let that slip past me? The injustice of it all!

As Mr. Miller and I continued our comedic routine over Mary, Mrs. Clara Miller walked over, gently taking Mary from her husband's arms.

"Alright, enough childish antics."

"Enough~"

"... Yes, ma'am."

"Ahem. I was already going to stop, dear."

Oh, this man.

Thankfully, Clara Miller, the embodiment of justice, poked Mr. Miller lightly in the side, making him melt into an expression that was somewhere between pain and utter bliss. These lovebirds, honestly…

"Anyway, Hanslow? If you regret not playing with Mary, why don't you take her out for a proper day of fun while you're here?"

"I was just about to suggest that, Hanslow."

"Going out isn't the issue…"

Ignoring the love-struck old man, I scratched my head and spoke to Clara.

"The problem is that we've already been just about everywhere—up the hills, down to the seaside, around town…"

Taking her to London would be a bit much, too.

Hmm, but wait. London isn't the only city in England, is it? Maybe Edinburgh, Manchester, or Birmingham would be an option…

"How about this? I heard the ladies in Exeter talking about it quite a bit."

What's this now? I took the flyer she handed me with a rather indifferent attitude.

Honestly, what kind of attractions would there even be for children in this era? The only thing that came to mind was the circus. It's not like amusement parks exist or anything…

"NEW THEME PARK OPENING! Come visit Blackpool Pleasure Beach!!"

"... Wait, what?"

An amusement park.