wednesday word tangle: Love lies Bleeding

‘Are you the medick?’

‘Well, I’m a doctor, if that’s what you mean.’

‘I rang the surgery twenty minutes ago. Didn’t they tell you, my love lies bleeding?’

‘I came as fast as I could. The traffic’s a nightmare. A lorry shed its load of farm birds- spurge, all over the road. No chance I could speedwell with fat hens and goosefoot everywhere. Puddles of… well, more than one chickweed today, I can tell you. Maybe the crash made them nervous…’

‘Doctor, please, her bleeding heart…’

‘Yes, of course. Lead the way. What’s the patient’s name?’

‘Cicely. Sweet Cicely, I call her. And my name’s William- Sweet William, see? We make a good pair. Just mind that floorboard…’

‘Good, god.’

‘Wormwood, I think. I need to get a man in.’

‘Bloody woodruff. I could’ve broken my ankle.’

‘Maybe I should have a bugle, or a Canterbury bell to warn people?’

‘I think a sign would be more practical. Interesting décor. Is that a Spanish dagger up on the wall?’

‘That’s right. And that’s a twayblade next to it.’

‘And a throwing Star of Bethlehem. Are they legal?’

‘Not technically, but I know a man…’

‘Right, well. Up here is it?’

‘Yes, through that door, she’s on her ladies bedstraw.’

‘I’d say a mattress was more hygienic, but each to their own. Hello, Cicely. My name’s Dr Robert, Herb Robert . You can call me Herb if you like.’

‘No, that’s not her. That’s Bearded Iris, out neighbour. She was just visiting. Nice to see you, Iris. Close the door on your way out, love.’

‘Sorrel, my mistake. Now, Cicely, if I can just examine you. I’m afraid you’ll have to remove your monkshood. Oh, and your ladies mantle.’

‘She’d rather not. She’s shy.’

‘Well, I don’t know how I can… Look, I’m sorry, but what is that smell?’

‘Oh, dear. maybe she knapweed. She’s probably dreaming of the wild leeks we had in our camping days, all those torch lit trips to the loo block…’

‘No, she’s knotweed. It doesn’t matter. But I could do with more light… Could you roll up the nightshade, let the sun in?’

‘Err, yeah. Okay.’

‘Now, let’s see. Well, she doesn’t seem to be bleeding. So what’s the problem?’

‘Well, over the last few weeks she’s had mugwort, moonwort, motherwort, navelwort, nipplewort… You name a wart, she’s had it.’

‘She’ll probably selfheal. They’re no reason for a home visit. If I could just see her face, check her eyebright , if she’s feverfew…’

‘No need for that, Dr Robert.’

‘What? What’s that you’re holding.’

‘It’s a shot gun- lock, stock, and barrel.’

‘I don’t understand…’

‘Why don’t you take a closer look. You see, my Sweet Cicely wasn’t always this way. She didn’t always hide in the dark, growing madder by the day with the pain of her condition, avoiding her Venus’ looking glass because she can’t bear to see her beauty ravaged by disease. Long ago she was struck down by an ailment, let’s say it was scabious, or bladderwort. You might have know her as Sweet Alison back then…’

‘Oh, God.’

‘Well, she went to see her GP, a young man, always in a rush, a gallant soldier, ambitious enough to climb the Jacobs ladder of medicine to his own private practice. The doctor barely examined her, sent her away, telling her to give it thyme. He didn’t even notice the ladies tresses falling out of her skullcap, the lungwort growing inside her…’

‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’

‘Stop weeping! Your angel’s tears won’t help you now.’

‘I have money…’

‘What good are pennyroyals to my girl? I’ll teasel you no longer. The arrowhead‘s beneath your pillow, Cicely. Tare him.’

‘Oh, God…’

‘Forget me not.’

---

So, today’s word is a group of words, a history, a lineage of words- common names for wild flowers.

I’ve always loved them. Some names come from Biblical stories or ancient myths, the words often very old- ‘wort’, for example, is not a lump on the skin at all, but is from the Old English ‘wyrt’ which meant herb or plant.

They sound weird, gross, violent or beautiful- and they’re all brilliant.

Here’s the site I found them on, if you fancy a bit of botanical archaeology of your own. British Wild Flowers

All hail Kitty for starting Word for Wednesday.

The monastery

Now, let’s get this straight from the start. Some people are described as ‘widely travelled’- I would describe myself as ‘narrowly travelled’. Very narrow. So, when I’m asked to imagine myself somewhere and to describe it, you’re not going to get warm, sandy beaches or sun-kissed, oiled-up lovelies.

You’re going to get something cooler, muddier. Earthier…

My wellies are on, my jeans tucked well into my socks until they bulge.

I scuff up the steps and our wonky garden path, leaving home behind. I pass the coal house- concrete, pitch black inside and filled with spiders’ webs. It would make a good play house, but it’s too cold, too filthy and I don’t like the dark. I pass the cabbages- yellowed and gone to seed. No-one’s touched them since my dad moved out.

I reach the top of the garden, and there it is, the drystone wall that marks the boundary between my world- Firefly paintwork, Tiswas, pork chops for tea- and Barker’s Hill. The hill is wilderness, as wild as the Serengeti as far as I’m concerned. I wedge my toe in a gap between some loose stones, not too far in because the rubber can snag on sharp edges and you get caught up. I swing my leg over the wall, imagine I’m mounting a tall, grey-backed stallion, though I don’t really know what the word ‘stallion’ means, and I don’t like horses anyway. Not if they’re anything like donkeys, because  donkeys bite your fingers when you try and feed them carrots.

I swing my other leg over the wall and drop down into a forest of nettles, waist height. This is why I’m in jeans, why they’re tucked so tightly in my socks. I’ve been over here in a skirt before when we first moved in and found that dock leaves don’t help.

I swish a boot around, trying to catch the nettles at their base, pressing them down so they lie flat. I haven’t been over the wall in a few weeks and the prickly gits are lush and green, their tresses waving in the breeze, ready to attack the unprepared. Nettles conquered, a path beaten, I move on.

There’s an arrangement of limestone boulders at the bottom of the hill, where water sometimes gathers. I found a froglet there once, green and speckly, keen to hop even though he hadn’t grown front legs yet. But it’s summer now- too late for froglets.

Further up the slope, there’s an outcrop that local kids use as a den. A natural overhang of grey rock is the roof and three large rocks have been moved under it to make low walls. Maybe it was for a shepherd, or someone watching cows- is that a cowherd? Anyway, it’s probably older than our house and the RAF base and the catering college. I found fossils in the den walls, tiny ammonites, the rubble of a broken seabed that turned to rock. Like looking back millions of years.

But I’m not going to the den today.

I walk round the base of the hill, until the hard, scrubby grass turns squishy and I know I’m almost there. This part of Barker’s is always boggy, always sags and squelches under your boots. Only once have I seen it dry and hard as the limestone, cracked like a dried up river bed. But it’s rained heavily over the last few days and the cows have been through and the mud is churned, pitted with a thousand hoof prints.

I stand on the edge of the thickest mud. It stretches for what seems like forever, to the horizon, or at least the boundary wall. If I get stuck I’m on my own- no big brother to pull me free today. But I so want to visit the Monastery, I convince myself it’s not as bad as it looks. I plunge in but try and stick to the edge, where the mud’s not as deep. Still, I have to stop every so often, shake the heaviest of clumps from my boots, stop my feet from weighing me down.

A few more steps. The light begins to dim as I cross into the shadow of the wood. Trees climb the slope, though young ones, younger than the Monastery- all the trunks are slim enough to wrap my arms round and I know trees get thick as they get older. There are a lot of them, thin grey trunks, though a smoother grey than the mottled limestone. Before I know it, I’m there.

Walls litter the bank, their rubble tumbling into the mud. Not one wall is intact, but I can still make out their lines. I try to work out where the monks slept, where they ate. That section there’s taller, though leaning at such an angle, I wonder for how long. I think of that as the bell tower, calling the monks to prayer. How often do monks pray anyway? I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s lots. I imagine their bent, cowled heads, their hands tucked in their sleeves, the scuff of sandals on limestone flags. Did they really wear sandals- even when frost had crisped the grass? Their feet must’ve gone blue-black- maybe their toes fell off. My toes are cold now in socks and wellies, and it’s summer.

The tree roots have grown round the walls, forking and bending round the blocks. I wonder how something so solid could also be so flexible. Then the sun slips behind the clouds. Leaves rustle, though there’s no wind today.

A shadow darts from one trunk to the next. I stop. Wait to see if there’s another. I feel my boots slide deeper into the mud, past the sole, the toes. It feels as if I’m not sinking, but that the mud is crawling upwards. It’s a frightening thought, and I know that the longer I stay still, the higher the mud will climb. But I can’t move because I’m waiting for another shadow. Or a lack of shadow, or the sun to come out. Waiting for something.

A crack of wings, a chitter and squawk as something black takes to the air and flaps away. I jump, jerk back but can’t move because my ankles are wedged. I flail my arms, nearly fall, then steady myself. I know it was a blackbird- my dad taught me to recognise its croak- but I imagine it a raven disturbed from feeding and if I wait for its return I might be drawn to see what it was eating and suddenly I don’t want to be here.

I try to turn, but my feet move while the boots stay welded to the mud. I try again and again, but the boots won’t come. I keep looking back to the trees, watching for the ravens and the monks. I consider deserting the wellies, leaving them stranded while I wade home in my socks. I imagine my mum’s face when I give her mud-filled socks, tell her about lost wellies. It’s not a happy thought, so I persevere, pointing my toes up so the boots can’t come off. I pull one leg out and it waves in the air as I search in vain for somewhere dry to stand.

Step by sucking step I walk free, back to the drier margins of the bog. On solid ground I move quickly away, listening for a snap of feathers, the ring of a ghostly bell.

I’m sticky-hot and tired by the time I reach the nettle patch. The sun’s back out, baking the scrubby grass, making the clover glow bright pink.

I take one last look at the wilderness before I climb our wall, knowing I can conquer it again tomorrow.

Fasten your seatbelts- it’s going to be a bumpy write

I’ve just signed up for WordPress Writing 101 and the very first challenge is a twenty minute free write, no subject, just a ramble through the inside of your own head via your fingertips.

I’ve set the timer on my phone, so here goes.

When you say the words ‘Free Write’, for some reason I think of the radio programme ‘Just a minute’. Now, for all of you under 45 and those who don’t live in the UK, ‘Just a minute’ is a panel game where the contestants have to speak on a given subject without pausing, deviating or repeating themselves for sixty seconds. This is not as easy as it sounds. Have you ever tried to riff on one subject for sixty seconds without repeating yourself? It makes you realise how limited your own vocabulary is.

During the game, other contestants can challenge the person talking and take up the baton themselves, so that they then have to continue talking for the rest of the sixty seconds. I guess it’s a parlour game but transferred to the radio.

Obviously, the best parlour game is charades. When I say best, I mean best and worst. I’ve spent many a Christmas with family, half of us half-cut, forcing ourselves away from ‘The Great Escape’ on the TV to show that we’re more educated than the stereotype couch-potatoes that we actually are, trying to come up with a mime for ‘Dumbo’ without actually being able to think of anything that rhymes and still being politicly-correct enough not to pretend to be stupid.

Half of the time you’re playing charades, you have to explain what’s going on to the older, deaf members of the family, though you’d think they’d understand it better, as you have to use a lot of sign language to compete. The other half of the time you spend trying to explain the rules- again- to young members of the family who don’t remember ‘Give us a Clue’ with Lionel Blair or don’t know how to mime a cine-camera because they’ve never seen anything take footage that doesn’t have a microchip inside it.

There are so many things that I grew up with that my son would not understand- ice on the inside of my bedroom window because we didn’t have central-heating, black and white TV, only having three channels,Sunday closing for shops, the total lack of internet, Ipods and everything else that he loves and takes as part of life, part of life that has surely always existed.

I guess it’s the same for every generation. My mum grew up without any TV at all, only radio. Mind you, she also grew up above a grocers shop, making paper bags for flour and sugar out of flat sheets of paper and having to cut the mould off the cheese before weighing it out for the customer- a different age.

Memory is a weird and diaphanous thing. Once my mum’s generation’s gone, no one left will know what it was like to live that kind of life, that hand-me-down, making do, having the same-stew-pot-on-the-stove-for-the-whole-of-the-winter kind of life.

Is that necessarily a bad thing, though? My son recently did a project at school called ‘Has there every been a better time to live?’ They looked through several centuries with their varying technologies, lifestyles and living conditions and almost unanimously voted that today is the best time to live. For all the worries and problems and there are many, who could argue with them? Certainly in the developed world, anyway, we have better nutrition, life expectancy and entertainments than in any other period in history.

Try living through the fourteenth century- nothing but war, famine, civil unrest and Black Death, for pretty much the entire one hundred years. Truly brutish and short existences. I mean, people lived the whole of their lives, pretty much slaves to some over-fed warmongering lord, toiling on the land, breaking their backs to die at thirty of malnutrition or the ‘flu.

Do you think they were resentful, do you think that they thought ‘what the hell did I do to deserve this life? Surely being a slug or a butterfly would be better? At least they don’t know that there’s a king or a lord or an earl down the road how’s living a more comfortable, better-fed, more privileged life.’

I mean, are slugs jealous of birds because they can fly? Do moths get jealous of butterflies cos they can go out in the daytime and look at the sun? I dont think so. Jealousy or envy is a purely human and rather corrosive trait.

How much better off would we all be if we didn’t have ‘Cribs’ to show us how crappy our own lives are compared to the rich, famous and smug? Wouldn’t we all be happier without TV, without the media showing us all the awful things in the world and the internet enabling us to slag the next person off just because their hairs not great or they’re carrying a few extra pounds?

But then, if there was no internet I wouldn’t be able to do this challenge and meet all the people I’ve met since I’ve been blogging and that would be a very sad thing.

Firstly, my I say that yes, I have gone through, sectioning the text (it was too much of a block and unreadable, man) and I’ve corrected the misspellings (many) and added punctuation the odd word for clarification. I’m sharing this with the world- it’s gotta be slightly legible.

Interesting how much I can write (badly) in twenty minutes. I usually write so little, drafting, redrafting, copy and pasting. If people just wanted to lap up my BRAIN VOMIT (ooh, nasty), then I could’ve written fifty novels this way by now.

Nice exercise, though.

Quote of the day

“Read, read, read. Read everything — trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You’ll absorb it.

Then write. If it’s good, you’ll find out. If it’s not, throw it out of the window.”
― William Faulkner

We’re going on a cave hunt… Writing Caves # 6. The ultimate Cave

 

Now the end is near and so I face the final cave.

Here we are, my lovelies. In Writing Caves #5 we had a wander down memory lane, a hike through cafes and beds, took a bewildering detour past my kitchen table and got lost and slightly scared in the WORST CAVE VENUES EVER.

After all that, let’s face it, we’re knackered, we’ve had enough of meandering through the dingy byways of my writing practice. What we need is a nice sit down, slippers on, feet up on a pouffe, a choccy biccy and something warm and comforting to drink. So park your bum, take a load off and listen up. Last time I promised to lead you into the world of imagination and wonder, to dream a dreamy dream of my ULTIMATE WRITING CAVE.

Now, let’s be clear. This cave has no relation to reality. It is unattainable for me. Unless I get an advance for one of my as-yet-unsold-novels of around seven figures, this ain’t never gonna happen, people. But we’re dreaming here, so let’s give it a go and take flight.

First off, let me just run through a quick list of definites my perfect Writing Cave would have.

(1) Tea and coffee making facilities. Let’s keep this real. There’s no writing without tea and if there isn’t a kettle and a mini fridge on hand, we’re not in dream territory- we’ve slipped into a nightmare.

(2) Isolation. I know, writing’s an isolating enough business as it is, but surely, to write my magnum opus or Magificient Octopus as Bladrick would have it, I need to be apart from the world, apart, above, beyond. Probably.

(3) Internet access. I write a fair bit of historical fiction: Tudor, Victorian, Ancient Roman, the Middle Ages, World War II… I’ve written short stories and novels based in all of these periods. Now until some boffin invents a time machine (come on, Stephen Hawking, what’s keeping you), I’m largely reliant on other people’s research to find out what the Tudors called their loos (privy, jakes, house of office), that Victorian milliners had sales girls called She-Barkers and that one of the main foodstuffs of the Roman Gladiator was barley porridge. Now, sometimes the best resource is still a well researched book, but for snippets of historical info (names/places/dates) when you need them in a hurry, there’s nothing like the net.*

(4) Electricity. Well how else am I gonna boil me kettle? And run the laptop, of course.

Now, that’s the basics, how about some luxuries? Comfy chairs, a heater, a few inspiring knick-knacks (Roald Dahl famously kept his own knee bone in his writing hut. I’ve still got my own knees, but I’m sure I could think of something…) How about nature? I know, I said in my last post that being outside was a pain in the backside, but I love hearing those darn bees (yes, as you’ve gathered, bees are a small time obsession of mine).

When I put all of these together, the only option, the dream Writing Cave is… ta-da-da da-da-da.

A TREEHOUSE.

Clearly we’re not talking something knocked up by your dad from a few wooden pallets he found in a skip. We’re talking luxury wood-based accommodation with all mod-cons, somewhere you could use as a granny flat if granny was driving you particularly crackers, somewhere Red Riding Hood could any second peek round the nearest tree, where wood sprites and ancient spirits lurk, where Herne the Hunter’s your neighbour and he’s having tea with Robin Hood… and that costs tens of thousands of pounds.

Ah, well. That’s what dreams are for- dreaming.

* Of course, this is when I can tear myself away from juggling cats, giggling babies, emails, this blog…

Wednesday word Tangle

I often think of resurrecting things.

I’m not talking in the Doctor Frankenstein sense. I haven’t crowbarred a laboratory into my attic space, all impressive rubbery cables, glass tubes filled with bubbling coloured liquids and fizzing electrical contacts squeezed in between the cold water tank and the papery miracle of construction that is a deserted wasps’ nest (When I say ‘deserted’ I mean ‘intentionally evicted’ because they were committing acts of atrocity on the buttocks of the men who were trying to fix the roof- apologies my stripy, winged friends).

And when I say resurrect, I’m not talking fashion. I DO NOT wish to bring back paisley flares, glittery platform heels or the kind of cheese-cloth blouse my mum used to make for me when I was a kid in the seventies.

On a side note… What a tragedy it is I can’t share with you all the yellowed photo of my brother and me on our way to a friend’s birthday party around 1974… Sir is sporting a dazzling baby pink, wing-collared shirt, brown flared slacks and a brown and pink floral tie. While Little Miss is wearing a matching pink satin ‘A’ line dress, which with her ‘Rubenesque’ figure, makes her look like Humpty Dumpty let loose in the dressing up box . To complete the ensemble, these two doyens of the fashion scene have identical flowing locks which curl up at the ends so sharply, one could use them as  ski-jumps…

Having experienced these atrocities first-hand, I cannot see them as ‘kitsch’, ‘retro’ or any other groovy descriptive. They can only bring horrific flashbacks, although nothing as bad as the ra-ra skirt, the pirate shirt or pedal-pushers all of which spelt the death of my dreams of being coolly on-trend and gorgeous.

But I digress.

What I want to resurrect are words. You know, those weird, wonderful, awkward words that are slipping out of use, kicked into touch by such newbies as respawn, permadeath and mahoosive.

So, in honour of that weirdest of all national days, that celebration of daftness, the wonder of silliness that is April Fool’s Day, I wish to nominate for resurrection…

LIGHTMINDED

Now, if you look it up today, a dictionary will tell you it means someone who doesn’t take life too seriously. But whilst researching for the Elizabethan section of my YA fantasy novel, I discovered the Tudors used it to describe someone who ‘wasn’t all there’, a bit feeble mentally. In short- and to be very un-PC- an idiot.

I imagine someone happily skipping down the street, trailing a string and bobbing along on that string, bouncing high above one shoulder, is their brain, light as a cloud, buoyant as a cork on a pond.

So, there’s my nomination- LIGHTMINDED. If you’ve got any sense, you’ve gotta love it.

Ripples

Thanks to Jane at Making it Write for nominating me for this challenge.

He’d known it would come when the atmosphere began to crackle, when the hairs on his arms, nape- even those furring the backs of his hands- bristled. The feeling built as one hot, airless day followed the next- the need growing with the heat.

The storm seemed to follow him from his cottage to the church, turning the cobbled street to a riverbed, making the slates shimmer. The water was dazzling, each drop a mirror for the lamplight. At first, he tucked his chin to his chest, wrapping the threadbare coat around him, puny defence against the onslaught.

Darts of rain stabbed his eyes, rivulets channelled to the corners of his mouth. Finally he relented. Opening his coat, spreading wide his arms, he welcomed the elements. The eager wind probed his chest, skimmed the backs of his knees, until every inch of him was wet and shivering.

He searched for his reflection but found none. Only broken, unstill water.

***

Sitting in the pew, water puddled around his boots. He enjoyed the drip and splash on the stone.

The stained glass rattled with every crash of thunder, colours trembling in slack lead. A bleached instant of lightning showed the altar, the rood screen with its hacked, faceless saints.

He was always comfortable with the dead. Nothingness was fascinating and now it softly surrounded him: in each wall niche, below slabs where the water seeped: deep in the crypt, where the coffins turned to powder. Being near a corpse made his breath run smooth, caused his fingers to uncurl from their habitual fists. The living made his teeth grind.

He knew it wasn’t normal. He’d watched the world sidelong through squint eyes and it disturbed him. Other people kissed- mouths soft and gluey moist. They laced arms and drew comfort from the sensation. He had practised smiles in his looking glass but each turned rictus- he long ago decided smiling was not a skill he owned.

Another roll of thunder. It grew soft, turning to a grumble.

The door latch squeaked open, clicked shut. For a moment he was lost, then his mind returned to him and he smelt stale incense, tasted dust on his tongue.

‘James?’ The voice sounded wary.

‘I’m here,’ he said and rose to his feet.

The Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge rules require you to post a photo each day for five consecutive days and attach a story to the photo. I have chosen to use photographs from Pixabay as I’m terrible at taking them myself! It can be fiction or non-fiction, a poem or simply a short paragraph – it’s entirely up to you.

Then each day, nominate another blogger to carry on this challenge.

Accepting the challenge is entirely up to the person nominated, it is not a command. Today, I’m inviting Divya from Another Teenager’s Time Capsule to join the challenge.

“I’m covered in bees!” ― Eddie Izzard

Thanks to Jane at Making it Write for nominating me for this challenge.

Papery temptation has been falling through my letterbox of late, flashing its bright colours at me like a roadside trollop’s knickers, luring me with its heady promise of soft, blousy afternoons.

No- it’s not a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, but literature of a muddier nature. I’m talking plants and seeds.

Problem is, I can’t stop myself. I have a postage stamp front garden, a patch of cat litter tray gravel at the back, but I just have to have more plants. These stamen-packed mags are all designed to manipulate the weak – so vibrant and dazzling, each perfect petal soft as velvet, warm as skin, sweetly scented as Palma Violets. The names are there to entice: Dizzy Heights, For Your Eyes Only, Awakening, Atomic Blonde… And they’re only the roses.

Experience should have taught me better- every chubby little root ball that enters the house becomes a leggy, slug-nibbled skeleton of its former self within weeks, my lack of horticultural skill in limp chloroplastic form.

I do it for them, you see. Those furry-arsed, nectar guzzling, pollen junkies… the bees. They need an oasis of floral voluptuousness in this urban sprawl, right? A haven where they can buzz and bumble and waggle-dance their stingers off.

That’s what I tell myself, as I hunch over those shiny pages, my back aching, squinting through the small print. And as I reach for my credit card I cry, ‘It’s for the bees, man. All for the bees.’

The Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge rules require you to post a photo each day for five consecutive days and attach a story to the photo. I have chosen to use photographs from Pixabay as I’m terrible at taking them myself! It can be fiction or non-fiction, a poem or simply a short paragraph – it’s entirely up to you.

Then each day, nominate another blogger to carry on this challenge.

Accepting the challenge is entirely up to the person nominated, it is not a command. Today, I’m inviting Samantha from fictionwriterwithablog to join the challenge.

Ignore the old goat

Thanks to Jane at Making it Write for nominating me for this challenge.

‘Ignore the old goat. We’ve paid our money to stay here, ain’t we? You use the hot water if you want a bath.’

They’d just returned to the room after a baking day on the Sands and Gordon was flushed pink as a shrimp, the end of his nose just beginning to peel. Whatever Gordon said, Sylvie was loath to be on the receiving end of another fierce glare from the B & B’s owner, so out the bowl and jug came from the washstand. Another day sluicing in chilly water, cloudy as carbolic-scented lemonade.

‘You’ll see,’ said Gordon, leaning back against the pillows as she washed, ‘we’ll hear the old devil tonight, splashing around like a seal in that tub, singing ‘Mademoiselles from Armentieres’ while the rest of us are trying to get some shut-eye. A day in that tweed suit of his and he must be steaming like a Burmese jungle.’

Sylvie thought the Major looked rather dapper in his jacket and plus fours, as if he dressed especially to do battle with the crazy golf course or the penny slots.

Her new husband Gordon‒ ‘husband’ was still a strange word on her lips, though not as peculiar as ‘wife’‒ had spent the day in rolled up shirt sleeves and trouser legs, a knotted hanky perched on his head, while he sank his toes into the sludgy sand. He’d twined his fingers through hers, dragging her into the water, even when she screamed and protested that he’d ruin her sundress.

He was always relaxed, always smiling, always confident and she envied him for it. Perhaps over the years some of that confidence would rub off on her.

The Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge rules require you to post a photo each day for five consecutive days and attach a story to the photo. I have chosen to use photographs from Pixabay as I’m terrible at taking them myself! It can be fiction or non-fiction, a poem or simply a short paragraph – it’s entirely up to you.

Then each day, nominate another blogger to carry on this challenge.

Accepting the challenge is entirely up to the person nominated, it is not a command. Today, I’m inviting Sonya from Only 100 Words to join the challenge.

Eviction from paradise

Thanks to Jane at Making it Write for nominating me for this challenge.

‘What is the clamour, Mercy dear?’

My boss at the milliner’s, Miss Flint, had appeared on the pavement behind me, stern as a figurehead, eyeglasses wedged on her bulbous nose. She pongs of rotting feathers and mothballs like any hat maker, but when I brush against her what I smell most is Macchione the organ grinder, though that last could be my fancy. Miss Flint says that what passes through my head would be better to stay there, as most of it ain’t respectable.

‘Don’t know, Miss Flint,’ I said, which was the truth.

The ruckus was not of the day-to-day variety; usually between breakfast and supper, there’s not a thing that will stir Miss Jessie Flint from her workroom, her stool and her stitching. Polly says that if the Good Lord came calling, Miss Flint would ask if he could take a pew while the tea mashed and she tied off a ribbon or made fast an edging.

‘Is that sword swallower back? Feeble-minded way to earn a crust, that.’ Polly was in the doorway, her apron stuck with needles trailing coloured thread, sleeves prickling with pins, like a startled hedgehog in a rope corset. There was a hat in her fist so confused with net and bugle beads that the glass-eyed hummingbird quivering on the brim would scarce be able to stretch its stumpy wings. If it weren’t dead as a doornail, that is.

Miss Flint scowled. ‘Polly, why are you out here gaping? Mrs Younger’s touring hat will be steeped in drizzle and have a waft of the chophouse when you’re done. Must I alter her bill of sale to explain that the fug of red beef and a hint of the Thames are included in the seven and six charge?’

Polly smiled, showing teeth blackened by years of smoking a daily pipe of navy cut. ‘I’ve got ta put you right there,’ said Polly, ‘on account of the sun shining and there being no hint of wet. Also, the breeze’ll blow out the whiff of last night’s mutton, which is worse than an undertaker’s parlour in July.’ She knocked me with her spiky elbow. ‘Anyhow, Mercy’s watching.’

Miss Flint crossed her arms so tight I was sure she’d burst her stay lace. ‘Mind your cheek, Miss. Mercy is on the street to sell what you make and if she fails, we all go hungry.’

That’s me, by the by, Mercy Lynch, She-Barker. I’ll collar anyone passing‒ toffs or Haymarket Hectors, ladies or night flowers‒ give them a bit of patter and send them on their way fuddled as new-borns, juggling bonnets and toppers with pockets many shillings the lighter.

‘Must the entire staff of Flint and Flint stand on the street like costers? Mr Turnbull will rub his hands to think that we have so little custom,’ sighed Miss Flint.

‘Old man Turnbull’s nosing too,’ said Polly. And there, across the street, was Mr Alfred Turnbull Esq, Milliner to Ladies of Quality, standing on an orange box, shirtsleeves rolled back to scabby elbows. ‘Curious happenings,’ said Polly. ‘I know. Oi, Bill! What’s ‘appening?’ A bill-sticker was watching the to-do, leaning on his cross pole, gluepots swinging at his hip. Polly calls all the bill-stickers ‘Bill’, and strange to say every one answers to the name.

‘Eviction from Paradise,’ he shouted, scratching his nose with a brush handle. ‘There’s a Ma, a babe in arms, and six‒ mebbe seven‒ barefoot scraps in tow.’

‘Ah,’ said the three of us.

Little Paradise is a rookery crushed between Cranbourne and Bear Street with roofs so low you must palm your hat or lose it, alleyways so dark, narrow, and thick with trapped smoke your outstretched hand will vanish as if sliced off at the wrist. You’d think the Fleet’s been channelled over the roof, looking at the filthy water that runs down the walls, at the mud and rotting stuff that slides under your boots. The whole mess would fall towards Leicester Square if the landlords hadn’t wedged joists against the walls. They remind me of dying men held up by crutches. Little Paradise ain’t the Old Nichol, but it makes me thankful for my pallet bed and for a bowlful of eel stew to warm on the range.

Some gents waiting on repairs had filled Hawdon’s Tailors and Outfitters’ narrow doorway, their borrowed coats striped like humbugs. Mr Hawdon, a froglike chap with a greasy baldpate, stayed crooked over his work, the only soul on Cranbourne Alley whose head wasn’t turned. Delivery boys buzzed round, stumbling into the road, unmindful of ruts, horse apples and an unhappy-seeming constable. Then a dray shouldered through, the boys skipping left and right as giant horse hooves threatened to mash one after another.

A lopsided version of ‘Daisy Bell’ started from a handbarrow organ, jumbling with the cry of a wink man. ‘Fresh periwinkles- Daisy– a penny a pint- crazy…’

‘Ooh, look, Miss Flint, if it ain’t Mr Macchione,’ shouted Polly, pointing at the organist. She caught me again with her elbow, my arm stinging from the pins.

Miss Flint reddened. ‘Enough of that! The spectacle’s over.’

She was right. The winkles and the organ grinder’s string puppets had lured away the boys, the gents had returned to their waiting. The family from Little Paradise vanished before I even saw them. I wondered where they’d sleep: St Martin’s workhouse? Under a damp railway bridge?

‘Back to work,’ said Miss Flint. Perhaps she fluttered a lash at Macchione, but that could just be my fancy again. As she followed a chattering Polly into the shop, she turned, saying, ‘There’s a mourning bonnet that was home to a family of mice ‘til an hour ago. It’s half price, so look out for widow’s weeds.’

I breathed deeply. ‘Bonnets! Bonnets! Parasols to shield the sun from faces fair!’

Images of chattering teeth, of goose pimples raised in the damp shadow of Waterloo Bridge were my close companions until well past sunset.

The Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge rules require you to post a photo each day for five consecutive days and attach a story to the photo. I have chosen to use photographs from Pixabay as I’m terrible at taking them myself! It can be fiction or non-fiction, a poem or simply a short paragraph – it’s entirely up to you.

Then each day, nominate another blogger to carry on this challenge.

Accepting the challenge is entirely up to the person nominated, it is not a command. Today, I’m inviting bluechickenninja to join the challenge.