Fragments

Writing for me is a double edged sword. I have the constant urge but not the mental faculty, at least, not all the time. It gets very frustrating. And yet, it's something I always return to. Looking through my folders, there are a multitude of half baked ideas and character studies, pieces that were going great guns until I suffered a serious mood swing and lost my way.

I came across this when hoking through files this morning. I know what my intentions were and where the piece was heading but, no matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to get my head in the same mindset it was when I wrote it:


The Longboat Inn was a rough house. Standing halfway between the shore and the barracks, the patrons were a motley assortment of soldiers on leave, and local fishermen fresh off the boat. Too much liquor and time spent away from home brewed resentment from all quarters, but for now the peace was holding. Not an ideal situation to be in but jobs were scarce.

At the rate she was saving, by spring she would have enough for passage to the mainland. There she could take her pick of jobs, or so the papers led her to believe— columns upon columns of positions to be filled, each neat box of text an opportunity, a red ringed doorway to another life. She folded the broadsheet carefully and poured herself a cup of tea. A quick peek through the serving hatch reassured her tempers were holding, and that she’d get her well deserved ten minutes.

“It’ll not last long,” said Ed, the harbinger of doom. “Word is the lanky Private’s being doing a line with Stravick’s missus.” He slammed a lump of beef down on his butchers block and hit it a thump with a cleaver. Clary jumped, and they both stared at the gaping gash. She’d thought to slip her shoes off. Maybe not. Another quick scan through the serving hatch at the ruddied faces and her eyes settled on one in particular. "Who… him? The twiglet?"

“Aye.. him,”

“What was he thinking?” Clary gasped. “He's only a lad, and a skinny, dying looking one at that.”

“He’ll never be anything more if Stravick’s men catch on,” Ed brought down the cleaver again for added effect. "And, more to the point, what was she thinking."

Making Stravick jealous, no doubt. A dangerous game if ever there was. Clary huffed out a sigh, sat down her tea, stood up and straightened her apron.

A quick scan of the tables of the public house told her she was not the only person interested in the private. Scutcheon Doyle, Stravick’s right hand, was propping up the bar, ostenstibly getting drunk but Clary knew better. Even in the smoky half-light she could tell the spirit in his glass was well watered down, and he was watching the soldier’s every move in the in mirror of the liquor cabinet. She needed an excuse to approach so she turned tail back into the kitchen and ladled some stew into a heavily rimmed bowl. On a narrow strip torn from the edge of her newspaper, she hurriedly scribbled a warning and placed into under the bowl so that it was legible but discreetly positioned on her serving tray.

Doyle’s eyes bored holes in her through the mirror as she weaved her way through the tables and chairs, ignoring the crude comments, and skillfully avoiding the attempted bottom pinches.

“Your order, Sir,” she said loudly, so as to be heard over the din.

The private went to open his mouth but Clary spoke first.

“Sorry you had to wait so long but the cook…” She subtly tapped the note and looked him straight in the eye.

His own widened.

Make an excuse. Get out now!

On cue, the lad stood up. “Call this service? I ordered an hour ago!”

“But…”

“I don’t care for your excuses, nor your grub, if I’m honest. This’ll be the last you’ll see of me in this establishment.” He yanked on his overcoat, feigning slight, and departed, slamming the door hard enough that Clara could feel the vibration through the soles of her shoes.

Well, that was that. She checked the wall clock… her break was nearly over, although she deserved at least five minutes in lieu for her delicate handling of the situation. She might well have averted a lynching.

The rest of the shift was relatively strife free, just a few minor scuffles but nothing that six foot four, cleaver-brandishing Ed couldn’t pacify with a few threatening words and his practiced maniac glare. He was a pussy cat really. That night as every night, he did the expected and offered to walk her home. She had long-since realised he had an eye for her and made her usual excuses; she had a stop to make, Ma Thorne wouldn’t be happy… anything that prevented Ed from feeling she was giving him an opportunity to make his feelings known. He wasn’t unattractive in his rough hewn way, but Clara had plans that included no-one but herself. She wasn’t going to lead him on then drop him like a piece of hot coal, just because she felt lonely.

Still, loneliness was infinitely preferable to life in the poor house, and her present job rungs above service. Many of her fellow foundlings who’d come of age sought positions as washerwomen and scullions, the more gentile personalities ending up as ladies’ maids. The thought was like a spoonful of gall. She’d rather wait, hand and foot, on the soldiers and fisher folk. Gobby, often downright rude but at least she knew where she stood with them. Rich people, those with inherited money at least, treated their servants little better than chaff to be discarded on a whim, so she’d been informed by Kitty Eldridge, her oldest friend. According to the letters she’d sent home, even those who’d made their own way and had first hand knowledge of what it was like to be poor, were often corrupted by their new-found wealth as they attempted to keep pace with their ‘betters’. Money, to Clara, was no more than a way to provide necessities for herself. A means, not an end.

She’d scarcely noticed how fast winter was approaching. A hot summer, followed by a mild autumn passed her by, her nose pressed tight to the grindstone, eyes blinkered by tunnel vision. Every extra shift, every uncooperative patron furthered her ambitions as the little wooden casket secreted under Ma Thorne’s floorboards slowly but surely filled. To a child it would have seemed a treasure trove; so many coins it had to have been worth a small fortune. Not so, Clary knew. She’d barely make passage with it, and there was the initial board to consider until she found a live-in position. A new outfit had to be factored in too, if she was to convincingly fake being a governess. It wouldn’t do to look like some country bumpkin draped in hand-me-down homespun when making a first impression.


The cobbles sparkled with frost as she made her way home alone past the small brick hovels, chimney stacks smoking, candlelight flickering through sooty, leaded windows. Exhaustion crept up on her with every misplaced, slippery step, her ankles starting to ache with the effort of keeping upright on the incline to the church.

An otherworldly noise stopped her dead in her tracks as she considered her options, a metallic squeal coming from the weather vane atop the steeple. Nothing that a good lump of lard wouldn’t fix, she mused, as her heart regained regular rhythm. A lantern winked in the near distance, the Night Watchman doing his rounds. The short cut would save her tired feet almost a mile and, not one to indulge in speculative superstition, she turned hard left past the wrought iron gates and into the graveyard.

The crescent moon was at its zenith. Headstones jutted out at every angle, blue-black silhouettes rising out of the ground, uppermost edges studded with diamonds. Another shriek from the vane pre-empted a gust of wind that came from behind and, chilled, Clary wound her scarf around her face and pulled up her collar. Within moments, the air around her undulated with currents of snow flakes, some lighting on her eyelashes and the tip of her nose. With childlike glee, she held out her arms and started to turn. The turn became a spin — trees, stones, church — faster and faster — trees, stones, church, trees, stones, church —

She’d never have made a ballerina. Dizzy-headed, she slowed, aware that the moist snow accumulating at her feet was seeping into her shoes. Momentary joy was replaced by the intense desire to be tucked up warm in bed, but it was more than the intense cold... something felt... off? A stray silhouette stuck out like a thumb struck by a hammer. Realisation dawned, as her initial impression melted away. It was no gravestone; it was a man kneeling over a sack. No…not a sack. Another man lay crumpled on the ground beneath him. Suddenly fearful, she backed up and peered at the shape from behind a little mausoleum. As she watched, the shape started to change, elongating, standing to full height. Relief trickled through her as she realised his back was turned. Was it Doyle? No, not broad enough, and who was the still figure beneath? She couldn’t be sure. It didn’t matter anyway, it wasn’t as if there was anything she could do. Not true, she reconsidered. The watchman was on his way. If she crept quietly she could use the tombs as cover then run the rest of the way. A frost encrusted twig snapped loudly as she misfooted. The silhouette man’s head whipped round, but she gleaned nothing except darkness, and the measure of her fear, her chest tightening.