Dictated by happenstance and other elements outside my control: the realm of the incidental, the occasional, and the undernourished.
Just a little note I should have left earlier:
The Museum is temporarily closed while the curator goes for a little wander, but he will in the meantime be popping up at his home away from home, Hobo Diaries.
Friday, 22 May 2009
Friday, 6 March 2009
The Music Box: Chapter Sixty-Nine
Emily watched in horror as the doorknob turned. Before she even had time to think of it she realised she was wrenching open her wardrobe door, folding Crouch’s ungainly frame down to fit in the cramped space and pulling the door closed just as her bedroom door swung open. She put her eye to the keyhole and watched herself cross the rug, carrying something on a tray.
Emily saw Crouch carefully place the tray on the dresser. He seemed to take a few moments to decide what to do next, but she realised he was looking for something. Whatever it was he must have now found, for he was lifting a small glass vial up to the light. Turned side on to the window like this, she saw her own features broke out into a smile that made her shudder. Crouch removed a cork from the top of the vial and emptied its contents into the teacup on the tray.
Emily knew this was her father’s teacup and it took all the will she could muster not to burst out and confront Crouch. She weighed up the possible outcomes of such a sudden surprise move, but decided she should wait just a few moments more. She knew she could not allow Crouch to take that tea to her father, but knew that to appear now would be too dangerous to countenance.
Crouch put the stopper back into the vial and placed it back on the dresser. Emily held her breath and willed him to notice the sweets where they still sat. Whether through the force of her wishes or Crouch’s own volition – she was never to know for sure – he must have done exactly that for she saw him lift some of the liquorice pieces to his lips and pop them in his mouth.
*************************
To be continued
*************************
Emily saw Crouch carefully place the tray on the dresser. He seemed to take a few moments to decide what to do next, but she realised he was looking for something. Whatever it was he must have now found, for he was lifting a small glass vial up to the light. Turned side on to the window like this, she saw her own features broke out into a smile that made her shudder. Crouch removed a cork from the top of the vial and emptied its contents into the teacup on the tray.
Emily knew this was her father’s teacup and it took all the will she could muster not to burst out and confront Crouch. She weighed up the possible outcomes of such a sudden surprise move, but decided she should wait just a few moments more. She knew she could not allow Crouch to take that tea to her father, but knew that to appear now would be too dangerous to countenance.
Crouch put the stopper back into the vial and placed it back on the dresser. Emily held her breath and willed him to notice the sweets where they still sat. Whether through the force of her wishes or Crouch’s own volition – she was never to know for sure – he must have done exactly that for she saw him lift some of the liquorice pieces to his lips and pop them in his mouth.
*************************
To be continued
*************************
Thursday, 5 February 2009
The Music Box: Chapter Sixty-Eight
“Can I take Papa up a cup of tea?”
Isabelle turned at the sound of Emily’s voice. She would have preferred to keep an eye on her, but this seemed a perfectly reasonable request and she would have aroused suspicion by refusing.
“Sure darling, let me put one on.”
Isabelle placed the kettle over the fire to boil and pulled down the teapot from the shelf. Lifting two small spoons of tea from the tin in which it was kept, she watched the dried leaves tumble into the pot, hooked together until the water would tear them apart and swirl them around.
Once the tea was made she poured a cup for herself and one for Percy. Emily, who had been hovering close to her mother all this time, took one of the cups and placed it on a tray. Isabelle watched as she walked carefully across the kitchen and through the doorway, listening for her footfall on the stairs.
Letting out a deep sigh, Isabelle realised how tense she had been with Emily watching over her. Rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hands, she realised she could no longer face this alone – the time had come to talk to Percy about what was going on.
“I really should have taken that tea up myself,” she thought, kicking herself for letting Emily – she could not think what else to call her – go. Her mind was spinning too fast to make sense of anything, a barrage of thoughts and images passing by. Then, out of this spinning, blurring mess, a sound emerged. The high pitched laughter of the wolf, emerging from the fire, rang in her ears again, but this time his image aligned with a face long consigned to the faded memories of a former life. It was Aloysius.
Aloysius, who had helped her and Percy escape after the wolves had turned against them. Aloysius, who she now knew had been acting not out of a compassion he would have extended to anybody, but a specific desire to see her safe. Aloysius, who she had long since even ceased thinking about, as she moved on with her new life here by the sea, a life with no place for the fraught power struggles and endless dangers of the forest she had long left behind.
Aloysius, Isabelle realised, had returned to claim what he believed his rightful entitlement.
Isabelle turned at the sound of Emily’s voice. She would have preferred to keep an eye on her, but this seemed a perfectly reasonable request and she would have aroused suspicion by refusing.
“Sure darling, let me put one on.”
Isabelle placed the kettle over the fire to boil and pulled down the teapot from the shelf. Lifting two small spoons of tea from the tin in which it was kept, she watched the dried leaves tumble into the pot, hooked together until the water would tear them apart and swirl them around.
Once the tea was made she poured a cup for herself and one for Percy. Emily, who had been hovering close to her mother all this time, took one of the cups and placed it on a tray. Isabelle watched as she walked carefully across the kitchen and through the doorway, listening for her footfall on the stairs.
Letting out a deep sigh, Isabelle realised how tense she had been with Emily watching over her. Rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hands, she realised she could no longer face this alone – the time had come to talk to Percy about what was going on.
“I really should have taken that tea up myself,” she thought, kicking herself for letting Emily – she could not think what else to call her – go. Her mind was spinning too fast to make sense of anything, a barrage of thoughts and images passing by. Then, out of this spinning, blurring mess, a sound emerged. The high pitched laughter of the wolf, emerging from the fire, rang in her ears again, but this time his image aligned with a face long consigned to the faded memories of a former life. It was Aloysius.
Aloysius, who had helped her and Percy escape after the wolves had turned against them. Aloysius, who she now knew had been acting not out of a compassion he would have extended to anybody, but a specific desire to see her safe. Aloysius, who she had long since even ceased thinking about, as she moved on with her new life here by the sea, a life with no place for the fraught power struggles and endless dangers of the forest she had long left behind.
Aloysius, Isabelle realised, had returned to claim what he believed his rightful entitlement.
Tuesday, 27 January 2009
The Music Box: Chapter Sixty-Seven
Emily paused halfway up the stairs, in a panic of uncertainty. She could hear the sounds of domestic work being undertaken in the kitchen, so knew her mother was busy down there. She had seen her father at his study window only a few minutes earlier, but had trusted he would be there for a while. A moment ago, when she first approached the window, she had caught a glimpse of Crouch as herself just coming into the room.
A moment later and she would have been caught, but Emily felt she had ducked out of sight just before Crouch would have seen her. Peering carefully through the bottom pane, Emily saw herself reaching for a book, examining its cover and wiping traces of dust from the top of the pages. Seemingly happy with the choice, Crouch had turned to the door and left as quickly as he had appeared.
Although unsure as to whether Crouch was going out to the hearth in the kitchen or up to her room, Emily knew she had to risk it. She had shivered with dread as she saw her mother and Crouch return home and knew that something terrible was going to happen if she didn’t act immediately.
As she pushed on the sides of the window, trying to open it as carefully as she could, Emily had cursed the wet weather that had swollen the frame. Hoping for a smooth slide open, she was furious at how much noise the window was making as it refused to let go of the frame. With a surrender that sounded to her like two trains at full steam running into each other, the window finally began shuddering its way up the frame. It still wasn’t wide enough for her massive frame to enter, so she gave it one last heave.
Sure it had been loud enough to alert the entire neighbourhood, Emily swallowed her breath and slid through the window, barely able to get Crouch’s shoulders through. Wriggling over the sill, she has used her hands to guide her body quietly to the floor. She didn’t want to make any more noise than she had to, but sensed leaving the window open was a bad idea. As gently as she could, and pleased to find it more willing to slide than at first, she pulled the window back into place, swinging the latch back to a locked position.
Walking over to the door – cursing under her breath when she crossed the creakiest section of the room, Emily had paused at the doorway. Her breath was coming in short, shallow gasps and she took a moment to try and get it under control.
Pushing open the door, she peered across to the open door to the kitchen. She could hear her mother working away busily and was pleased to see nobody was in sight of the doorway. Stepping slowly out into the hall, she had made her way slowly up the stairs, and it was here she now paused, ears straining to hear any movement from above. All seemed quiet. Wary of being caught out in the open like this, Emily took a deep breath and forced herself to put one foot in front of the other and not stop until she reached her room.
Closing the door behind her, Emily let out her breath and sighed with enormous relief. She still wasn’t sure what she was going to do, but felt she had at least a moment’s respite. With any luck her mother would be keeping Crouch busy in the kitchen, but she knew that would only be for so long. Peering around, she felt an uncanny sense of calm from these familiar surroundings. How long had it been since she had been here, safe in her little girl’s room? She realised that not only had she lost all sense of time – was it a day, a week, a lifetime? – but that she was seeing her room with new eyes, feeling suddenly too old for these lace trimmings, picture books and stuffed animals.
Her gaze had been scanning slowly around the room and now rested on her dresser, taking in the bag of lollies she knew must have come from Mr Pollock’s lolly shop – one of her favourite places in the world. Stepping closer her attention was captured by the mirror. She was mortified to be looking in and seeing Crouch look back, but forced herself to scrutinise her features more closely. She saw how old Crouch looked in the light that gently fell through the window, how his smooth skin was such a deeply pale, bloodless tone, as though he was a wax caricature of a creepy man.
His cruel lips were twisted into a tight sneer and his sharp nose seemed almost to have been sharpened as one might an arrow tip. His expansive brow sat under the rim of the hat, an ivory scar running down from the hairline to his jet black left eyebrow. She reached a finger up to trace its line, wondering who Crouch might have crossed too pick up such a souvenir. Looking now into his eyes, she was repulsed yet intrigued by their hollow depths, black tunnels that seemed to catch and swallow all passing light, letting nothing escape.
A scraping sound startled Emily out of her hypnotic swim in these inky pools. Percy must simply have been pushing his chair back in the study across the landing, but it reminded her she couldn’t afford to waste any more time. Her hand had idly found its way back into her coat pocket and Emily drew out the little blue bag with the liquorice that had come from her time in the music box.
Untwisting it, the task made quite difficult with her fingers now trembling quite badly, Emily drew out the pieces of liquorice within. Opening the lolly bag on the dresser, she drew out the pieces in there and popped them into her mouth, replacing them with those from the bag. Replacing the empty bag in her pocket, Emily turned to leave.
As she reached for the handle of her bedroom door, the knob began slowly to turn.
A moment later and she would have been caught, but Emily felt she had ducked out of sight just before Crouch would have seen her. Peering carefully through the bottom pane, Emily saw herself reaching for a book, examining its cover and wiping traces of dust from the top of the pages. Seemingly happy with the choice, Crouch had turned to the door and left as quickly as he had appeared.
Although unsure as to whether Crouch was going out to the hearth in the kitchen or up to her room, Emily knew she had to risk it. She had shivered with dread as she saw her mother and Crouch return home and knew that something terrible was going to happen if she didn’t act immediately.
As she pushed on the sides of the window, trying to open it as carefully as she could, Emily had cursed the wet weather that had swollen the frame. Hoping for a smooth slide open, she was furious at how much noise the window was making as it refused to let go of the frame. With a surrender that sounded to her like two trains at full steam running into each other, the window finally began shuddering its way up the frame. It still wasn’t wide enough for her massive frame to enter, so she gave it one last heave.
Sure it had been loud enough to alert the entire neighbourhood, Emily swallowed her breath and slid through the window, barely able to get Crouch’s shoulders through. Wriggling over the sill, she has used her hands to guide her body quietly to the floor. She didn’t want to make any more noise than she had to, but sensed leaving the window open was a bad idea. As gently as she could, and pleased to find it more willing to slide than at first, she pulled the window back into place, swinging the latch back to a locked position.
Walking over to the door – cursing under her breath when she crossed the creakiest section of the room, Emily had paused at the doorway. Her breath was coming in short, shallow gasps and she took a moment to try and get it under control.
Pushing open the door, she peered across to the open door to the kitchen. She could hear her mother working away busily and was pleased to see nobody was in sight of the doorway. Stepping slowly out into the hall, she had made her way slowly up the stairs, and it was here she now paused, ears straining to hear any movement from above. All seemed quiet. Wary of being caught out in the open like this, Emily took a deep breath and forced herself to put one foot in front of the other and not stop until she reached her room.
Closing the door behind her, Emily let out her breath and sighed with enormous relief. She still wasn’t sure what she was going to do, but felt she had at least a moment’s respite. With any luck her mother would be keeping Crouch busy in the kitchen, but she knew that would only be for so long. Peering around, she felt an uncanny sense of calm from these familiar surroundings. How long had it been since she had been here, safe in her little girl’s room? She realised that not only had she lost all sense of time – was it a day, a week, a lifetime? – but that she was seeing her room with new eyes, feeling suddenly too old for these lace trimmings, picture books and stuffed animals.
Her gaze had been scanning slowly around the room and now rested on her dresser, taking in the bag of lollies she knew must have come from Mr Pollock’s lolly shop – one of her favourite places in the world. Stepping closer her attention was captured by the mirror. She was mortified to be looking in and seeing Crouch look back, but forced herself to scrutinise her features more closely. She saw how old Crouch looked in the light that gently fell through the window, how his smooth skin was such a deeply pale, bloodless tone, as though he was a wax caricature of a creepy man.
His cruel lips were twisted into a tight sneer and his sharp nose seemed almost to have been sharpened as one might an arrow tip. His expansive brow sat under the rim of the hat, an ivory scar running down from the hairline to his jet black left eyebrow. She reached a finger up to trace its line, wondering who Crouch might have crossed too pick up such a souvenir. Looking now into his eyes, she was repulsed yet intrigued by their hollow depths, black tunnels that seemed to catch and swallow all passing light, letting nothing escape.
A scraping sound startled Emily out of her hypnotic swim in these inky pools. Percy must simply have been pushing his chair back in the study across the landing, but it reminded her she couldn’t afford to waste any more time. Her hand had idly found its way back into her coat pocket and Emily drew out the little blue bag with the liquorice that had come from her time in the music box.
Untwisting it, the task made quite difficult with her fingers now trembling quite badly, Emily drew out the pieces of liquorice within. Opening the lolly bag on the dresser, she drew out the pieces in there and popped them into her mouth, replacing them with those from the bag. Replacing the empty bag in her pocket, Emily turned to leave.
As she reached for the handle of her bedroom door, the knob began slowly to turn.
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
The Music Box: Chapter Sixty-Six
Helping Emily remove her coat, Isabelle saw how soaked her daughter had become from their dash home through the rain.
“You can take those sweets up to your room for later Emily – I want you in some new clothes as quickly as you can, then back down here before the fire so you can dry out.”
Clutching her bag of lollies from Mr Pollock’s seemingly endless selection, Emily headed silently up the stairs towards her room. Isabelle took off her own coat and decided the rest of her clothes had been adequately protected from the rain, so headed into the kitchen to begin her preparations for the evening meal.
While the outing had fallen short of what she had hoped, Emily did at least seem a little happier than she had been. She had seemed less excited to have been in Mr Pollock’s store than Isabelle had expected, but had seemed quite grateful to have been allowed to choose a bigger bag of sweets than usual.
Stoking the still glowing embers of the earlier fire, Isabelle was again whisked back to that experience under the tree – the strange little man, the laughing wolf, the fear that ran through her veins like the freezing river that had tumbled her along. It had all felt so real, so much more vivid a part of her memory than any dream ever could.
She knew it must have something to do with Emily, the way she had been behaving. ‘She’s not been herself at all’, murmured Isabelle, and she was so shocked at what a voice in the back of her mind then said that she fell into the nearest seat, catching her breath in her chest.
“It’s not Emily,” the voice had offered.
That was it. No explanation, no introduction, gone as soon as it had come. But it was crystal clear and so simply put that Isabelle was struck to the very heart of her knowing.
“It’s not Emily.” But how could that be? Of course it was Emily. Yet, somehow, her heart of hearts knew it was not. Her senses were deceiving her, everything she knew had somehow been turned on its head, yet there was such a strong sense of, what was it, relief? As though this impossible thought, once uttered, suddenly made sense of everything – explained Emily’s strange behaviour, her own sense of unease, the strange encounter and its cryptic message.
Putting aside the grotesque impossibility of such a revelation, Isabelle tried to think how it could be so, and what it could mean. She concentrated on when her feelings of uneasiness had begun. Ever since Emily had been late home from her visit to her young friend’s, Tabitha Tibbits, Isabelle had been uneasy. It’s true that being quite so late was out of character for Emily, but it must have been something more than that. Since then, Isabelle realised, she had been entirely out of sorts. She hadn’t slept properly, her nerves were more delicate than she was used to, and Emily had simply not seemed herself.
It’s not Emily. It was so simple, so straightforward, so – she realised – obvious. It still didn’t make sense, but that wasn’t enough to bring any further doubt. Now that she had made up her mind, Isabelle felt an incredible weight drop away. This burden had been oppressing her for days and now sloughed off, a snake relieved to have shed its too small skin.
Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, Isabelle considered the situation. Upstairs, in one room, was her husband, Percy Button, no doubt lost in his writing and oblivious to the entire situation. In another room, somebody who to all intents and purposes appeared to be her daughter, her beloved Emily, but was not.
And here, in the kitchen, the fire before her crackling in its newly awaken state, the orange shadows flickering against her closed eyelids, Isabelle sat, helpless in the face of her revelation.
“Are you okay?”
Isabelle jumped at the sound of Emily’s voice, her eyes flying open to find her barely three feet away.
“I, I was just a little tired from our outing,” Isabelle stammered. “I was just enjoying some of the warmth in here – it was so cold out there.”
Isabelle put on a smile, not wanting to show any signs of concern she would have to explain any further. Her mind was ticking over too quickly, but never settling on anything that pointed to what her next step should be.
“Why don’t you grab a book and spend some time in here Emily, keep your mother company while I do some chores?”
“Sounds lovely, I’ll just go grab something.”
Emily was soon back and Isabelle watched as she took a seat, opening the leather-bound book on her knees. The sound of the water with which she had filled a pot coming to a boil brought her attention back to her duties. She went about her ordinary business of the day, distracted by the Emily issue but also keen to avoid the impression that anything was amiss.
After a few minutes this way Isabelle’s ears – sharpened by the tenseness of her mind, heard a scraping sound. Her eyes darted over to Emily, but she hadn’t appeared to hear anything. The sound had come from the front room - ordinarily she would have gone in to check, to see if it was Percy wanting something or simply her imagination, but this time something was holding her back.
There it was again – the sound of wood scraping against wood. This time Emily looked up.
“It must be your father after a book,” Isabelle said. “We’ll leave him to it, when he’s this hard at work there’s no point distracting him, he’ll hardly take in anything we might even say!”
Emily smiled and returned to her book. Isabelle’s heart began to thump as she heard the creak she knew came from the floor of the front room when anybody walked near the window. Worried Emily might take any more interest, she made sure she made plenty of noise of her own, jumbling around cutlery and rattling a stack of plates.
As the stairs creaked, then stopped, creaked, then stopped, Isabelle’s pulse thumped in her ears. She felt a hot flush hit her neck and face and the sickening burst of adrenaline flood her tensed body.
If she had misjudged, she had made a terrible mistake.
“You can take those sweets up to your room for later Emily – I want you in some new clothes as quickly as you can, then back down here before the fire so you can dry out.”
Clutching her bag of lollies from Mr Pollock’s seemingly endless selection, Emily headed silently up the stairs towards her room. Isabelle took off her own coat and decided the rest of her clothes had been adequately protected from the rain, so headed into the kitchen to begin her preparations for the evening meal.
While the outing had fallen short of what she had hoped, Emily did at least seem a little happier than she had been. She had seemed less excited to have been in Mr Pollock’s store than Isabelle had expected, but had seemed quite grateful to have been allowed to choose a bigger bag of sweets than usual.
Stoking the still glowing embers of the earlier fire, Isabelle was again whisked back to that experience under the tree – the strange little man, the laughing wolf, the fear that ran through her veins like the freezing river that had tumbled her along. It had all felt so real, so much more vivid a part of her memory than any dream ever could.
She knew it must have something to do with Emily, the way she had been behaving. ‘She’s not been herself at all’, murmured Isabelle, and she was so shocked at what a voice in the back of her mind then said that she fell into the nearest seat, catching her breath in her chest.
“It’s not Emily,” the voice had offered.
That was it. No explanation, no introduction, gone as soon as it had come. But it was crystal clear and so simply put that Isabelle was struck to the very heart of her knowing.
“It’s not Emily.” But how could that be? Of course it was Emily. Yet, somehow, her heart of hearts knew it was not. Her senses were deceiving her, everything she knew had somehow been turned on its head, yet there was such a strong sense of, what was it, relief? As though this impossible thought, once uttered, suddenly made sense of everything – explained Emily’s strange behaviour, her own sense of unease, the strange encounter and its cryptic message.
Putting aside the grotesque impossibility of such a revelation, Isabelle tried to think how it could be so, and what it could mean. She concentrated on when her feelings of uneasiness had begun. Ever since Emily had been late home from her visit to her young friend’s, Tabitha Tibbits, Isabelle had been uneasy. It’s true that being quite so late was out of character for Emily, but it must have been something more than that. Since then, Isabelle realised, she had been entirely out of sorts. She hadn’t slept properly, her nerves were more delicate than she was used to, and Emily had simply not seemed herself.
It’s not Emily. It was so simple, so straightforward, so – she realised – obvious. It still didn’t make sense, but that wasn’t enough to bring any further doubt. Now that she had made up her mind, Isabelle felt an incredible weight drop away. This burden had been oppressing her for days and now sloughed off, a snake relieved to have shed its too small skin.
Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, Isabelle considered the situation. Upstairs, in one room, was her husband, Percy Button, no doubt lost in his writing and oblivious to the entire situation. In another room, somebody who to all intents and purposes appeared to be her daughter, her beloved Emily, but was not.
And here, in the kitchen, the fire before her crackling in its newly awaken state, the orange shadows flickering against her closed eyelids, Isabelle sat, helpless in the face of her revelation.
“Are you okay?”
Isabelle jumped at the sound of Emily’s voice, her eyes flying open to find her barely three feet away.
“I, I was just a little tired from our outing,” Isabelle stammered. “I was just enjoying some of the warmth in here – it was so cold out there.”
Isabelle put on a smile, not wanting to show any signs of concern she would have to explain any further. Her mind was ticking over too quickly, but never settling on anything that pointed to what her next step should be.
“Why don’t you grab a book and spend some time in here Emily, keep your mother company while I do some chores?”
“Sounds lovely, I’ll just go grab something.”
Emily was soon back and Isabelle watched as she took a seat, opening the leather-bound book on her knees. The sound of the water with which she had filled a pot coming to a boil brought her attention back to her duties. She went about her ordinary business of the day, distracted by the Emily issue but also keen to avoid the impression that anything was amiss.
After a few minutes this way Isabelle’s ears – sharpened by the tenseness of her mind, heard a scraping sound. Her eyes darted over to Emily, but she hadn’t appeared to hear anything. The sound had come from the front room - ordinarily she would have gone in to check, to see if it was Percy wanting something or simply her imagination, but this time something was holding her back.
There it was again – the sound of wood scraping against wood. This time Emily looked up.
“It must be your father after a book,” Isabelle said. “We’ll leave him to it, when he’s this hard at work there’s no point distracting him, he’ll hardly take in anything we might even say!”
Emily smiled and returned to her book. Isabelle’s heart began to thump as she heard the creak she knew came from the floor of the front room when anybody walked near the window. Worried Emily might take any more interest, she made sure she made plenty of noise of her own, jumbling around cutlery and rattling a stack of plates.
As the stairs creaked, then stopped, creaked, then stopped, Isabelle’s pulse thumped in her ears. She felt a hot flush hit her neck and face and the sickening burst of adrenaline flood her tensed body.
If she had misjudged, she had made a terrible mistake.
Monday, 22 December 2008
Friday, 12 December 2008
Thursday, 11 December 2008
The Music Box: Chapter Sixty-Five
Knocking sharply on her own door, Emily still wasn’t sure what she was going to say. Standing there, as Crouch, with Mr Wills by her side, shifting uneasily from one foot to another, each opening line jarred as too strange, too likely to raise her father’s eyebrow in that quizzical manner he had.
The door suddenly swung to and Emily’s heart jumped for joy to see her father well; distracted and a little vacant - he must have been in the midst of writing – but seemingly safe.
“Did you forget something?” he asked, clearly expecting that it had been her mother and her back from their walk sooner than expected.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, rubbing his eyes and taking in Mr Wills and Crouch standing in his doorway.
Emily looked to Mr Wills and cleared her throat loudly.
Mr Wills looked sideways at Crouch, stood up a little taller and addressed Percy.
“Mr Button, this here is Mr Crouch. He has, he says, a message of some import which he hastens to impart.”
“Oh, I see.” Percy looked from Mr Wills back to Emily, who had finally come up with her story.
“Well, do come in from the cold, it’s awfully draughty out here.”
Percy took a step backwards and opened the door more fully so as to let his visitors through. Emily stepped over the threshold from the cold street into the warm vestibule, but Mr Wills hesitated on the step, fiddling nervously with his hat.
“Um, if it’s all the same to you gentlemen,” he began uneasily, his eyes shifting and downcast, “I really should be getting home to the wife. Martha’s been a little poorly of late and I don’t like to leave her on her own too much.”
Percy looked from Mr Wills to Crouch, hesitated a moment and then replied. “My good sir all is well, return to your wife and please send her our regards and best wishes for a hasty recovery.”
Mr Wills replaced his hat on his head, touched its peak in thanks and turned on his heel with no further word.
Emily stood waiting for her father to close the door and usher her through to the living area.
She allowed Percy to take Crouch’s coat and hang it by the door, then accepted his invitation to proceed through to the living room and take a seat by the flickering fire.
Every moment was precious and there was little time for formalities.
“Mr Button, you are no doubt wondering what has brought me here.” Emily was fighting the urge to reveal everything, knowing there simply wasn’t a chance to convince her father as to what was happening in the short time before her mother and Crouch were due to return.
“Well, I must admit it seems it must be an unusual occasion that would bring you here,” Percy began, carefully.
Emily could see there was a wariness about her usually open father, a certain distaste for Crouch’s presence in the home. If only he knew that he had been here for some time!
“It’s nothing too unusual. I have it on good authority that you are a man who has what they call a ‘way with words’. My business has been a little slow lately and I was thinking, with a little more time on my hands, it would be a good time to get my story down. I have, Mr Button, led a somewhat colourful life, but when I try and find words to explain half my deeds, a quarter of my experiences, one tenth my adventures, they invariably fall short. If I need a poker built that befits my fireplace, I would visit a blacksmith. As I need a story told that will befit my life, I have sought out a wordsmith.”
Emily stopped to let the words sink in. She was surprised and somewhat disturbed at the way this little speech had rolled off her tongue. It had come all too easily and she didn’t like how much it had sounded like Crouch, how easily his words still came out of his mouth. Emily began to wonder if she was losing a grip on her own self, if the longer she was in Crouch’s form, the more she was being absorbed into him, becoming like him, until, some time likely quite soon, she simply ceased to be.
Watching her father carefully to see his reaction, Emily She knew his interest would be piqued. She knew how much he loved to write, but knew also he would find Crouch an unpleasant character and would find this a less than appealing approach out of the blue this way. She felt bad to have had to mislead him so, to tap into this love of his to justify her presence in the house, but had seen no other way. She only hoped she had calculated her father and his honour correctly.
“Mr Crouch,” Percy began slowly, clearly measuring his words. His piercing blue eyes, eyes Emily felt lucky to have inherited, did not dart around the room to avoid Crouch, yet he managed to avoid revealing too much distaste.
“It is true that I have devoted much of the latter portion of my life to working with words. My hands were never able to turn wood as well as many, to swing an axe like other men. Not for me the underappreciated artistry of a perfectly formed loaf of bread, the tailored coat or the coaxing of sweet musical joy from a flute.
“I could be surrounded by all the fish in the sea and never catch one, or return from a day in the mines with not even a pocketful of coal.
“But one could say that yes, words, though arriving late, live with me in some form of affinity.
“That is not, I hasten to add, a suggestion that I command them, that they somehow jump to my every whim and fancy. Quite the converse in fact. At their most generous, at the height of my powers and when I am in what I consider to be a realm where they are aligning closest with my wishes for them, it is at best an uneasy truce.
“For the most part, far more often than not, it is a pitiable struggle to make the least sense with the most recalcitrant of building blocks. Imagine for a moment, if you will, the task of building a house.
“Now picture undertaking this task with no tools but your bare hands, with not bricks but a substance akin to sand, or even, at times, water; trickling between your fingers, no straight edges, no reliable form, no consistency of density or shape or weight.
“The location upon which you must built this structure is not, as you may prefer, a level, sheltered position, but in fact a steep, undulating hill, naked to the elements, cursed with the wildest winds, the most violent storms.
“Now, consider that you finally succeed in creating a stable foundation upon which to build the rest of your project. Suddenly, the plans you had carefully stored away in a secret part of your mind, a part you thought impenetrable, have simply vanished. Crystal clear the day you began, they’ve now faded beyond all recall, turned inside-out and upside-down and simply blown away like so much dust.
“Meanwhile, the sand and water, at first so prone to slipping and blowing away, have sat just a moment too long. The sun has got to them and they’ve clung to each other so tightly, baking under the glare of scrutiny that they are solid as a rock. Your bare fingers are powerless to prise them apart – they are no longer what they were, they will not do what you had hoped they might do.
“This – this is what it is to write, to work with words, to turn a life into and the scribbled soaking of ink into paper in the vain and ultimately fruitless hope that, at some time in the future, that ink will somehow be able to be drawn from the paper once more, to pass up the quill and leap out from the paper into life once more.”
Shocked by the passion which her father had displayed, Emily wondered if he was addressing himself as much as Crouch. Rarely had she heard him discuss anything in such a manner, much less his own involvement in writing.
No doubt it’s because I’m seen only as a child, she thought, wondering if that is how she would forever be seen.
But he continued.
“Every time I sit down to write, these are the things I face. This, when I work with love. This, when I wrote of what I know, of what I wish to know, of what passes through my mind in those moments of unbridled life, where we are bursting with an unquenchable desire to dance, to shout to the world, to belong to a life that has so much to offer.
“Now, what you ask of me is this. You want me, I am thinking, to get inside you; to retrace your steps, rewind your days - re-breathe your very breath. You want me to get inside your skin -” at this Emily gave an uncontrollable shudder “- and, to all intents and purposes, become you.”
Her father paused a moment, and Emily was unsure whether to say anything, whether this was a question, or a statement, which is more, she thought, how it had been weighted. She took a breath to gather her thoughts but thankfully Percy continued.
“Now, nothing gives me greater pleasure in life than my writing – my beautiful family aside of course – but it’s not simply a matter of rolling up my sleeves and writing whatever I like. Far from it in fact. And, the simple fact of the matter is, Mr Crouch, I would find it very, very, difficult I suppose you could say, to take the steps that would be needed to take on such a task. I’m certainly not one for rumours, and I take all I hear with a liberal dose of salt, but, to put this in the gentlest way I possibly can, there are certain aspects to your story, as I understand it, that makes what you propose something beyond what I feel can have events transpire in the manner in which you may have envisaged in coming to me today.”
Soaking up what her father had said, picking apart the carefully couched words, Emily deduced that he was gently suggesting to Crouch that his request would find no succour in this instance. She weighed her next words carefully.
“Do I take it then, Mr Button, that what you are suggesting to me is this. My life, as it is, would find nought but trouble when measured against any attempts to wrest it into a shape suitable for notating; that any efforts to render it in a form other than that in which I myself must live, no matter what inspiration and perspiration were applied, would be ultimately futile regardless of to whom I entrusted the task of wielding the quill, no matter what faculty such a person may have with language, be it spoken or written?”
Emily was once again disconcerted by her own unexpected faculty with language, this speech that began carefully in her own thoughts but quickly developed a pace and level of reflection that she believed beyond her conscious application. She also knew this is not really what her father had indicated, but wanted to give him a gentler way out than she is sure Crouch really would have.
Her father looked at her closely and for a moment she was sure he had seen her – not Crouch but her, Emily, looking back at him. But her jolted shock of excitement at the prospect was short-lived.
“Mr Crouch, you have understood me very well. While your proposition intrigues me, it is, ultimately, an endeavour that can only end in disappointment. My suggestion to you is to entrust these tales, these chapters in what I have no doubt is a most intriguing and incomparable life, to your memory. The mind is a most wonderful thing, the master storyteller. Your retrieval of these memories will offer you far more than any mere scribe can hope to emulate.”
Emily sense her time was running out. There seemed to be little opportunity to slip upstairs as hoped – on what pretence could she possibly draw? Then it occurred to her. She raised her hand to her mouth and coughed lightly, then more violently. Her throat made a choking sound and as her father looked at her with concern, she croaked the word ‘water’. As Percy raced off to the kitchen, Emily stopped her racking cough and quickly turned to the window. She has just enough time to turn the latch and step back to her spot before Percy came in, a cup of water in hand.
Emily let out a couple more coughs for good measure, and took hold of the cup. Holding it to her lips she took a small sip and returned it to her father.
“That’s better. And Mr Button, may I say I am truly sorry to have troubled you so.”
“Think nothing of it. I’m sorry I can’t be of more assistance with...”
“Oh do not despair on my behalf, I see in what you say the good sense of one who knows about such matters. I will take your advice and take leave of you without any further ado.”
“I shall see you out. Here, don’t forget your coat. Good day Mr Crouch.”
“Good day Fa- Mr Button,” Emily stumbled, passing from the warm, stuffy air of her home into the bracing cold. It wasn’t until the door had closed behind her that she realised how heavily the rain now fell. It must have been falling for some time, for there were large puddles forming where the cobblestones were less evenly placed.
A passing carriage sped by, its spinning wheels flicking up muddy water from the puddles and forcing Emily to jump back from its splashing passage. After it had passed she raced across the street and took shelter in a doorway a few doors further up, away from town. She watched the upstairs window and was pleased to see the light that showed her father had returned to his study. She ducked back behind the doorway when she saw him peer out from behind the curtains, evidently looking to see if he could catch a last glimpse of Crouch disappearing down the street.
Percy must have been satisfied Crouch had passed the corner out of view, for the curtain dropped back into place. The soft light against it grew a little brighter, suggesting he had turned his lamp back up and was settling down to some more work after what must have been a most disturbing distraction.
Emily had just worked up the courage to return across the street and try the window, when from the corner of her eye she saw two figures walking quickly up the street. The woman cowering under her coat may have been any mother living up and down the street, but the young girl in bright red relief against the dun coloured terraces was unmistakably Emily Button.
The door suddenly swung to and Emily’s heart jumped for joy to see her father well; distracted and a little vacant - he must have been in the midst of writing – but seemingly safe.
“Did you forget something?” he asked, clearly expecting that it had been her mother and her back from their walk sooner than expected.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, rubbing his eyes and taking in Mr Wills and Crouch standing in his doorway.
Emily looked to Mr Wills and cleared her throat loudly.
Mr Wills looked sideways at Crouch, stood up a little taller and addressed Percy.
“Mr Button, this here is Mr Crouch. He has, he says, a message of some import which he hastens to impart.”
“Oh, I see.” Percy looked from Mr Wills back to Emily, who had finally come up with her story.
“Well, do come in from the cold, it’s awfully draughty out here.”
Percy took a step backwards and opened the door more fully so as to let his visitors through. Emily stepped over the threshold from the cold street into the warm vestibule, but Mr Wills hesitated on the step, fiddling nervously with his hat.
“Um, if it’s all the same to you gentlemen,” he began uneasily, his eyes shifting and downcast, “I really should be getting home to the wife. Martha’s been a little poorly of late and I don’t like to leave her on her own too much.”
Percy looked from Mr Wills to Crouch, hesitated a moment and then replied. “My good sir all is well, return to your wife and please send her our regards and best wishes for a hasty recovery.”
Mr Wills replaced his hat on his head, touched its peak in thanks and turned on his heel with no further word.
Emily stood waiting for her father to close the door and usher her through to the living area.
She allowed Percy to take Crouch’s coat and hang it by the door, then accepted his invitation to proceed through to the living room and take a seat by the flickering fire.
Every moment was precious and there was little time for formalities.
“Mr Button, you are no doubt wondering what has brought me here.” Emily was fighting the urge to reveal everything, knowing there simply wasn’t a chance to convince her father as to what was happening in the short time before her mother and Crouch were due to return.
“Well, I must admit it seems it must be an unusual occasion that would bring you here,” Percy began, carefully.
Emily could see there was a wariness about her usually open father, a certain distaste for Crouch’s presence in the home. If only he knew that he had been here for some time!
“It’s nothing too unusual. I have it on good authority that you are a man who has what they call a ‘way with words’. My business has been a little slow lately and I was thinking, with a little more time on my hands, it would be a good time to get my story down. I have, Mr Button, led a somewhat colourful life, but when I try and find words to explain half my deeds, a quarter of my experiences, one tenth my adventures, they invariably fall short. If I need a poker built that befits my fireplace, I would visit a blacksmith. As I need a story told that will befit my life, I have sought out a wordsmith.”
Emily stopped to let the words sink in. She was surprised and somewhat disturbed at the way this little speech had rolled off her tongue. It had come all too easily and she didn’t like how much it had sounded like Crouch, how easily his words still came out of his mouth. Emily began to wonder if she was losing a grip on her own self, if the longer she was in Crouch’s form, the more she was being absorbed into him, becoming like him, until, some time likely quite soon, she simply ceased to be.
Watching her father carefully to see his reaction, Emily She knew his interest would be piqued. She knew how much he loved to write, but knew also he would find Crouch an unpleasant character and would find this a less than appealing approach out of the blue this way. She felt bad to have had to mislead him so, to tap into this love of his to justify her presence in the house, but had seen no other way. She only hoped she had calculated her father and his honour correctly.
“Mr Crouch,” Percy began slowly, clearly measuring his words. His piercing blue eyes, eyes Emily felt lucky to have inherited, did not dart around the room to avoid Crouch, yet he managed to avoid revealing too much distaste.
“It is true that I have devoted much of the latter portion of my life to working with words. My hands were never able to turn wood as well as many, to swing an axe like other men. Not for me the underappreciated artistry of a perfectly formed loaf of bread, the tailored coat or the coaxing of sweet musical joy from a flute.
“I could be surrounded by all the fish in the sea and never catch one, or return from a day in the mines with not even a pocketful of coal.
“But one could say that yes, words, though arriving late, live with me in some form of affinity.
“That is not, I hasten to add, a suggestion that I command them, that they somehow jump to my every whim and fancy. Quite the converse in fact. At their most generous, at the height of my powers and when I am in what I consider to be a realm where they are aligning closest with my wishes for them, it is at best an uneasy truce.
“For the most part, far more often than not, it is a pitiable struggle to make the least sense with the most recalcitrant of building blocks. Imagine for a moment, if you will, the task of building a house.
“Now picture undertaking this task with no tools but your bare hands, with not bricks but a substance akin to sand, or even, at times, water; trickling between your fingers, no straight edges, no reliable form, no consistency of density or shape or weight.
“The location upon which you must built this structure is not, as you may prefer, a level, sheltered position, but in fact a steep, undulating hill, naked to the elements, cursed with the wildest winds, the most violent storms.
“Now, consider that you finally succeed in creating a stable foundation upon which to build the rest of your project. Suddenly, the plans you had carefully stored away in a secret part of your mind, a part you thought impenetrable, have simply vanished. Crystal clear the day you began, they’ve now faded beyond all recall, turned inside-out and upside-down and simply blown away like so much dust.
“Meanwhile, the sand and water, at first so prone to slipping and blowing away, have sat just a moment too long. The sun has got to them and they’ve clung to each other so tightly, baking under the glare of scrutiny that they are solid as a rock. Your bare fingers are powerless to prise them apart – they are no longer what they were, they will not do what you had hoped they might do.
“This – this is what it is to write, to work with words, to turn a life into and the scribbled soaking of ink into paper in the vain and ultimately fruitless hope that, at some time in the future, that ink will somehow be able to be drawn from the paper once more, to pass up the quill and leap out from the paper into life once more.”
Shocked by the passion which her father had displayed, Emily wondered if he was addressing himself as much as Crouch. Rarely had she heard him discuss anything in such a manner, much less his own involvement in writing.
No doubt it’s because I’m seen only as a child, she thought, wondering if that is how she would forever be seen.
But he continued.
“Every time I sit down to write, these are the things I face. This, when I work with love. This, when I wrote of what I know, of what I wish to know, of what passes through my mind in those moments of unbridled life, where we are bursting with an unquenchable desire to dance, to shout to the world, to belong to a life that has so much to offer.
“Now, what you ask of me is this. You want me, I am thinking, to get inside you; to retrace your steps, rewind your days - re-breathe your very breath. You want me to get inside your skin -” at this Emily gave an uncontrollable shudder “- and, to all intents and purposes, become you.”
Her father paused a moment, and Emily was unsure whether to say anything, whether this was a question, or a statement, which is more, she thought, how it had been weighted. She took a breath to gather her thoughts but thankfully Percy continued.
“Now, nothing gives me greater pleasure in life than my writing – my beautiful family aside of course – but it’s not simply a matter of rolling up my sleeves and writing whatever I like. Far from it in fact. And, the simple fact of the matter is, Mr Crouch, I would find it very, very, difficult I suppose you could say, to take the steps that would be needed to take on such a task. I’m certainly not one for rumours, and I take all I hear with a liberal dose of salt, but, to put this in the gentlest way I possibly can, there are certain aspects to your story, as I understand it, that makes what you propose something beyond what I feel can have events transpire in the manner in which you may have envisaged in coming to me today.”
Soaking up what her father had said, picking apart the carefully couched words, Emily deduced that he was gently suggesting to Crouch that his request would find no succour in this instance. She weighed her next words carefully.
“Do I take it then, Mr Button, that what you are suggesting to me is this. My life, as it is, would find nought but trouble when measured against any attempts to wrest it into a shape suitable for notating; that any efforts to render it in a form other than that in which I myself must live, no matter what inspiration and perspiration were applied, would be ultimately futile regardless of to whom I entrusted the task of wielding the quill, no matter what faculty such a person may have with language, be it spoken or written?”
Emily was once again disconcerted by her own unexpected faculty with language, this speech that began carefully in her own thoughts but quickly developed a pace and level of reflection that she believed beyond her conscious application. She also knew this is not really what her father had indicated, but wanted to give him a gentler way out than she is sure Crouch really would have.
Her father looked at her closely and for a moment she was sure he had seen her – not Crouch but her, Emily, looking back at him. But her jolted shock of excitement at the prospect was short-lived.
“Mr Crouch, you have understood me very well. While your proposition intrigues me, it is, ultimately, an endeavour that can only end in disappointment. My suggestion to you is to entrust these tales, these chapters in what I have no doubt is a most intriguing and incomparable life, to your memory. The mind is a most wonderful thing, the master storyteller. Your retrieval of these memories will offer you far more than any mere scribe can hope to emulate.”
Emily sense her time was running out. There seemed to be little opportunity to slip upstairs as hoped – on what pretence could she possibly draw? Then it occurred to her. She raised her hand to her mouth and coughed lightly, then more violently. Her throat made a choking sound and as her father looked at her with concern, she croaked the word ‘water’. As Percy raced off to the kitchen, Emily stopped her racking cough and quickly turned to the window. She has just enough time to turn the latch and step back to her spot before Percy came in, a cup of water in hand.
Emily let out a couple more coughs for good measure, and took hold of the cup. Holding it to her lips she took a small sip and returned it to her father.
“That’s better. And Mr Button, may I say I am truly sorry to have troubled you so.”
“Think nothing of it. I’m sorry I can’t be of more assistance with...”
“Oh do not despair on my behalf, I see in what you say the good sense of one who knows about such matters. I will take your advice and take leave of you without any further ado.”
“I shall see you out. Here, don’t forget your coat. Good day Mr Crouch.”
“Good day Fa- Mr Button,” Emily stumbled, passing from the warm, stuffy air of her home into the bracing cold. It wasn’t until the door had closed behind her that she realised how heavily the rain now fell. It must have been falling for some time, for there were large puddles forming where the cobblestones were less evenly placed.
A passing carriage sped by, its spinning wheels flicking up muddy water from the puddles and forcing Emily to jump back from its splashing passage. After it had passed she raced across the street and took shelter in a doorway a few doors further up, away from town. She watched the upstairs window and was pleased to see the light that showed her father had returned to his study. She ducked back behind the doorway when she saw him peer out from behind the curtains, evidently looking to see if he could catch a last glimpse of Crouch disappearing down the street.
Percy must have been satisfied Crouch had passed the corner out of view, for the curtain dropped back into place. The soft light against it grew a little brighter, suggesting he had turned his lamp back up and was settling down to some more work after what must have been a most disturbing distraction.
Emily had just worked up the courage to return across the street and try the window, when from the corner of her eye she saw two figures walking quickly up the street. The woman cowering under her coat may have been any mother living up and down the street, but the young girl in bright red relief against the dun coloured terraces was unmistakably Emily Button.
Thursday, 27 November 2008
Vinyl Diaries XXXIII: Halcyon
Oh yes, I forgot I had even written this one - was quite a nice night, and proves I haven’t been entirely lazy...
Halcyon turns 10
Halcyon turns 10
Wednesday, 19 November 2008
Feet and their itchy ways
My it's dusty in here...
I really have no excuse, other than having spent much of recent time in the vicinity of Vietnam, and been a little distracted by the endless beauty of her landscape, culture, food and people.
Planning for imminent further travels seems to be taking up a bit of time now that I'm back, along with sifting through these memories.
Words will find a way to seep up and out though, as is their wont, so I'll coral a few and drop them in here soon.
I really have no excuse, other than having spent much of recent time in the vicinity of Vietnam, and been a little distracted by the endless beauty of her landscape, culture, food and people.
Planning for imminent further travels seems to be taking up a bit of time now that I'm back, along with sifting through these memories.
Words will find a way to seep up and out though, as is their wont, so I'll coral a few and drop them in here soon.
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