Brigit's Flame January 2015 Challenge (Week Three) - Just for Fun - Burns Night 1941
Title: Burns Night 1941
Author: Florence A. Watson
Book: Mary Renault - the Charioteer
Characters: Alec Deacon, Sandy Reid, Claude
Written for: Brigit’s Flame January 2015 Challenge - Week Three (Just for Fun)
Prompt: Utopia (Tradition and Ritual)
Crossposted to: RenaultX
Length: 473 words
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and make no profit from them.
Author’s Notes: (1) Burns Night is on 25th January. Robert Burns wrote “Address to a Haggis” in 1787; the dish is normally served as a part of Burns Night celebrations.
Burns Night 1941
He was supposed to be the sensible one in his family, Alec mused as he looked across the room to where Sandy was flourishing a sharp knife. And the sensible one in this relationship. How ‘sensible’ had he been to get involved with Sandy, though? Those first days of joy and pleasure were long since gone; and he had known they would not last, even at the very beginning. So why had he agreed they should live together? Why had he stayed all this time?
Here he was at yet another party - this one a gesture toward Sandy’s Scottish heritage, which in reality had simply provided the excuse to fill their small flat with guests and merriment in an attempt to mask the deep rifts in their relationship. He’d gone well past the stage of losing himself in fleeting liaisons and now retreated to mind the bar each time he could not finagle an extra shift at hospital. The nightly bombings had been quite good for that; but things had been quieter since Christmas and he was not the only one who wanted extra shifts, so they were harder to come by. Alec poured himself a finger of whiskey and downed it in one gulp, and contemplated his empty glass briefly before refilling it. He had tomorrow to recover if need be; and the company at this party wasn’t such he needed his wits about him.
Somehow Sandy had found a haggis; where Alec did not really want to enquire too closely. He had also acquired a recording of bagpipes. Claude had cranked up the volume of the gramophone and the wail of music reverberated in the small room while the haggis was ceremoniously brought in from the kitchen where it had been bubbling away in a large saucepan of water for the past hour. Alec watched, bemused, as Claude shut off the music in response to a gesture from his host. Sandy theatrically declaimed Burns’ famous poem, for once allowing his Scottish accent to show, before he stabbed the haggis. Alec had once seen it done north of the border at a weekend party before the war. Those guests had raised a rousing cheer in response to the ‘death’ of the pudding; in contrast, Sandy’s guests seemed more confused than celebratory. Alec watched as Claude made some quip and Sandy - decidedly the worse for drink - dissolved into giggles.
Alec looked at his own glass, now empty again. He had no recollection of having drunk its contents. It was only his fourth this evening, he thought, as he poured the last of the bottle into his glass. Just enough to loosen inhibitions; just enough to give him the courage to say - finally and probably not all that sensibly - what had to be said. Funny to call it Dutch courage, when Scotch was his tipple.
This entry was originally posted at http://fawatson.dreamwidth.org/30096.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Author: Florence A. Watson
Book: Mary Renault - the Charioteer
Characters: Alec Deacon, Sandy Reid, Claude
Written for: Brigit’s Flame January 2015 Challenge - Week Three (Just for Fun)
Prompt: Utopia (Tradition and Ritual)
Crossposted to: RenaultX
Length: 473 words
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and make no profit from them.
Author’s Notes: (1) Burns Night is on 25th January. Robert Burns wrote “Address to a Haggis” in 1787; the dish is normally served as a part of Burns Night celebrations.
Burns Night 1941
He was supposed to be the sensible one in his family, Alec mused as he looked across the room to where Sandy was flourishing a sharp knife. And the sensible one in this relationship. How ‘sensible’ had he been to get involved with Sandy, though? Those first days of joy and pleasure were long since gone; and he had known they would not last, even at the very beginning. So why had he agreed they should live together? Why had he stayed all this time?
Here he was at yet another party - this one a gesture toward Sandy’s Scottish heritage, which in reality had simply provided the excuse to fill their small flat with guests and merriment in an attempt to mask the deep rifts in their relationship. He’d gone well past the stage of losing himself in fleeting liaisons and now retreated to mind the bar each time he could not finagle an extra shift at hospital. The nightly bombings had been quite good for that; but things had been quieter since Christmas and he was not the only one who wanted extra shifts, so they were harder to come by. Alec poured himself a finger of whiskey and downed it in one gulp, and contemplated his empty glass briefly before refilling it. He had tomorrow to recover if need be; and the company at this party wasn’t such he needed his wits about him.
Somehow Sandy had found a haggis; where Alec did not really want to enquire too closely. He had also acquired a recording of bagpipes. Claude had cranked up the volume of the gramophone and the wail of music reverberated in the small room while the haggis was ceremoniously brought in from the kitchen where it had been bubbling away in a large saucepan of water for the past hour. Alec watched, bemused, as Claude shut off the music in response to a gesture from his host. Sandy theatrically declaimed Burns’ famous poem, for once allowing his Scottish accent to show, before he stabbed the haggis. Alec had once seen it done north of the border at a weekend party before the war. Those guests had raised a rousing cheer in response to the ‘death’ of the pudding; in contrast, Sandy’s guests seemed more confused than celebratory. Alec watched as Claude made some quip and Sandy - decidedly the worse for drink - dissolved into giggles.
Alec looked at his own glass, now empty again. He had no recollection of having drunk its contents. It was only his fourth this evening, he thought, as he poured the last of the bottle into his glass. Just enough to loosen inhibitions; just enough to give him the courage to say - finally and probably not all that sensibly - what had to be said. Funny to call it Dutch courage, when Scotch was his tipple.
This entry was originally posted at http://fawatson.dreamwidth.org/30096.html. Please comment there using OpenID.