(no subject)
Title: Some Day
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to an actual person, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Original pen-date: 9 November 2010
Summary: A wife awaits the return of her sailor. Plymouth, July 1802.
Author's Note: Another plot bunny.
A faint sea-breeze whispered over the docks. It carried the smell of brine and fish, but did little to lessen the day's heat. The busy flow of foot traffic was dominated by harbour-men, though here and there the flash of skirts could be seen. Despite the sun's bright warmth, she went out that morning well-wrapped in a shawl. Taking a chill was much too easy these days. Regular bouts of fever had left her ever susceptible to cold and ache. The long years of shifting for herself had taken their toll as well. Life was far from easy for a seaman's wife.
No one paid her any mind as she picked her way slowly along the street. What was there to see, after all? Just another woman roaming near the docks. That was probably for the best. She'd lost any interest in the broader world's sympathy, honest or not, years ago. Not that there had been much of that anyway. The Navy was not exactly popular. The constant visits from press gangs, which inevitably came ashore with each ship that anchored in the harbour, made the Navy few friends. Her Bill had gone to sea because of the press.
That had been nearly thirteen years ago. She'd seen him only three times since. The last time had been after the Spithead mutiny. When news had broken of the fleet's refusal to go to sea, she had travelled to Portsmouth, knowing only that Bill's ship was anchored there. Not for the first time, she had tried to persuade him to quit the Navy, to desert, to do whatever it took to leave the service. The sea had gotten its claws into him, however, and he had refused. It didn't matter he had family on land, or a good trade. There was the sea, glittering and enticing, always keeping him away.
Maybe now, though, it would be different. There was peace with France. Word had spread about it like wildfire only a couple of months before. She had begun walking along near the docks every day since learning of it, taking up a routine that had fallen into neglect. Before the news broke, it had been weeks since she felt able to hold to that routine. It was hard to walk past the same place day after day, searching for one face amongst dozens, knowing all the while it was a futile effort. Maybe now it would be different. With peace, men would come home from the sea.
"Mind where yer walkin'!" A man in a short blue jacket pushed roughly past her, but she said nothing in reply. He was obviously a sailor and was equally obviously not Bill. She put the man from her mind. He held no importance. Instead, she turned her eyes toward the sea and looked over the varied array of ships at anchor with quiet hopeful interest. Was one of those his? There was no way of knowing. In one of his rare letters, read to her by Mister Hanson, the bookseller, he mentioned being with a ship called Venerable. That letter had come no less than two years ago. Where he might be now was a complete mystery.
It was nearing midday when finally she returned to her tiny room above a tavern. This was all she could afford, and barely at that. Her sister had offered her to live in her cottage, outside Plymouth, but pride made her refuse. Surely her situation was not so bad that she needed charity. There were times she pondered the wisdom of breaking down and accepting the offer, of course, but she never entertained such thoughts for long. As hard as it might be, she would remain where she was and wait for Bill.
Her son was waiting for her as she tramped wearily up the rickety backstairs. How he'd grown in these past few years. He was nearly fifteen now. The very image of his father, who he barely recalled and had seen but once. There was a small cloth-wrapped bundle cradled under his arm, clearly a prize spirited away from his master's larder. "Bread and cheese, Mother," he said cheerfully, holding the bundle out to her as she topped the stairs. Bless him. He was such a good boy.
"A meal for royalty indeed," she told him, clutching the bundle to her like it was a precious jewel. "Let's us feast on it."
Beaming, the boy followed her into the narrow hall and to the small room that was her haven. There was little enough for furnishings inside. A straw pallet, a blanket, a rough pillow, and a few other odds and ends to help with the work of living. The largest piece of furniture was a chest, pushed against the wall. It served multiple purposes as needed. Now it would stand duty as a dining table. The boy fetched a knife from the small basin by the bed, while she unrolled the bundle he'd brought. It was indeed bread and fresh soft bread at that.
Inside the chest was a bottle, which she retrieved before carefully cutting the bread into slices. It was the dearest treasure she had. A bottle of smuggled French wine, which she had stolen from the tavern below where she sat. Now seemed as good a time as any to enjoy it, for it was rare indeed to have anything fresh to eat, bread or otherwise. There was but one tin mug in the room, with which they'd share the wine, but that was hardly a worry. She left the task of pouring the wine to her son, while she cradled the uncarved cheese delicately in her worn hands. It was soft and cool, and smelled like heaven.
Presently, she set the pale yellow wheel onto the cloth for the boy to cut it into wedges. The bread was sliced, the wine poured, and the cheese being cut. There was nothing missing save Bill. She watched the boy a moment before averting her gaze. He was indeed a mirror of his father. Some day Bill'd be back. To have the family whole again was her dearest wish. Some day, without a doubt. Perhaps she would save whatever was left of the wine until then.
"Drink, Mother?" Her son held the tin mug out to her, his lips damp with wine. He had not yet learned to relish it. She smiled thinly and accepted the mug. The wine tasted marvellous as it ran down her throat. A perfect compliment to the unusually fine meal. A slice of bread topped with a wedge of cheese, followed by another swallow of wine. It would never do to get used to such luxury but for now it was like living far beyond any dream.
They ate in companionable silence, until they had taken their fill. Over half a loaf of bread and a third of the cheese remained. Both were carefully wrapped in the cloth bundle and stowed in the chest upon which they'd lately rested. The wine bottle was recorked, three-quarters full, and put away as well. It was more than she had eaten at one sitting in recent memory. Feeling pleasantly sated was indeed a luxury. She rose to her feet and swept away the few crumbs that had spilled off the chest, while her son returned the old knife and tin mug to the little washing basin. He would have to return to the baker's now. In truth he should not have left there at all.
"Come," she said to him. "I'll walk with you a ways."
She could not remain away long herself, for the tavern-keeper would expect her back soon. But she could spare a few minutes to accompany her son to his apprentice-master. Not the least, it was another opportunity to walk and perhaps finally see her Bill, home to the land at last. In the midday crowds, there were many blue jackets, but none of them with familiar faces. She looked at each of them anyway as they passed, ever hopeful. One could never know when good fortune would smile at last.
There was no good fortune today, however. She delivered the boy to the baker's but wasted no time on farewells. He would not go anywhere without her knowing. Certainly he would never abandon the land, as his father, her Bill, had done. She had taught him better than that. Her path back to the tavern was straight and simple, yet she walked with her same customary slow step. It was a pace she had grown used to over time. An endless search for the end to all the some days. A face in the crowd, a familiar booming voice. That was all it would take. And some day it would come to pass.
Some day.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to an actual person, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Original pen-date: 9 November 2010
Summary: A wife awaits the return of her sailor. Plymouth, July 1802.
Author's Note: Another plot bunny.
A faint sea-breeze whispered over the docks. It carried the smell of brine and fish, but did little to lessen the day's heat. The busy flow of foot traffic was dominated by harbour-men, though here and there the flash of skirts could be seen. Despite the sun's bright warmth, she went out that morning well-wrapped in a shawl. Taking a chill was much too easy these days. Regular bouts of fever had left her ever susceptible to cold and ache. The long years of shifting for herself had taken their toll as well. Life was far from easy for a seaman's wife.
No one paid her any mind as she picked her way slowly along the street. What was there to see, after all? Just another woman roaming near the docks. That was probably for the best. She'd lost any interest in the broader world's sympathy, honest or not, years ago. Not that there had been much of that anyway. The Navy was not exactly popular. The constant visits from press gangs, which inevitably came ashore with each ship that anchored in the harbour, made the Navy few friends. Her Bill had gone to sea because of the press.
That had been nearly thirteen years ago. She'd seen him only three times since. The last time had been after the Spithead mutiny. When news had broken of the fleet's refusal to go to sea, she had travelled to Portsmouth, knowing only that Bill's ship was anchored there. Not for the first time, she had tried to persuade him to quit the Navy, to desert, to do whatever it took to leave the service. The sea had gotten its claws into him, however, and he had refused. It didn't matter he had family on land, or a good trade. There was the sea, glittering and enticing, always keeping him away.
Maybe now, though, it would be different. There was peace with France. Word had spread about it like wildfire only a couple of months before. She had begun walking along near the docks every day since learning of it, taking up a routine that had fallen into neglect. Before the news broke, it had been weeks since she felt able to hold to that routine. It was hard to walk past the same place day after day, searching for one face amongst dozens, knowing all the while it was a futile effort. Maybe now it would be different. With peace, men would come home from the sea.
"Mind where yer walkin'!" A man in a short blue jacket pushed roughly past her, but she said nothing in reply. He was obviously a sailor and was equally obviously not Bill. She put the man from her mind. He held no importance. Instead, she turned her eyes toward the sea and looked over the varied array of ships at anchor with quiet hopeful interest. Was one of those his? There was no way of knowing. In one of his rare letters, read to her by Mister Hanson, the bookseller, he mentioned being with a ship called Venerable. That letter had come no less than two years ago. Where he might be now was a complete mystery.
It was nearing midday when finally she returned to her tiny room above a tavern. This was all she could afford, and barely at that. Her sister had offered her to live in her cottage, outside Plymouth, but pride made her refuse. Surely her situation was not so bad that she needed charity. There were times she pondered the wisdom of breaking down and accepting the offer, of course, but she never entertained such thoughts for long. As hard as it might be, she would remain where she was and wait for Bill.
Her son was waiting for her as she tramped wearily up the rickety backstairs. How he'd grown in these past few years. He was nearly fifteen now. The very image of his father, who he barely recalled and had seen but once. There was a small cloth-wrapped bundle cradled under his arm, clearly a prize spirited away from his master's larder. "Bread and cheese, Mother," he said cheerfully, holding the bundle out to her as she topped the stairs. Bless him. He was such a good boy.
"A meal for royalty indeed," she told him, clutching the bundle to her like it was a precious jewel. "Let's us feast on it."
Beaming, the boy followed her into the narrow hall and to the small room that was her haven. There was little enough for furnishings inside. A straw pallet, a blanket, a rough pillow, and a few other odds and ends to help with the work of living. The largest piece of furniture was a chest, pushed against the wall. It served multiple purposes as needed. Now it would stand duty as a dining table. The boy fetched a knife from the small basin by the bed, while she unrolled the bundle he'd brought. It was indeed bread and fresh soft bread at that.
Inside the chest was a bottle, which she retrieved before carefully cutting the bread into slices. It was the dearest treasure she had. A bottle of smuggled French wine, which she had stolen from the tavern below where she sat. Now seemed as good a time as any to enjoy it, for it was rare indeed to have anything fresh to eat, bread or otherwise. There was but one tin mug in the room, with which they'd share the wine, but that was hardly a worry. She left the task of pouring the wine to her son, while she cradled the uncarved cheese delicately in her worn hands. It was soft and cool, and smelled like heaven.
Presently, she set the pale yellow wheel onto the cloth for the boy to cut it into wedges. The bread was sliced, the wine poured, and the cheese being cut. There was nothing missing save Bill. She watched the boy a moment before averting her gaze. He was indeed a mirror of his father. Some day Bill'd be back. To have the family whole again was her dearest wish. Some day, without a doubt. Perhaps she would save whatever was left of the wine until then.
"Drink, Mother?" Her son held the tin mug out to her, his lips damp with wine. He had not yet learned to relish it. She smiled thinly and accepted the mug. The wine tasted marvellous as it ran down her throat. A perfect compliment to the unusually fine meal. A slice of bread topped with a wedge of cheese, followed by another swallow of wine. It would never do to get used to such luxury but for now it was like living far beyond any dream.
They ate in companionable silence, until they had taken their fill. Over half a loaf of bread and a third of the cheese remained. Both were carefully wrapped in the cloth bundle and stowed in the chest upon which they'd lately rested. The wine bottle was recorked, three-quarters full, and put away as well. It was more than she had eaten at one sitting in recent memory. Feeling pleasantly sated was indeed a luxury. She rose to her feet and swept away the few crumbs that had spilled off the chest, while her son returned the old knife and tin mug to the little washing basin. He would have to return to the baker's now. In truth he should not have left there at all.
"Come," she said to him. "I'll walk with you a ways."
She could not remain away long herself, for the tavern-keeper would expect her back soon. But she could spare a few minutes to accompany her son to his apprentice-master. Not the least, it was another opportunity to walk and perhaps finally see her Bill, home to the land at last. In the midday crowds, there were many blue jackets, but none of them with familiar faces. She looked at each of them anyway as they passed, ever hopeful. One could never know when good fortune would smile at last.
There was no good fortune today, however. She delivered the boy to the baker's but wasted no time on farewells. He would not go anywhere without her knowing. Certainly he would never abandon the land, as his father, her Bill, had done. She had taught him better than that. Her path back to the tavern was straight and simple, yet she walked with her same customary slow step. It was a pace she had grown used to over time. An endless search for the end to all the some days. A face in the crowd, a familiar booming voice. That was all it would take. And some day it would come to pass.
Some day.