Writing Therapy
I was moaning the other day to meegat that I was having trouble with the story I've been writing for about eighteen months now - which is a long time even for me. I think it's been through so many changes of voice and character that I've just about had enough of it! Anyway, in the course of the conversation I wondered what it would be like to do a cross-over fic of the Buffyverse and my own strange little world.... hmmmm.... of course, non of you have read any of my story, so in effect, the fact that it is a cross-over is irrelevant. All you need to know is that the characters Hazel Reed and Rosalind Penketh have a secret life outside of this fic.
So with a special thank you to meegat, and to wish you all the very best for 2007, I give you part one of my literary self-therapy:
(Set when Giles goes back to England in Season 6??? I'm soooo out of practice! This is a non-shippy tale... all usual disclaimers apply!)
Renting a property in Cambridge had proved difficult and costly. Still, Giles was determined. With the help of an old chum from Oxford he had managed to get his hands on a readers’ ticket for the University Library, and by golly he was going to spend the summer with his nose in one book after another, even if it meant challenging the estate agent to a mud wrestling match. He eyed the efficient, blonde, pony-tailed agent as she tapped away on her computer keyboard. Maybe he shouldn’t rule out mud wrestling - it would be un-gentlemanly to refuse the lady such an opportunity. The estate agent looked up from her computer screen at the sound of his snort.
Giles glanced away. ‘Sorry, something funny came to mind.’
She treated him to a look of suspicion before turning her attention back to the computer screen.
‘Do you cycle, Mr Giles?’
‘I can do. How far is it?’
The agent spoke again after a few clicks of her mouse: ‘about two and a half miles away from the library.’
Giles considered. Two miles wasn’t all that far and the cycling would no doubt do him good. The days were marching on and if he didn’t find something soon he would have to resort to hiding in the first-floor gents when the librarians locked up for the night - not the best of arrangements by any means.
‘Where is it?’ he asked.
‘Grantchester - if you know where that is?’
He had no idea where it lay geographically, but he’d heard of the place and for some reason it brought to mind the Bloomsbury Group.
‘It’s a three bedroom house. Not the most attractive of properties but it’s relatively cheap for the area. The neighbour is holding the keys. I could give her a call and ask if you could view today.’
Giles nodded and slouched back in uncomfortable bucket-style chair. As the agent got on with calling the neighbour, his eyes drifted over to the window through which he could observe the bustling street beyond. Tourists, with their eyes raised to traffic-stained towers and spires, stopped without warning, causing three-person pile-ups and infuriating locals who were merely trying to do their shopping. Groups of students, who had yet to leave, giggled and shrieked like life was one long May Ball; time was fuelled by cheap champagne and joie de vive. Cambridge felt different to Oxford even though its business was much the same. There was less industry, less life. Cambridge appeared to have successfully beaten back the locals to the side streets that no student would ever venture down. The university had slithered down every highway and byway of the town centre, populating and claiming all the land its avarice required. Once upon a time it had been by royal charter, these days’ generous endowments and grateful alumni ensured the steady growth of the education business.
‘Would three o’clock, suit?’ the agent asked, cupping her hand over the receiver.
Giles checked his watch. It was eleven-thirty, almost time for lunch.
‘Perfect,’ he replied, smiling.
***
He had stopped at Heffers to pick up a volume of Rupert Brooke’s poetry (having remembered his fame-bestowing link with the village), and at the tourist information office for a map. It hadn’t taken that long to escape the bustle of town in favour of the relative serenity of Grantchester Meadows. Now this place did mean something to him. It had given its name to a track by Pink Floyd; being there he could appreciate the landscapes influence. The sun was at its zenith which seemed to please the menagerie of winged beasts that populated the warm air; blue mayflies with black-tipped wings, butterflies of a variety he had never laid eyes on before and drunken bumblebees that crashed from flower to flower with reckless abandon. Between the hum of insects and the amusing lowing noises of the cattle that wandered the length of the meadows, he could discern the low thump of a bass beat, no doubt emanating from some teenager’s ghetto blaster. Whatever they were playing, it most certainly was not Pink Floyd. He had to negotiate the occasional cyclist on the narrow path, and had met a couple who were out walking an excitable cocker spaniel, but other than that, he seemed to have the walk to Grantchester to himself.
The elbow of the river came into view - a perfect pastoral scene right out of a six foot Constable canvas. He stopped and took in the graceful sweep of the rise beyond the river, how the light played with the surface of the water and the movement of the reeds as they were swayed by the warmest of breezes. He thought that he was experiencing contentment, or something damned close to it. And didn’t it make a change? Leaving had been difficult - an understatement. It had almost killed him, quite literally. The doctor had told him that the pains in his chest were a warning sign, his body telling him to change his lifestyle, reduce stress, cut out the drinking and take it easy. His blood pressure reading had been 180 over 110 and the doctor had seemed to get some pleasure out of describing to him all the breakdowns that pressure could cause: angina, heart attack, an aneurism - not exactly a glamorous list of ways to go. He hadn’t wanted to say anything to the gang about it. There had been too much heartache in that group to worry them about his health. The thought of mentioning the word aneurism to Buffy was unthinkable. So he had booked his ticket, put the shop in the more than capable hands of Anya, and said his goodbyes mumbling things about lessons to be learnt and standing on ones own two feet. His feet were swelling inside his newly purchased hiking boots - the space between his toes and the unyielding leather had decreased significantly since he had turned towards the river off Kings Parade. He shifted his feet, feeling the beginning of a blister forming on his right little toe. Time to find this famous tearoom, he thought, and continued along the path.
The trail narrowed as he passed a tiny cottage that would have been ideal for him (but presumably was ideal for the occupant also) and then opened out onto a road. To the right was the church, but just a little way down the slope of the road he spotted a signpost for the Orchard Tea Garden. He walked in that direction, the gradient of the road doing nothing for his blister. From behind an archway of overgrown apple trees sprung an orchard of evergreen deckchairs, some occupied, others awaiting usefulness. The land belonged to them and not to the gnarled figures of the fruit trees that were propped up with walking canes and crutches, so old were their frames. So this was the playground of that impressive list of names; Woolf, Wittgenstein, Keynes, Russell and Brooke? Giles could comprehend how one could idle away the days in such a spot. For the first time in a long time he was reminded of long walks he had taken with college friends during which they would discuss, with the authority that comes with youth, everything from classical drama to fiscal policy. He used to enjoy the stimulation of other people’s thoughts and yet, over the previous ten years or so, he had found himself to be a loner, shy of company. He was in touch with few of his friends. Friends - that mode of relationship had long expired, they were more like acquaintances of fixed abode, but most of them had moved on, like he had done. His throat twinged with regret.
Giles picked his way through the clumps of deckchairs to the cabin. After going through the wrong door, he eventually found the servery which offered many a temptation to someone who was trying to keep a firm hand on his diet; scones of every variety served with clotted cream, butter and jam, carrot cake (that was surely the healthy option), apple pie, something chocolaty, and that was before he had even got as far as the soup and sandwiches. It was positively malevolent to put the deserts first, he thought as he slid his tray on toward the till where he ordered a ham and apple chutney roll and a pot of Darjeeling. Impressed with his own self control, he quickly paid for his lunch and escaped out the door before his gaze could stray back to an inviting display of pastries. Outside, the warmth of the breeze and the sight of a perfect blue sky took his mind off his sweet tooth.
He found a quiet spot, far away from families with children and students who delighted in the sound of their own voice, under a tree that offered perfect shade. There he polished off his roll and sipped black tea - which in itself must offend his English sensibilities, he told himself. Then he sunk down into the deckchair, and for a while closed his eyes and rested his head against its frame. It was pleasant. May be he could make a habit of this kind of thing - relaxing, not worrying about the fate of the world. After a few minutes his left leg started to tingle, compelling him to shift his position, which he did without opening his eyes. He took in a long deep satisfying breath - that was better. He was relaxed and comfortable once again - that was until some creature with more legs than he had landed on his arm and bit down hard.
‘Ow! Bloody thing!’ Giles cursed, as he swatted the large brown horsefly from his arm. He absolutely would not be defeated, not by his body and not by bloody nature. He wiped away the small spot of blood that had welled where the beast’s fangs had sunk into his flesh, then lay back and once again closed his eyes. The frame of the deckchair was digging into his skull - maybe it was in the wrong position and if he got up and adjusted it his head would rest on canvas rather than wood? Giles sighed, it was hopeless. He opened his eyes and reached for the book of Rupert Brooke’s poetry. He flicked through the pages of verse - the produce of a tragically short life. Finding The Old Vicarage, Grantchester, he opened the book fully and read. It was a little saccharine for his taste, although he could remember several occasions when he had felt that same the urge to wax lyrical about his romanticised devotion to his homeland, especially in those first few years of living in California. Everything had seemed so direct and immediate - so few nuances. Of course that had not been the reality at all, just the manifestation of his outrage at being sent to the land of the Big Mac, Dunkin Donuts, twenty-four hour home shopping, and an inbred aversion to queuing. He missed the donuts. He wondered if there had been donuts on offer back in the cabin.
I only know that you may lie
Day-long and watch the Cambridge sky,
And, flower-lulled in sleepy grass,
Hear the cool lapse of hours pass,
Until the centuries blend and blur
In Grantchester, in Grantchester....
Giles checked his watch - it was almost time to find his way to Hyacinth Cottage, the ‘small, unattractive property’ the agent had arranged for him to view. Given the tendency of estate agents to talk up the properties on their books, he wondered what a small, unattractive cottage looked like. Still, it was affordable and he had to stay somewhere, he certainly couldn’t afford many more nights in a hotel and it would be quite something to live in Grantchester. He looked back to the poem and continued to read.
A hundred Vicars down the lawn;
Curates, long dust, will come and go
On lissome, clerical, printless toe;
And oft between the boughs is seen
The sly shade of a Rural Dean ...
Till, at a shiver in the skies,
Vanishing with satanic cries,
The prim ecclesiastic rout
Leaves but a startled sleeper-out,
Grey heavens, the first bird’s drowsy calls,
The falling house that never falls.
He glanced around the orchard but couldn’t see a sly shade of a Rural Dean, not that you could tell them apart in these days of trendy vicars who eschewed traditional clerical dress. Giles wasn’t even sure if the Church of England still had Rural Deans, or whether they had been superseded by a job title that reflected the modern church - executive officer with special responsibility for rural affairs, perhaps?
Say, is there Beauty yet to find?
And Certainty? And Quiet kind?
Deep meadows yet, for to forget
The lies, and truths, and pain? ...oh! Yet
Stands the Church clock at ten to three?
And is there honey still for tea?
Giles closed the book and rested it on his knee. He wondered what pain the young man referred to. Whatever it was it was foolish to think that it could be erased by beauty and certainty. In his experience, beauty and certainty could just as easily lead to pain as any other quality of being - more easily, perhaps. But Brooke had been a young man, with young man’s concerns; the clock had stopped at ten to three when poetry, love and philosophy were all that mattered; when war was an honourable pursuit for boys young enough to be playing with bows and arrows, and when to be a poet was to be a god. At least Brooke hadn’t lived long enough to see battlegrounds of his playmates soaked with mustard clouds, and poppies standing where his chums once stood dreaming of a better world. Giles ran his hand over the cover of the book, saddened by the thought of the young man’s grave far from home but forever England.
Tucking the book under his arm, Giles checked the rudimentary map the estate agent had printed for him and then returned his tray to the racks, just has the sign on the table had instructed him. He headed back in the direction he had come, out onto the road and up the hill, which took the pressure off his now throbbing little toe. As he passed by the church he glanced at the clock tower and smiled. The time was a quarter to three. A childish urge made him consider standing there until ten to, to see what happened. Of course he knew that nothing would happen, but he would like to imagine that it could. And after all the strange phenomena that he had witnessed, he knew that it wasn’t totally out of the question. Still, he continued on his way, letting the church be for its special time when life is as sweet as honey and young men and women are nothing more than players in a Chaucerian tale.
***
.... There's probably hundreds of typos/mistakes in there... forgive me?
So with a special thank you to meegat, and to wish you all the very best for 2007, I give you part one of my literary self-therapy:
(Set when Giles goes back to England in Season 6??? I'm soooo out of practice! This is a non-shippy tale... all usual disclaimers apply!)
Renting a property in Cambridge had proved difficult and costly. Still, Giles was determined. With the help of an old chum from Oxford he had managed to get his hands on a readers’ ticket for the University Library, and by golly he was going to spend the summer with his nose in one book after another, even if it meant challenging the estate agent to a mud wrestling match. He eyed the efficient, blonde, pony-tailed agent as she tapped away on her computer keyboard. Maybe he shouldn’t rule out mud wrestling - it would be un-gentlemanly to refuse the lady such an opportunity. The estate agent looked up from her computer screen at the sound of his snort.
Giles glanced away. ‘Sorry, something funny came to mind.’
She treated him to a look of suspicion before turning her attention back to the computer screen.
‘Do you cycle, Mr Giles?’
‘I can do. How far is it?’
The agent spoke again after a few clicks of her mouse: ‘about two and a half miles away from the library.’
Giles considered. Two miles wasn’t all that far and the cycling would no doubt do him good. The days were marching on and if he didn’t find something soon he would have to resort to hiding in the first-floor gents when the librarians locked up for the night - not the best of arrangements by any means.
‘Where is it?’ he asked.
‘Grantchester - if you know where that is?’
He had no idea where it lay geographically, but he’d heard of the place and for some reason it brought to mind the Bloomsbury Group.
‘It’s a three bedroom house. Not the most attractive of properties but it’s relatively cheap for the area. The neighbour is holding the keys. I could give her a call and ask if you could view today.’
Giles nodded and slouched back in uncomfortable bucket-style chair. As the agent got on with calling the neighbour, his eyes drifted over to the window through which he could observe the bustling street beyond. Tourists, with their eyes raised to traffic-stained towers and spires, stopped without warning, causing three-person pile-ups and infuriating locals who were merely trying to do their shopping. Groups of students, who had yet to leave, giggled and shrieked like life was one long May Ball; time was fuelled by cheap champagne and joie de vive. Cambridge felt different to Oxford even though its business was much the same. There was less industry, less life. Cambridge appeared to have successfully beaten back the locals to the side streets that no student would ever venture down. The university had slithered down every highway and byway of the town centre, populating and claiming all the land its avarice required. Once upon a time it had been by royal charter, these days’ generous endowments and grateful alumni ensured the steady growth of the education business.
‘Would three o’clock, suit?’ the agent asked, cupping her hand over the receiver.
Giles checked his watch. It was eleven-thirty, almost time for lunch.
‘Perfect,’ he replied, smiling.
***
He had stopped at Heffers to pick up a volume of Rupert Brooke’s poetry (having remembered his fame-bestowing link with the village), and at the tourist information office for a map. It hadn’t taken that long to escape the bustle of town in favour of the relative serenity of Grantchester Meadows. Now this place did mean something to him. It had given its name to a track by Pink Floyd; being there he could appreciate the landscapes influence. The sun was at its zenith which seemed to please the menagerie of winged beasts that populated the warm air; blue mayflies with black-tipped wings, butterflies of a variety he had never laid eyes on before and drunken bumblebees that crashed from flower to flower with reckless abandon. Between the hum of insects and the amusing lowing noises of the cattle that wandered the length of the meadows, he could discern the low thump of a bass beat, no doubt emanating from some teenager’s ghetto blaster. Whatever they were playing, it most certainly was not Pink Floyd. He had to negotiate the occasional cyclist on the narrow path, and had met a couple who were out walking an excitable cocker spaniel, but other than that, he seemed to have the walk to Grantchester to himself.
The elbow of the river came into view - a perfect pastoral scene right out of a six foot Constable canvas. He stopped and took in the graceful sweep of the rise beyond the river, how the light played with the surface of the water and the movement of the reeds as they were swayed by the warmest of breezes. He thought that he was experiencing contentment, or something damned close to it. And didn’t it make a change? Leaving had been difficult - an understatement. It had almost killed him, quite literally. The doctor had told him that the pains in his chest were a warning sign, his body telling him to change his lifestyle, reduce stress, cut out the drinking and take it easy. His blood pressure reading had been 180 over 110 and the doctor had seemed to get some pleasure out of describing to him all the breakdowns that pressure could cause: angina, heart attack, an aneurism - not exactly a glamorous list of ways to go. He hadn’t wanted to say anything to the gang about it. There had been too much heartache in that group to worry them about his health. The thought of mentioning the word aneurism to Buffy was unthinkable. So he had booked his ticket, put the shop in the more than capable hands of Anya, and said his goodbyes mumbling things about lessons to be learnt and standing on ones own two feet. His feet were swelling inside his newly purchased hiking boots - the space between his toes and the unyielding leather had decreased significantly since he had turned towards the river off Kings Parade. He shifted his feet, feeling the beginning of a blister forming on his right little toe. Time to find this famous tearoom, he thought, and continued along the path.
The trail narrowed as he passed a tiny cottage that would have been ideal for him (but presumably was ideal for the occupant also) and then opened out onto a road. To the right was the church, but just a little way down the slope of the road he spotted a signpost for the Orchard Tea Garden. He walked in that direction, the gradient of the road doing nothing for his blister. From behind an archway of overgrown apple trees sprung an orchard of evergreen deckchairs, some occupied, others awaiting usefulness. The land belonged to them and not to the gnarled figures of the fruit trees that were propped up with walking canes and crutches, so old were their frames. So this was the playground of that impressive list of names; Woolf, Wittgenstein, Keynes, Russell and Brooke? Giles could comprehend how one could idle away the days in such a spot. For the first time in a long time he was reminded of long walks he had taken with college friends during which they would discuss, with the authority that comes with youth, everything from classical drama to fiscal policy. He used to enjoy the stimulation of other people’s thoughts and yet, over the previous ten years or so, he had found himself to be a loner, shy of company. He was in touch with few of his friends. Friends - that mode of relationship had long expired, they were more like acquaintances of fixed abode, but most of them had moved on, like he had done. His throat twinged with regret.
Giles picked his way through the clumps of deckchairs to the cabin. After going through the wrong door, he eventually found the servery which offered many a temptation to someone who was trying to keep a firm hand on his diet; scones of every variety served with clotted cream, butter and jam, carrot cake (that was surely the healthy option), apple pie, something chocolaty, and that was before he had even got as far as the soup and sandwiches. It was positively malevolent to put the deserts first, he thought as he slid his tray on toward the till where he ordered a ham and apple chutney roll and a pot of Darjeeling. Impressed with his own self control, he quickly paid for his lunch and escaped out the door before his gaze could stray back to an inviting display of pastries. Outside, the warmth of the breeze and the sight of a perfect blue sky took his mind off his sweet tooth.
He found a quiet spot, far away from families with children and students who delighted in the sound of their own voice, under a tree that offered perfect shade. There he polished off his roll and sipped black tea - which in itself must offend his English sensibilities, he told himself. Then he sunk down into the deckchair, and for a while closed his eyes and rested his head against its frame. It was pleasant. May be he could make a habit of this kind of thing - relaxing, not worrying about the fate of the world. After a few minutes his left leg started to tingle, compelling him to shift his position, which he did without opening his eyes. He took in a long deep satisfying breath - that was better. He was relaxed and comfortable once again - that was until some creature with more legs than he had landed on his arm and bit down hard.
‘Ow! Bloody thing!’ Giles cursed, as he swatted the large brown horsefly from his arm. He absolutely would not be defeated, not by his body and not by bloody nature. He wiped away the small spot of blood that had welled where the beast’s fangs had sunk into his flesh, then lay back and once again closed his eyes. The frame of the deckchair was digging into his skull - maybe it was in the wrong position and if he got up and adjusted it his head would rest on canvas rather than wood? Giles sighed, it was hopeless. He opened his eyes and reached for the book of Rupert Brooke’s poetry. He flicked through the pages of verse - the produce of a tragically short life. Finding The Old Vicarage, Grantchester, he opened the book fully and read. It was a little saccharine for his taste, although he could remember several occasions when he had felt that same the urge to wax lyrical about his romanticised devotion to his homeland, especially in those first few years of living in California. Everything had seemed so direct and immediate - so few nuances. Of course that had not been the reality at all, just the manifestation of his outrage at being sent to the land of the Big Mac, Dunkin Donuts, twenty-four hour home shopping, and an inbred aversion to queuing. He missed the donuts. He wondered if there had been donuts on offer back in the cabin.
I only know that you may lie
Day-long and watch the Cambridge sky,
And, flower-lulled in sleepy grass,
Hear the cool lapse of hours pass,
Until the centuries blend and blur
In Grantchester, in Grantchester....
Giles checked his watch - it was almost time to find his way to Hyacinth Cottage, the ‘small, unattractive property’ the agent had arranged for him to view. Given the tendency of estate agents to talk up the properties on their books, he wondered what a small, unattractive cottage looked like. Still, it was affordable and he had to stay somewhere, he certainly couldn’t afford many more nights in a hotel and it would be quite something to live in Grantchester. He looked back to the poem and continued to read.
A hundred Vicars down the lawn;
Curates, long dust, will come and go
On lissome, clerical, printless toe;
And oft between the boughs is seen
The sly shade of a Rural Dean ...
Till, at a shiver in the skies,
Vanishing with satanic cries,
The prim ecclesiastic rout
Leaves but a startled sleeper-out,
Grey heavens, the first bird’s drowsy calls,
The falling house that never falls.
He glanced around the orchard but couldn’t see a sly shade of a Rural Dean, not that you could tell them apart in these days of trendy vicars who eschewed traditional clerical dress. Giles wasn’t even sure if the Church of England still had Rural Deans, or whether they had been superseded by a job title that reflected the modern church - executive officer with special responsibility for rural affairs, perhaps?
Say, is there Beauty yet to find?
And Certainty? And Quiet kind?
Deep meadows yet, for to forget
The lies, and truths, and pain? ...oh! Yet
Stands the Church clock at ten to three?
And is there honey still for tea?
Giles closed the book and rested it on his knee. He wondered what pain the young man referred to. Whatever it was it was foolish to think that it could be erased by beauty and certainty. In his experience, beauty and certainty could just as easily lead to pain as any other quality of being - more easily, perhaps. But Brooke had been a young man, with young man’s concerns; the clock had stopped at ten to three when poetry, love and philosophy were all that mattered; when war was an honourable pursuit for boys young enough to be playing with bows and arrows, and when to be a poet was to be a god. At least Brooke hadn’t lived long enough to see battlegrounds of his playmates soaked with mustard clouds, and poppies standing where his chums once stood dreaming of a better world. Giles ran his hand over the cover of the book, saddened by the thought of the young man’s grave far from home but forever England.
Tucking the book under his arm, Giles checked the rudimentary map the estate agent had printed for him and then returned his tray to the racks, just has the sign on the table had instructed him. He headed back in the direction he had come, out onto the road and up the hill, which took the pressure off his now throbbing little toe. As he passed by the church he glanced at the clock tower and smiled. The time was a quarter to three. A childish urge made him consider standing there until ten to, to see what happened. Of course he knew that nothing would happen, but he would like to imagine that it could. And after all the strange phenomena that he had witnessed, he knew that it wasn’t totally out of the question. Still, he continued on his way, letting the church be for its special time when life is as sweet as honey and young men and women are nothing more than players in a Chaucerian tale.
***
.... There's probably hundreds of typos/mistakes in there... forgive me?