Contests and Counties
‘Old Bolingbroke is getting older, I’m sure of it.’
‘Oh be quiet, Claxby, he’s just as old as he’s ever been. No more, no less.’
‘See, Mavis, I would have agreed with you the other day. But I’m sure he’s got an extra few wrinkles behind his right ear today.’
‘You are nothing but paranoid. He’s been this old for years, I hardly see why he’d bother changing now. Now, hurry up and get all the windows closed. The draught might wake him.’ Both Mavis Enderby and Claxby Pluckacre stood up from either side of the sleeping relic’s armchair, removing their teacups from his bony claws. Old Bolingbroke was so useful, asleep.
‘Do you think we’re very far off, now?’ Pluckacre asked, staring through the small window.
‘Close the windows, Claxby.’
‘I mean, we’ve been heading this way for weeks now.’
‘Close the windows, Claxby.’
‘And it didn’t look very far when Lincoln plotted it on the charts.’
‘Close the windows, Claxby.’
‘Do you think we’re very far off, now?’ he asked, as he strode off to poke about in his trunk.
‘I don’t know, Claxby. Lincoln never said how long it would take.’ She sighed as she closed the windows herself. A last glimpse of dwindling sunlight and the lower rooms were sealed for the night, thereafter to be lit by the gentle glow of whatever they could find to put in the lamps. The dimness made the walls close in a little. Made you shift closer to everyone else. ‘Claxby, pull your nose out of that trunk.’
‘I can’t find my lantern,’ replied the muffled voice.
‘It’s in the trunk.’
‘I’m looking in the trunk.’
‘Claxby, pull your nose out of that trunk.’
‘I’m not in the trunk,’ he said, fastening the lid.
Enderby turned from the last window to see him polishing his lantern. ‘You look a mess,’ she said, advancing toward him and brandishing a handkerchief.
‘Get off!’ Claxby retorted, ‘I tell you, you don’t look half creepy in the darkness.’ Silence followed until they had all the lights lit, and he added ‘You’re just like Miss Shire sometimes, you know.’
She hushed him. ‘Don’t say things like that. Lincoln might hear; and you know how he gets when anyone mentions her. I mean, after what...’
Old Bolingbroke muttered something in his sleep and crinkled at the edges. He often looked like old paper in the lamplight.
Both stopped and looked to the wooden ceiling. Footsteps tapped along the length of the room, then descended the stairs at the far end. Upon sight of the owner, their expectations were met, and their hopes dashed.
A suit with teeth gangled into the room, found the nearest solid object, leant over it, and grinned. The words ‘So what have we planned for this evening?’ slid through his enamel platter.
‘Nothing, Mr Skellingthorpe.’
‘Nothing, Mr Skellingthorpe.’
‘As you like it,’ he drawled, slapping against a wall and dripping into an armchair. He assessed the room in that way he always did before he made an observation. ‘It’s getting cramped in here. At least one of you should leave. You know what they say: two’s company, three’s a crowd.’
‘There are four of us,’ Claxby corrected, pointing out the deflated hot-water-bottle of a man napping in the other armchair.
‘Oh, then we’re in the clear,’ said Skellingthorpe, quite content with the loophole.
‘Do you think we’re very far off now, Mr Skellingthorpe?’ Claxby asked, somewhat eagerly.
‘Not far now, Pluckacre. Not far now.’ Claxby had lost count of how many times he had heard that. ‘We’ll be able to relax any day now. Lincoln will come bustling in through the doors, and announce that we’ve arrived safe and sound, and everyone will celebrate. I’ll even open the bottle of Stone’s.’ He drooped even more languidly into his chair, slowly marinating in possibilities.
‘I hope I don’t have to drink any of the stuff,’ Mavis muttered to herself.
‘I don’t think Lincoln is the kind who “bustles”,’ Claxby observed. ‘Plus, I don’t think it’ll be that big a deal.’
But Skellingthorpe was too happy to hear them. He had slipped into one of his vivacious reveries. As Claxby was about to pester him further with questions, Mavis gently pulled him away by the wrist. ‘Help me find Bolingbroke’s blanket.’
Skellingthorpe needed his reveries. His bouts of happiness were few and far between, and every time he reverted to his great abysmal sump, they each quietly worried he would never grin again. But they never said. They just did their best to help him enjoy himself awhile he could.
‘Where is the blanket, Mavis?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why you’re helping me.’
‘Will it be long before Lincoln comes down?’
‘I don’t know. Did you put your blanket in your trunk?’
‘He keeps spending longer and longer outside.’
‘Claxby, is the blanket in your trunk?’
‘He leaves earlier and comes back later, each week.’
‘Claxby, the blanket.’
‘No, it’s not in my trunk. It’s behind Bolingbroke’s chair.’
They lifted the blanket up and over the fragile sleeper, and let it gather over him like a layer of patchwork dust.
A whisper flitted up through his dry, grey throat, and nestled on his chin, preening its thin wings. ‘Thank you, Miss Shire.’
The pair let the silence flourish.
‘Mavis…’ He swallowed deeply. ‘What did he just say to you?’
‘I…’ she bit her lip. ‘I didn’t hear him say anything.’
‘Neither did I,’ he said. ‘Do… do you think Lincoln will join us soon?’
‘I don’t know. Soon. Let’s wait for him.’ Mavis sat down beside the armchair and huddled up against the blanket draped over Old Bolingbroke’s knees. She gently tugged at Claxby’s hand, and he sat beside her.
Skellingthorpe had been watching them from his velvet daze for some time, and, after a long, thin sigh, heaved himself from his chair, and ambled over to the other. “I’d like some company,’ he whispered.
‘I miss Lincoln,’ Claxby said.
‘It’s alright. I miss home,’ Mavis added.
‘I miss Miss Shire,’ Mr Skellingthorpe sobbed.
They all said nothing for some time, and just listened to Old Bolingbroke breathe.
‘Do you think we’re very far off now?’ Claxby asked.
‘Not far now, Pluckacre. Not far now. And Lincoln will come bustling in.’
They all huddled together, drawn close by the dimness of the lower rooms, while Lincoln stood on the deck and stared at the rocks which had ended their journey so long ago.
* * *
Yeah, I still kept quite a few names. I didn't want to call Claxby 'the boy,' or 'the man,' or anything, because I didn't want the characters to go very far past just a gender and personality. I wanted the reader to guess their age and so on.
The actual characters who appear in The Neitherworld (second book, The Livid Lighthouse) are just the four in the lower rooms, and neither Lincoln nor Miss Shire exist. The boat is called The Lincolnshire. However, they do have a duck named Harlaxton, who did not appear in this story.
Please point out anything you notice about this story, good or bad (preferably bad).
‘Oh be quiet, Claxby, he’s just as old as he’s ever been. No more, no less.’
‘See, Mavis, I would have agreed with you the other day. But I’m sure he’s got an extra few wrinkles behind his right ear today.’
‘You are nothing but paranoid. He’s been this old for years, I hardly see why he’d bother changing now. Now, hurry up and get all the windows closed. The draught might wake him.’ Both Mavis Enderby and Claxby Pluckacre stood up from either side of the sleeping relic’s armchair, removing their teacups from his bony claws. Old Bolingbroke was so useful, asleep.
‘Do you think we’re very far off, now?’ Pluckacre asked, staring through the small window.
‘Close the windows, Claxby.’
‘I mean, we’ve been heading this way for weeks now.’
‘Close the windows, Claxby.’
‘And it didn’t look very far when Lincoln plotted it on the charts.’
‘Close the windows, Claxby.’
‘Do you think we’re very far off, now?’ he asked, as he strode off to poke about in his trunk.
‘I don’t know, Claxby. Lincoln never said how long it would take.’ She sighed as she closed the windows herself. A last glimpse of dwindling sunlight and the lower rooms were sealed for the night, thereafter to be lit by the gentle glow of whatever they could find to put in the lamps. The dimness made the walls close in a little. Made you shift closer to everyone else. ‘Claxby, pull your nose out of that trunk.’
‘I can’t find my lantern,’ replied the muffled voice.
‘It’s in the trunk.’
‘I’m looking in the trunk.’
‘Claxby, pull your nose out of that trunk.’
‘I’m not in the trunk,’ he said, fastening the lid.
Enderby turned from the last window to see him polishing his lantern. ‘You look a mess,’ she said, advancing toward him and brandishing a handkerchief.
‘Get off!’ Claxby retorted, ‘I tell you, you don’t look half creepy in the darkness.’ Silence followed until they had all the lights lit, and he added ‘You’re just like Miss Shire sometimes, you know.’
She hushed him. ‘Don’t say things like that. Lincoln might hear; and you know how he gets when anyone mentions her. I mean, after what...’
Old Bolingbroke muttered something in his sleep and crinkled at the edges. He often looked like old paper in the lamplight.
Both stopped and looked to the wooden ceiling. Footsteps tapped along the length of the room, then descended the stairs at the far end. Upon sight of the owner, their expectations were met, and their hopes dashed.
A suit with teeth gangled into the room, found the nearest solid object, leant over it, and grinned. The words ‘So what have we planned for this evening?’ slid through his enamel platter.
‘Nothing, Mr Skellingthorpe.’
‘Nothing, Mr Skellingthorpe.’
‘As you like it,’ he drawled, slapping against a wall and dripping into an armchair. He assessed the room in that way he always did before he made an observation. ‘It’s getting cramped in here. At least one of you should leave. You know what they say: two’s company, three’s a crowd.’
‘There are four of us,’ Claxby corrected, pointing out the deflated hot-water-bottle of a man napping in the other armchair.
‘Oh, then we’re in the clear,’ said Skellingthorpe, quite content with the loophole.
‘Do you think we’re very far off now, Mr Skellingthorpe?’ Claxby asked, somewhat eagerly.
‘Not far now, Pluckacre. Not far now.’ Claxby had lost count of how many times he had heard that. ‘We’ll be able to relax any day now. Lincoln will come bustling in through the doors, and announce that we’ve arrived safe and sound, and everyone will celebrate. I’ll even open the bottle of Stone’s.’ He drooped even more languidly into his chair, slowly marinating in possibilities.
‘I hope I don’t have to drink any of the stuff,’ Mavis muttered to herself.
‘I don’t think Lincoln is the kind who “bustles”,’ Claxby observed. ‘Plus, I don’t think it’ll be that big a deal.’
But Skellingthorpe was too happy to hear them. He had slipped into one of his vivacious reveries. As Claxby was about to pester him further with questions, Mavis gently pulled him away by the wrist. ‘Help me find Bolingbroke’s blanket.’
Skellingthorpe needed his reveries. His bouts of happiness were few and far between, and every time he reverted to his great abysmal sump, they each quietly worried he would never grin again. But they never said. They just did their best to help him enjoy himself awhile he could.
‘Where is the blanket, Mavis?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why you’re helping me.’
‘Will it be long before Lincoln comes down?’
‘I don’t know. Did you put your blanket in your trunk?’
‘He keeps spending longer and longer outside.’
‘Claxby, is the blanket in your trunk?’
‘He leaves earlier and comes back later, each week.’
‘Claxby, the blanket.’
‘No, it’s not in my trunk. It’s behind Bolingbroke’s chair.’
They lifted the blanket up and over the fragile sleeper, and let it gather over him like a layer of patchwork dust.
A whisper flitted up through his dry, grey throat, and nestled on his chin, preening its thin wings. ‘Thank you, Miss Shire.’
The pair let the silence flourish.
‘Mavis…’ He swallowed deeply. ‘What did he just say to you?’
‘I…’ she bit her lip. ‘I didn’t hear him say anything.’
‘Neither did I,’ he said. ‘Do… do you think Lincoln will join us soon?’
‘I don’t know. Soon. Let’s wait for him.’ Mavis sat down beside the armchair and huddled up against the blanket draped over Old Bolingbroke’s knees. She gently tugged at Claxby’s hand, and he sat beside her.
Skellingthorpe had been watching them from his velvet daze for some time, and, after a long, thin sigh, heaved himself from his chair, and ambled over to the other. “I’d like some company,’ he whispered.
‘I miss Lincoln,’ Claxby said.
‘It’s alright. I miss home,’ Mavis added.
‘I miss Miss Shire,’ Mr Skellingthorpe sobbed.
They all said nothing for some time, and just listened to Old Bolingbroke breathe.
‘Do you think we’re very far off now?’ Claxby asked.
‘Not far now, Pluckacre. Not far now. And Lincoln will come bustling in.’
They all huddled together, drawn close by the dimness of the lower rooms, while Lincoln stood on the deck and stared at the rocks which had ended their journey so long ago.
* * *
Yeah, I still kept quite a few names. I didn't want to call Claxby 'the boy,' or 'the man,' or anything, because I didn't want the characters to go very far past just a gender and personality. I wanted the reader to guess their age and so on.
The actual characters who appear in The Neitherworld (second book, The Livid Lighthouse) are just the four in the lower rooms, and neither Lincoln nor Miss Shire exist. The boat is called The Lincolnshire. However, they do have a duck named Harlaxton, who did not appear in this story.
Please point out anything you notice about this story, good or bad (preferably bad).