Fic: On Parliament Hill. Part 1.
This is the first thing I've written since the run in with the black dog, so forgive me a rush of nerves. I've been wanting to work on a couple of sequels, but don't seem to be in the right frame of mind yet, and this insisted on being written, thanks to a BBC news story about a table and chair. Here goes.
This is a short series of six (probably six), 1,000-ish word parts, all linked by being set in the same place. They may be better read all in one sitting, I don't know, but 6,000+ words is enough to put anyone off! So - I'm going to post one a day over the next week or so, if all goes to plan (and that will also give me a chance to tweak the last one, which I'm not happy with). You get the choice of ignoring them until they are all up, or reading them as they come (or ignoring the whole lot, which may be advisable!)
That's about it. Thanks as ever go to Ezagaaikwe my wonderful beta, who always gives me hope :)
Part 1
1862
The child’s collar rubbed against his neck. Newly starched and pristine, Sunday-school white, it worried at the delicate skin. He fought the urge to tug at it with his fingers, and concentrated instead on keeping step with his father, his treasure clutched to his chest. It was his birthday. He was eight years old and he was going to sail his new toy yacht.
The Heath was busy in the spring sunshine, full of day trippers taking advantage of the new railway to escape the foul atmosphere of the City and take the crisper, cleaner air of the parkland. The child knew this would not please his father, that he disliked this influx of people, the coarser accents of the inner city transported to the refined atmosphere of Hampstead. A group of boys ran past, shouting and laughing, brothers clearly, chasing a hoop that the eldest bowled before them. The child watched them longingly. He wished he had brothers to run with. Looking wistfully over his shoulder, he hadn’t noticed his parents had stopped and he walked into his father’s back, earning himself a harsh word and a severe look. He blushed and looked down at his feet, feeling the ready prick of tears. He felt a hand brush his hair and looked up into his mother’s soft, sympathetic smile. He smiled back, resisted the urge to bury his face in her long skirts.
His father was talking to a stocky, red faced man. The child frowned. He knew this man. His name was Mr. Underwood; a very important man and a business colleague, his father had told him. The child did not like him. He didn’t like the way he spoke to his father. His father seemed to shrink in stature in his presence, his manner nervous, almost like… like the servants at home. There was a word for that; his tutor had taught him. The child frowned in thought. Subservient. Yes, that was it. He didn’t like his father being subservient to this man. Today, Mr Underwood said, he was enjoying the Heath with his family, taking some time away from the pressures of his work which were an increasing irritation to him, given the ‘circumstances in the colonies.’ His father shook his head sympathetically. Mr Underwood introduced his wife, a tall, slim woman, richly and elegantly dressed. The child peered up at her, frowning, and she peered down at him. Her nose was so far in the air, he thought, she looked like the giraffe he’d seen in the zoological gardens. She sniffed dismissively and turned to smile coolly at his mother. The child decided he didn’t like her either and pressed closer to his mother’s skirts. Then he spotted the girl. She stood quietly next to her mama, eyes primly downcast, pink rosebud lips curved in a quiet smile. Her curling, soft brown hair was held back from her heart-shaped face with a blue ribbon that matched the blue of her sash, and the child thought he had never seen anything quite so pretty. She looked up suddenly and caught his open-mouthed gaze. He swallowed and smiled tentatively. The girl watched him solemnly for a moment, then slowly and deliberately blinked and turned her head away. The boy’s smile faded.
As they walked away he looked back over his shoulder. The girl was standing watching him. She smiled quickly before turning and skipping off to her parents and the child’s heart gave a strange flutter in his chest. He blushed and stumbled over his feet, earning himself another sharp look from his father.
But as it turned out, the conversation with Mr. Underwood had put his father in a good mood. He crouched beside the child and helped him fix the rigging on the yacht, told him how to set the rudder, explained how the keel would keep the toy upright. A cool wind danced over the ponds and the sun was suddenly hidden by a bank of grey cloud. His mother frowned and fussed around the child, worried about his “delicate chest” and lack of overcoat. His father stopped her with a frown and she subsided, eyes downcast.
The boy looked on as the little yacht caught the breeze and danced across the water. It headed steadily across the pond, bobbing gently on the swell, the small blue flag on top of its mast fluttering gaily. He ran around the pond to meet it at the far side, picked up the yacht and ran back to his parents, laughing delightedly. Heedless of his father’s warning to check the rigging, he launched the little yacht, watched it speed across the water in the stiffening breeze. The sudden gust caused consternation around the pond. Hats broke free of pins, parasols blew inside out and a sudden storm of dust stung the child’s eyes. The yacht dipped under the onslaught of the wind, struggled to right itself. By the time the child had wiped the dust from his eyes, it had disappeared beneath the dark waters of the pond.
He knew he shouldn’t cry. He knew his father would despise him for the show of weakness if he did, but the sob was too large for his small chest to contain and it escaped before he could stop it. Immediately his mother crouched by his side, wrapped him in her arms and soothed him.
“You smother the child.” He heard his father’s muttered words, glanced up at his averted face, the play of muscles in his jaw he’d come to recognise as contempt. The child pushed himself away from his mother and dashed the tears from his eyes. He set his lips against his loss and they turned their back on the ponds and headed for the hill. He managed to resist the urge to look back.
High above the City, his father knelt by his side and they looked down as he pointed out landmarks - the hard, grey snake of the river just visible in gaps between the crowded buildings, the soft green dome of St Paul’s, the new Houses of Parliament, still not complete but already the ponderous heart of government. London. Centre of the world. From here Empires were built, civilisation spread on wings of trade. He should feel proud and honoured to call it home, proud and honoured that his father had a part in keeping the important wheels of commerce turning smoothly. The child tried to feel proud, shivering in the cool air, aching for his lost toy. He sneezed miserably and his father sighed. He stood up and placed a heavy hand on the child’s shoulder. His mother, hovering close by, smiled and took her husbands offered arm. Together they set off home, to tea and cake and the travel chest in the hall, his father’s talk of sailing the oceans and his mother’s anxiety.
It was his birthday. He was eight years old.
The next day his father sailed away and he never saw him again.
And moving on to Part 2... 1879
This is a short series of six (probably six), 1,000-ish word parts, all linked by being set in the same place. They may be better read all in one sitting, I don't know, but 6,000+ words is enough to put anyone off! So - I'm going to post one a day over the next week or so, if all goes to plan (and that will also give me a chance to tweak the last one, which I'm not happy with). You get the choice of ignoring them until they are all up, or reading them as they come (or ignoring the whole lot, which may be advisable!)
That's about it. Thanks as ever go to Ezagaaikwe my wonderful beta, who always gives me hope :)
Part 1
1862
The child’s collar rubbed against his neck. Newly starched and pristine, Sunday-school white, it worried at the delicate skin. He fought the urge to tug at it with his fingers, and concentrated instead on keeping step with his father, his treasure clutched to his chest. It was his birthday. He was eight years old and he was going to sail his new toy yacht.
The Heath was busy in the spring sunshine, full of day trippers taking advantage of the new railway to escape the foul atmosphere of the City and take the crisper, cleaner air of the parkland. The child knew this would not please his father, that he disliked this influx of people, the coarser accents of the inner city transported to the refined atmosphere of Hampstead. A group of boys ran past, shouting and laughing, brothers clearly, chasing a hoop that the eldest bowled before them. The child watched them longingly. He wished he had brothers to run with. Looking wistfully over his shoulder, he hadn’t noticed his parents had stopped and he walked into his father’s back, earning himself a harsh word and a severe look. He blushed and looked down at his feet, feeling the ready prick of tears. He felt a hand brush his hair and looked up into his mother’s soft, sympathetic smile. He smiled back, resisted the urge to bury his face in her long skirts.
His father was talking to a stocky, red faced man. The child frowned. He knew this man. His name was Mr. Underwood; a very important man and a business colleague, his father had told him. The child did not like him. He didn’t like the way he spoke to his father. His father seemed to shrink in stature in his presence, his manner nervous, almost like… like the servants at home. There was a word for that; his tutor had taught him. The child frowned in thought. Subservient. Yes, that was it. He didn’t like his father being subservient to this man. Today, Mr Underwood said, he was enjoying the Heath with his family, taking some time away from the pressures of his work which were an increasing irritation to him, given the ‘circumstances in the colonies.’ His father shook his head sympathetically. Mr Underwood introduced his wife, a tall, slim woman, richly and elegantly dressed. The child peered up at her, frowning, and she peered down at him. Her nose was so far in the air, he thought, she looked like the giraffe he’d seen in the zoological gardens. She sniffed dismissively and turned to smile coolly at his mother. The child decided he didn’t like her either and pressed closer to his mother’s skirts. Then he spotted the girl. She stood quietly next to her mama, eyes primly downcast, pink rosebud lips curved in a quiet smile. Her curling, soft brown hair was held back from her heart-shaped face with a blue ribbon that matched the blue of her sash, and the child thought he had never seen anything quite so pretty. She looked up suddenly and caught his open-mouthed gaze. He swallowed and smiled tentatively. The girl watched him solemnly for a moment, then slowly and deliberately blinked and turned her head away. The boy’s smile faded.
As they walked away he looked back over his shoulder. The girl was standing watching him. She smiled quickly before turning and skipping off to her parents and the child’s heart gave a strange flutter in his chest. He blushed and stumbled over his feet, earning himself another sharp look from his father.
But as it turned out, the conversation with Mr. Underwood had put his father in a good mood. He crouched beside the child and helped him fix the rigging on the yacht, told him how to set the rudder, explained how the keel would keep the toy upright. A cool wind danced over the ponds and the sun was suddenly hidden by a bank of grey cloud. His mother frowned and fussed around the child, worried about his “delicate chest” and lack of overcoat. His father stopped her with a frown and she subsided, eyes downcast.
The boy looked on as the little yacht caught the breeze and danced across the water. It headed steadily across the pond, bobbing gently on the swell, the small blue flag on top of its mast fluttering gaily. He ran around the pond to meet it at the far side, picked up the yacht and ran back to his parents, laughing delightedly. Heedless of his father’s warning to check the rigging, he launched the little yacht, watched it speed across the water in the stiffening breeze. The sudden gust caused consternation around the pond. Hats broke free of pins, parasols blew inside out and a sudden storm of dust stung the child’s eyes. The yacht dipped under the onslaught of the wind, struggled to right itself. By the time the child had wiped the dust from his eyes, it had disappeared beneath the dark waters of the pond.
He knew he shouldn’t cry. He knew his father would despise him for the show of weakness if he did, but the sob was too large for his small chest to contain and it escaped before he could stop it. Immediately his mother crouched by his side, wrapped him in her arms and soothed him.
“You smother the child.” He heard his father’s muttered words, glanced up at his averted face, the play of muscles in his jaw he’d come to recognise as contempt. The child pushed himself away from his mother and dashed the tears from his eyes. He set his lips against his loss and they turned their back on the ponds and headed for the hill. He managed to resist the urge to look back.
High above the City, his father knelt by his side and they looked down as he pointed out landmarks - the hard, grey snake of the river just visible in gaps between the crowded buildings, the soft green dome of St Paul’s, the new Houses of Parliament, still not complete but already the ponderous heart of government. London. Centre of the world. From here Empires were built, civilisation spread on wings of trade. He should feel proud and honoured to call it home, proud and honoured that his father had a part in keeping the important wheels of commerce turning smoothly. The child tried to feel proud, shivering in the cool air, aching for his lost toy. He sneezed miserably and his father sighed. He stood up and placed a heavy hand on the child’s shoulder. His mother, hovering close by, smiled and took her husbands offered arm. Together they set off home, to tea and cake and the travel chest in the hall, his father’s talk of sailing the oceans and his mother’s anxiety.
It was his birthday. He was eight years old.
The next day his father sailed away and he never saw him again.
And moving on to Part 2... 1879