Peach 13
Title: Working Holiday
Author: lost_spook
Story: Heroes of the Revolution (Divide & Rule)
Flavor(s): Peach #13 (tell someone who cares)
Toppings/Extras: Cherry (for the epistolary format)
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 2713
Notes: April 1951; Julia Graves, Edward Iveson.
Summary: “I seem to have wandered into the first few chapters of a detective novel…”
***
Monday
Dear Edward,
I seem to have wondered into the first few chapters of a detective novel in coming here - only without any murders. (I hope!) The house itself is late Victorian and the gardens are overgrown, which makes everything inside seem even darker than it should. There is a worrying feeling of things unsaid hanging over its occupants and nobody is quite at ease. Mrs Kendall is just as friendly as she was when we met her at Diana’s, but Mr Kendall is very quiet and seems to be some kind of invalid, although not in any way that has been exactly explained to me. He has a nurse, though, a Mrs Flood. To round the household off, Mrs Kendall told me she invited her cousin Rosamund to keep me company, but that seems to have been rather optimistic of her. Rosamund is currently aggrieved over a friend’s behaviour and not much inclined to talk about anything else. In terms of staff, there is a stern elderly maid who probably came with the house, and a cook, whom I do like, from what little I’ve seen of her.
Dinner was one of the most uncomfortable meals I’ve ever had - not because of the food, but trying to keep any conversation going was like wading uphill through porridge and hard as I tried, even I had talked myself out before dessert came round. (And you needn’t look like that when you read this, or ask me if I’ve ever actually waded through porridge, because, honestly, it was dreadful.) So I told them I had some letters to write and escaped to my room, hence this epistle before I make a liar of myself.
Not that you deserve it, though. All the times you’ve been away since we’ve been married and I don’t believe you’ve ever sent me a letter - not one! (Postcards and telegrams don’t count.)
However, I’ve had a look at the rooms Mrs K told us about and they are both very promising in size and shape and so on and currently much in need of rescuing from dire Victorian wallpaper - one of them was swathed in a particularly horrid green. I’m sure once I get going on those, everything will be fine. In the meantime, you can say you told me so all you like, as I am definitely regretting that reckless offer of mine.
If the evenings are all going to be like this, though, you may as well resign yourself to a whole series of letters just as pointless and full of waffle as this one.
All my love,
Julia
P.S. If there is a murder, my money is on the nurse. She looks at one as if she’s mentally measuring out the fatal dose.
Monday evening
Darling Ned,
A telephone call is very nice, but not the same as a letter at all. And when I think how many letters you manage to write every day, it seems even more unfair. It might qualify as cruelty to your wife. You could even tell your secretary to write something for you, as long as you sign it yourself. It would be better than nothing.
Julia
xxx
Tuesday
Dear Edward,
I know I joked about the atmosphere here before, but it really is very uncomfortable. I was stripping the wallpaper from the first room when Mr Kendall came in and stood there for a bit, but went out again before I could ask what he wanted, and then five minutes later, the nurse came in and raked me down for upsetting him.
I wasn’t sure what to do for a while, but then Mrs Kendall turned up and suggested that I should go into town and amuse myself, and perhaps Cousin Rosamond would like to go with me. Cousin Rosamond, as ever, was not in a mood to oblige. She told me she had a bad cold and was retiring to bed and if I had any sense, I shouldn’t go out in this weather either. However, being undeterred - and very keen to get away from them all - I went in search of Cook and asked her if she wanted anything from the shops. She was in need of some baking soda and marmalade, so I have now at least earned her undying gratitude (particularly by acquiring exactly the right kind of marmalade, even though she forgot to tell me) and been useful to someone.
Since I arrived back, I get the feeling that conversations stop or are rapidly changed every time I walk into a room. I keep thinking that I am sure I have read a dozen stories where some innocent person is lured into a queer situation and used to commit a crime or establish an alibi or have all the blame cast onto them. You should know exactly what I mean, since you constantly steal all my crime novels.
I’m joking again, of course. I don’t think anyone means me any harm, but this isn’t a happy household, and I would, selfishly perhaps, much rather be at home again. I coped this evening by asking if I might listen to the radio and so Mrs Kendall and I solemnly sat through Mrs Dale’s Diary. (I was very good and didn’t talk to any of the characters; rest assured no one will be packing me off to the County Asylum for forgetting.)
Of course, if Mr Kendall is still opposed to me decorating, I could be home very soon indeed. I shall let you know if so, although I don’t know why I bother to write that, since if I do, the telegram should reach you before this letter.
Wednesday morning
Well, you will get this letter and not a telegram, as I have been told I may continue decorating both rooms, and Mrs Flood has apologised, so everything is well again, even if the household remains a little uncomfortable.
Or perhaps it’s just me. You know that I never have liked living with strangers - in our house, or me in theirs. I should be a good deal more patient.
Anyway, I should still be here for the week, as planned. I hope that before the end of it, I receive a letter from you or I shan’t forgive you until at least some time next month.
All my love,
Julia.
Thursday
Dear Edward,
I have nearly completed room #1, in cream and lavender, while room #2 is to be fairly similar, only in blue and primrose. All continues to be well, except that I somehow managed to miss a large splotch of lavender paint on my forehead when washing, and it was only just before I went to bed that Cousin Rosamund decided she ought to tell me.
I am now fully scrubbed down and feeling more than usually stupid. Much as I enjoy the actual decorating, you need not fear that I shall make a living out of it and run away from you, as I am currently hating every moment here in a most pathetic manner and missing home quite horribly. The house and Mrs Crosbie, I should say - not my heartless husband who writes six hundred letters a day but never one to his wife. (I tried to telephone you earlier, but you were out. I hope you are as sorry as you ought to be to learn that.)
Still, everything is now well under way, and I should meet you as planned at King’s Cross on Monday. Do remember and don’t schedule a very important meeting that evening or allow anyone to start a national crisis (at least not before Tuesday). After a week with the Kendalls and Cousin Rosamund, if you are not there when I get off the train, I shall probably stand in the station and cry - and not talk to you at all when you do get home.
Please take care of yourself, and don’t let Trouble have the run of the house when you are out. Make sure all the doors are closed! We must have some curtains left, or I shall waste your fortune on replacing them all.
Love Julia
Friday
Dear Ned
I now understand what the problem has been, or at least part of it and it’s awful. Not for me, but I can’t help feeling angry with Mrs Kendall for not explaining in the first place. It makes me feel as if I came in and behaved completely like a heartless wretch.
You see, one of the rooms was indeed only a spare bedroom in need of brightening up, but the other one, the one with the vile green wallpaper, was once the Kendalls’ son’s room. He died some time ago - perhaps in the war, I’m not sure and I didn’t like to ask. Mr Kendall has insisted on keeping it all as it was. Mrs Kendall thought that it might help them all if it was redecorated instead, and she brought me in partly because I didn’t know anything of the story. And now the room is cream and lavender and Mr Kendall silently hates me, and so does his nurse.
So I wasn’t entirely wrong about having been dragged up here on false pretences, in a sense. And I know I shouldn’t be so stupidly sorry for myself when the tragedy is all on the Kendalls’ side, but I really don’t think I can do any more decorating if it is going to be so traumatic for everyone involved.
I feel guilty about it all, and a little dismal, though. You will be there at King’s Cross on Monday, won’t you? I tried to telephone you again just now and you weren’t there - and I even tried the office, but they merely took a message and didn’t sound very hopeful about ever reaching you with it before the decade was out. So, you have this letter. I might see if I can escape earlier, but I will let you know if I do. I may as well finish off that other room, though - at least that’s not offensive to anyone, and I did promise Mrs Kendall I would do it.
But if it were possible, I would tramp down to the station with my case right now and come home.
Love Julia
Later
P. S. I re-read this again and I’m sorry - you should ignore most of it. I will see you Monday - I expect it will all be a little better here now that everybody knows what’s going on.
Julia put her case down on the landing and went halfway down the stairs again to check whether or not anybody else was still using the telephone. She sighed to see that Cousin Rosamund was engaged in what sounded like a long and serious conversation with someone. Naturally, they had more need of it than she did, but it was rather a way from here into the town and she wasn’t sure how else to get a taxi. She contemplated pulling a few essentials out of her case into her bag and leaving it behind, so that she could walk. But how many miles was it? She thought that it must be at least seven or eight and it was already half past four.
“Mrs Iveson,” said Mrs Gregory, the cook, calling from the bottom of the stairs.
Julia leant over the banister. “Can I do anything?”
“I don’t think so,” Mrs Gregory said, “but you’d better go into the living room - there’s a gentleman in there to see you. Says he’s Mr Iveson.”
Julia abandoned her luggage and flew down the stairs and into the front room of the house to find that it really was Edward who had arrived. He was gazing idly out the window, leaning against the fireplace, and turned sharply when she burst in.
“Ned,” she said, unable to understand how he could have realised he was needed, and then threw herself at him, holding onto him tightly before pulling away to look at him again, just to be sure it wasn’t an hallucination. She tugged at his jacket, straightening it, not quite willing to let go. “But how are you here? How can you be? I’m so glad to see you, but how did you know?”
Edward glanced over at the door and then kissed her cheek. “Well, judging by your letters, either something was wrong, or you were exaggerating to see what I’d do. If it was the former, I was worried, and if the latter, I would hate to disappoint you.”
“You can telephone - you can come running up here on the slightest bit of encouragement,” Julia said, “but you can’t bring yourself to write me a single letter!”
He shook his head at her, and then pulled a small envelope out of his jacket pocket and pressed it into her hand. “A letter. For you. What’s happened? I take it something must have done.”
“It was Mr Kendall,” said Julia. “Oh, but you won’t know, because you can’t have got today’s letter. I’ll explain everything when we’re not here, but he isn’t well - he hasn’t really been well since the Great War, Cook says, and this week has just exacerbated things and - oh, dear, you see-” Julia lowered her voice. “I think - well he tried to drown himself in the pond, but luckily it isn’t very deep and the gardener saw. But they had to take him to hospital and they certainly don’t want me here any more. So, I was trying to get a moment on the telephone to call a taxi so that I could get back to York station and come home - and now, suddenly, here you are!”
Edward put a hand to her shoulder, and then kissed her again. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. Then he said, “I did send a telegram, but I imagine it was missed in all the fuss. I thought nobody could mind my claiming you for an evening or two on the weekend - I’ve booked a hotel somewhere near the Minster. I’ll go and tell someone and then we’ll be off.”
“And get the train back in the morning?” said Julia.
Edward gave a smile. “Well, since you seem to be free now, I think we could take an evening train and have the day in York. I’ve only ever really been through it before, and I hear it’s worth a proper look.”
“That sounds much too nice,” said Julia. “Now I’m a wretch who causes misery with lavender paint and then swans off to have a nice time in York. But it’s also too nice an offer to turn down, so, please - tell somebody you’ll take this troublemaker away, and I shall go and fetch my case.”
“Yes, do. I have a taxi waiting.”
“Sometimes,” said Julia, halfway between laughter and tears, “I love you very much, despite everything.”
Thursday
Dear Julia,
Here, you will see, is a letter, not even dictated to my secretary (who asked to be remembered to you, even if you seem to have forgotten his name again), but written in my own hand (and so almost entirely illegible, for which I apologise).
I am sure I have written you several letters in the past, in addition to a good number of postcards, but I hardly want to be accused of cruelty, so here is this effort, such as it is.
I suppose, to be truthful, the only thing I have to say is that I am a hypocrite at heart - I travel frequently for my own work and yet am quite miserable when you do the same for once. The house is suddenly over-large and over-quiet - even though I know that I lived here for at least three months before the wedding and cannot recall thinking so then.
Of course, worst of all, is that you took with you the book I was halfway through reading and so I don’t even have that consolation left to me. Please return it (and yourself) as soon as possible. You don’t sound as if you are enjoying it up there, and you seem to have got a lot of the work done. Do you think you could arrange to return on the weekend instead? It would be no problem to come and meet you.
In any case, please take care.
Yours, Edward.
***
Author: lost_spook
Story: Heroes of the Revolution (Divide & Rule)
Flavor(s): Peach #13 (tell someone who cares)
Toppings/Extras: Cherry (for the epistolary format)
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 2713
Notes: April 1951; Julia Graves, Edward Iveson.
Summary: “I seem to have wandered into the first few chapters of a detective novel…”
***
Monday
Dear Edward,
I seem to have wondered into the first few chapters of a detective novel in coming here - only without any murders. (I hope!) The house itself is late Victorian and the gardens are overgrown, which makes everything inside seem even darker than it should. There is a worrying feeling of things unsaid hanging over its occupants and nobody is quite at ease. Mrs Kendall is just as friendly as she was when we met her at Diana’s, but Mr Kendall is very quiet and seems to be some kind of invalid, although not in any way that has been exactly explained to me. He has a nurse, though, a Mrs Flood. To round the household off, Mrs Kendall told me she invited her cousin Rosamund to keep me company, but that seems to have been rather optimistic of her. Rosamund is currently aggrieved over a friend’s behaviour and not much inclined to talk about anything else. In terms of staff, there is a stern elderly maid who probably came with the house, and a cook, whom I do like, from what little I’ve seen of her.
Dinner was one of the most uncomfortable meals I’ve ever had - not because of the food, but trying to keep any conversation going was like wading uphill through porridge and hard as I tried, even I had talked myself out before dessert came round. (And you needn’t look like that when you read this, or ask me if I’ve ever actually waded through porridge, because, honestly, it was dreadful.) So I told them I had some letters to write and escaped to my room, hence this epistle before I make a liar of myself.
Not that you deserve it, though. All the times you’ve been away since we’ve been married and I don’t believe you’ve ever sent me a letter - not one! (Postcards and telegrams don’t count.)
However, I’ve had a look at the rooms Mrs K told us about and they are both very promising in size and shape and so on and currently much in need of rescuing from dire Victorian wallpaper - one of them was swathed in a particularly horrid green. I’m sure once I get going on those, everything will be fine. In the meantime, you can say you told me so all you like, as I am definitely regretting that reckless offer of mine.
If the evenings are all going to be like this, though, you may as well resign yourself to a whole series of letters just as pointless and full of waffle as this one.
All my love,
Julia
P.S. If there is a murder, my money is on the nurse. She looks at one as if she’s mentally measuring out the fatal dose.
Monday evening
Darling Ned,
A telephone call is very nice, but not the same as a letter at all. And when I think how many letters you manage to write every day, it seems even more unfair. It might qualify as cruelty to your wife. You could even tell your secretary to write something for you, as long as you sign it yourself. It would be better than nothing.
Julia
xxx
Tuesday
Dear Edward,
I know I joked about the atmosphere here before, but it really is very uncomfortable. I was stripping the wallpaper from the first room when Mr Kendall came in and stood there for a bit, but went out again before I could ask what he wanted, and then five minutes later, the nurse came in and raked me down for upsetting him.
I wasn’t sure what to do for a while, but then Mrs Kendall turned up and suggested that I should go into town and amuse myself, and perhaps Cousin Rosamond would like to go with me. Cousin Rosamond, as ever, was not in a mood to oblige. She told me she had a bad cold and was retiring to bed and if I had any sense, I shouldn’t go out in this weather either. However, being undeterred - and very keen to get away from them all - I went in search of Cook and asked her if she wanted anything from the shops. She was in need of some baking soda and marmalade, so I have now at least earned her undying gratitude (particularly by acquiring exactly the right kind of marmalade, even though she forgot to tell me) and been useful to someone.
Since I arrived back, I get the feeling that conversations stop or are rapidly changed every time I walk into a room. I keep thinking that I am sure I have read a dozen stories where some innocent person is lured into a queer situation and used to commit a crime or establish an alibi or have all the blame cast onto them. You should know exactly what I mean, since you constantly steal all my crime novels.
I’m joking again, of course. I don’t think anyone means me any harm, but this isn’t a happy household, and I would, selfishly perhaps, much rather be at home again. I coped this evening by asking if I might listen to the radio and so Mrs Kendall and I solemnly sat through Mrs Dale’s Diary. (I was very good and didn’t talk to any of the characters; rest assured no one will be packing me off to the County Asylum for forgetting.)
Of course, if Mr Kendall is still opposed to me decorating, I could be home very soon indeed. I shall let you know if so, although I don’t know why I bother to write that, since if I do, the telegram should reach you before this letter.
Wednesday morning
Well, you will get this letter and not a telegram, as I have been told I may continue decorating both rooms, and Mrs Flood has apologised, so everything is well again, even if the household remains a little uncomfortable.
Or perhaps it’s just me. You know that I never have liked living with strangers - in our house, or me in theirs. I should be a good deal more patient.
Anyway, I should still be here for the week, as planned. I hope that before the end of it, I receive a letter from you or I shan’t forgive you until at least some time next month.
All my love,
Julia.
Thursday
Dear Edward,
I have nearly completed room #1, in cream and lavender, while room #2 is to be fairly similar, only in blue and primrose. All continues to be well, except that I somehow managed to miss a large splotch of lavender paint on my forehead when washing, and it was only just before I went to bed that Cousin Rosamund decided she ought to tell me.
I am now fully scrubbed down and feeling more than usually stupid. Much as I enjoy the actual decorating, you need not fear that I shall make a living out of it and run away from you, as I am currently hating every moment here in a most pathetic manner and missing home quite horribly. The house and Mrs Crosbie, I should say - not my heartless husband who writes six hundred letters a day but never one to his wife. (I tried to telephone you earlier, but you were out. I hope you are as sorry as you ought to be to learn that.)
Still, everything is now well under way, and I should meet you as planned at King’s Cross on Monday. Do remember and don’t schedule a very important meeting that evening or allow anyone to start a national crisis (at least not before Tuesday). After a week with the Kendalls and Cousin Rosamund, if you are not there when I get off the train, I shall probably stand in the station and cry - and not talk to you at all when you do get home.
Please take care of yourself, and don’t let Trouble have the run of the house when you are out. Make sure all the doors are closed! We must have some curtains left, or I shall waste your fortune on replacing them all.
Love Julia
Friday
Dear Ned
I now understand what the problem has been, or at least part of it and it’s awful. Not for me, but I can’t help feeling angry with Mrs Kendall for not explaining in the first place. It makes me feel as if I came in and behaved completely like a heartless wretch.
You see, one of the rooms was indeed only a spare bedroom in need of brightening up, but the other one, the one with the vile green wallpaper, was once the Kendalls’ son’s room. He died some time ago - perhaps in the war, I’m not sure and I didn’t like to ask. Mr Kendall has insisted on keeping it all as it was. Mrs Kendall thought that it might help them all if it was redecorated instead, and she brought me in partly because I didn’t know anything of the story. And now the room is cream and lavender and Mr Kendall silently hates me, and so does his nurse.
So I wasn’t entirely wrong about having been dragged up here on false pretences, in a sense. And I know I shouldn’t be so stupidly sorry for myself when the tragedy is all on the Kendalls’ side, but I really don’t think I can do any more decorating if it is going to be so traumatic for everyone involved.
I feel guilty about it all, and a little dismal, though. You will be there at King’s Cross on Monday, won’t you? I tried to telephone you again just now and you weren’t there - and I even tried the office, but they merely took a message and didn’t sound very hopeful about ever reaching you with it before the decade was out. So, you have this letter. I might see if I can escape earlier, but I will let you know if I do. I may as well finish off that other room, though - at least that’s not offensive to anyone, and I did promise Mrs Kendall I would do it.
But if it were possible, I would tramp down to the station with my case right now and come home.
Love Julia
Later
P. S. I re-read this again and I’m sorry - you should ignore most of it. I will see you Monday - I expect it will all be a little better here now that everybody knows what’s going on.
Julia put her case down on the landing and went halfway down the stairs again to check whether or not anybody else was still using the telephone. She sighed to see that Cousin Rosamund was engaged in what sounded like a long and serious conversation with someone. Naturally, they had more need of it than she did, but it was rather a way from here into the town and she wasn’t sure how else to get a taxi. She contemplated pulling a few essentials out of her case into her bag and leaving it behind, so that she could walk. But how many miles was it? She thought that it must be at least seven or eight and it was already half past four.
“Mrs Iveson,” said Mrs Gregory, the cook, calling from the bottom of the stairs.
Julia leant over the banister. “Can I do anything?”
“I don’t think so,” Mrs Gregory said, “but you’d better go into the living room - there’s a gentleman in there to see you. Says he’s Mr Iveson.”
Julia abandoned her luggage and flew down the stairs and into the front room of the house to find that it really was Edward who had arrived. He was gazing idly out the window, leaning against the fireplace, and turned sharply when she burst in.
“Ned,” she said, unable to understand how he could have realised he was needed, and then threw herself at him, holding onto him tightly before pulling away to look at him again, just to be sure it wasn’t an hallucination. She tugged at his jacket, straightening it, not quite willing to let go. “But how are you here? How can you be? I’m so glad to see you, but how did you know?”
Edward glanced over at the door and then kissed her cheek. “Well, judging by your letters, either something was wrong, or you were exaggerating to see what I’d do. If it was the former, I was worried, and if the latter, I would hate to disappoint you.”
“You can telephone - you can come running up here on the slightest bit of encouragement,” Julia said, “but you can’t bring yourself to write me a single letter!”
He shook his head at her, and then pulled a small envelope out of his jacket pocket and pressed it into her hand. “A letter. For you. What’s happened? I take it something must have done.”
“It was Mr Kendall,” said Julia. “Oh, but you won’t know, because you can’t have got today’s letter. I’ll explain everything when we’re not here, but he isn’t well - he hasn’t really been well since the Great War, Cook says, and this week has just exacerbated things and - oh, dear, you see-” Julia lowered her voice. “I think - well he tried to drown himself in the pond, but luckily it isn’t very deep and the gardener saw. But they had to take him to hospital and they certainly don’t want me here any more. So, I was trying to get a moment on the telephone to call a taxi so that I could get back to York station and come home - and now, suddenly, here you are!”
Edward put a hand to her shoulder, and then kissed her again. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. Then he said, “I did send a telegram, but I imagine it was missed in all the fuss. I thought nobody could mind my claiming you for an evening or two on the weekend - I’ve booked a hotel somewhere near the Minster. I’ll go and tell someone and then we’ll be off.”
“And get the train back in the morning?” said Julia.
Edward gave a smile. “Well, since you seem to be free now, I think we could take an evening train and have the day in York. I’ve only ever really been through it before, and I hear it’s worth a proper look.”
“That sounds much too nice,” said Julia. “Now I’m a wretch who causes misery with lavender paint and then swans off to have a nice time in York. But it’s also too nice an offer to turn down, so, please - tell somebody you’ll take this troublemaker away, and I shall go and fetch my case.”
“Yes, do. I have a taxi waiting.”
“Sometimes,” said Julia, halfway between laughter and tears, “I love you very much, despite everything.”
Thursday
Dear Julia,
Here, you will see, is a letter, not even dictated to my secretary (who asked to be remembered to you, even if you seem to have forgotten his name again), but written in my own hand (and so almost entirely illegible, for which I apologise).
I am sure I have written you several letters in the past, in addition to a good number of postcards, but I hardly want to be accused of cruelty, so here is this effort, such as it is.
I suppose, to be truthful, the only thing I have to say is that I am a hypocrite at heart - I travel frequently for my own work and yet am quite miserable when you do the same for once. The house is suddenly over-large and over-quiet - even though I know that I lived here for at least three months before the wedding and cannot recall thinking so then.
Of course, worst of all, is that you took with you the book I was halfway through reading and so I don’t even have that consolation left to me. Please return it (and yourself) as soon as possible. You don’t sound as if you are enjoying it up there, and you seem to have got a lot of the work done. Do you think you could arrange to return on the weekend instead? It would be no problem to come and meet you.
In any case, please take care.
Yours, Edward.
***