The Night Mail – Dreams, Delusions, Decay delivered in short fiction

Addicted to Story

Photo by Dale Anderson

With Apologies and Thanks to Robert Palmer

I might as well admit it, I’m addicted to Story. I do not remember the first time I heard a story. I DO remember the first time I read an entire story on my own. But by then I was maybe six years old and had been “on the narrative” for years.

My parents read to me before I could read myself and told me stories of their childhoods. I could not get enough.

Story was soothing at the end of a tough day when I couldn’t sleep. Then it was soothing at the end of ANY day. Soon I needed story in the middle of the day. Before long I was reading stories at the breakfast table.

In Third grade I would come home from school and write MY OWN stories.

Thankfully, college and grad school were story-dry years. Textbooks occupied my reading hours; tests, term papers and thesis projects commanded my writing efforts. My work life was mathematics and memos.

Eventually, I had two children and Story came back into my life. I read to them and told them stories of my childhood. But it didn’t stop there.

I took them to the local public library for more stories and checked out books for myself. I read late at night after the kids had gone to bed. In the morning, I read at the breakfast table.

I started writing again. I don’t want to stop . . . my keyboard is calling me. I thought I was immune to this stuff but I’m going to have to face it, I’m addicted to Story.

Robin Anderson

History- Love It, Hate It

French troops at Talavera by Hippolyte Belange

I’ve always wanted to be an author but I never dreamed of writing historical fiction. High school and college history teachers focused on memorizing dates. Having a good memory, I aced the tests and promptly forgot all the meaningless data. Then I discovered Regency romance and mystery and social history. I was hooked. Seeing how people lived and why things happened tickled my brain like amorphous dates and events never did.

The excerpt from my wip, Mayhem and Mudlarks, is an example of how I used a story about a general’s hat from the Peninsular Wars.

“Lord Major Kenyon Randall Jamieson ushered Sherry into his small office at Whitehall, pointing out a chair in front a well-worn desk of indeterminate wood, before seating himself.

“I thought you had no friends alive here?” Sherry pulled his chair closer to the lamp on the desk and sat.

“I did not, until John Beckett, the undersecretary, read a recounting of my exploits in Talavera with the 29^th Regiment.” Major pulled a bottle and two glasses out of a drawer.

Sherry nodded a yes. “The battle that solidified your role and started mine as an exploring officer’”

Major poured a substantial quaff of amber liquid in each glass and handed one to Sherry. “Or made my superiors afraid of ever sending me into battle again, especially after I told the story of the two officers who had their hats blown away by a cannon ball flying overhead.”

“Lieutenant Duguid wasn’t too happy to return the only hat recovered to its rightful owner.”

“I’m not sure that hat belonged to General Stewart. But rank has its privileges.” Major raised his glass in salute. “Now he war is over but the fears of rebellion on the home front have all the politicians and career civil servants yanking out their hair. They have no knowledge of real intrigue. Hence men such as ourselves have increased in value.”

“But I refuse to spy on my fellow Englishmen.” Sherry sipped on his whiskey to drown the sour taste in his mouth. He had been approached to do so on his return to London after Napoleon was safely ensconced at Elba…

check out britishbattles.com

Hard Times and Brick Bats

Little Girl sat on the porch watching the rain make puddles in the street. Summer was gone and so was Pa. He always went away to work because, Ma said, it was “hard times”. It had been Hard Times as long as Little Girl could remember. Ma said some people did not have enough to eat; some did not even have a roof over their head or shoes to wear. Little Girl had shoes but only one pair so she didn’t wear them all day every day. They pinched her toes anyway.

Sister came out to the porch letting the door slam behind her. Little Girl smiled; Ma would not like that. Sure enough Ma yelled from the kitchen. “You tryin’ to break that door?” Sister stuck out her tongue but Ma couldn’t see her. Ma could see and hear a lot but she couldn’t see through walls. Lucky for Sister.

“Whatcha doin’?” Sister came to stand at the porch rail next to Little Girl.

“Nuthin’. Watchin’ the rain.”

“That’s not nuthin’.”

Little Girl wanted to sass Sister but Sister was older and bigger so she zipped her lip.

“Ma says it’s time to get ready.”

“For what?”

“Dinner. We’re goin’ to Old Woman’s house. You gotta put on your shoes and get a sweater.”

Little Girl groaned. Old Woman’s house was bo-o-o-ring. She only had two toys, leftovers from when her son was a little boy. A wooden train and a wooden car; all the paint was chipped off and the car only had three wheels. Old Woman’s son had died of something called tub-burr-culosis but she kept the toys. She always told the same story about how her son had loved the train and the car. Besides, Old Woman’s cooking wasn’t as good as Ma’s.

Sister poked her in the ribs. “Come. On. Ma says move it.”

Little Girl did as she was told.

When they got to Old Woman’s house she greeted them at the door, shooed Little Girl and Sister toward the old toys which sat on the shabby living room rug and took Ma into the kitchen with her. Little Girl and Sister sat on the floor but they did not play; instead Sister shushed Little Girl and nodded toward the kitchen. Ma and Old Woman were talking quietly but some of their words got into the living room and into Little Girl’s ears. It sounded like Ma was crying. Ma never cried! This scared Little Girl who started to get up to run into the kitchen.

But Sister grabbed her arm and shook her head “no”. Little Girl sat back on the floor and listened.

“He’s not coming back . . . said we was done . . .what I’m gonna do . . .”

“It might be a good thing. He can’t hit you or the girls any more.”

“. . . have to find a job . . . my sister might help but . . .”

“If you have to work, the girls can come to me after school.”

It was then that Sister pinched Little Girl on the back of the hand; she yelped real loud and Ma came rushing into the room.

“Elsie, Barbara Jayne! Stop it this minute.”

“But Ma!” Little Girl waved her reddened hand at Ma.

“I mean it.”

“Sorry, Ma.” Sister was looking like an angel. Little Girl frowned at her. But when Ma went back into the kitchen, Sister whispered. “We can’t come here after school everyday if Ma has to work. It’s too boring! We hafta find some way to make her take that back.”

Dinner that night was chicken and dumplings, one of Little Girl’s favorite meals. Ma made the best dumplings. Pa always said they were light as a feather. Always used to say. Old Woman ladled up the food, putting two small dumplings and a bit of chicken on Little Girl’s plate. Sister got the same. They both scooped up a dumpling and bit into it. Sister made a face but kept eating. Little Girl’s dumpling was hard. She spit it back onto her plate.

“I can’t eat this. It’s hard as a brickbat!”

“Barbara Jayne!” Ma was red in the face. But not as red as Old Woman.

“But Ma, you always says that!”

When Ma tucked them in that night she didn’t say much. After she left the bedroom Sister whispered from the other side of the small dark room. “You hungry?”

“Yes, you got any food?”

“Nope.” Sister was quiet for a minute but then she giggled. “At least we won’t have to go to Old Woman’s house again.”

A Wasp’s Kiss

On a beautiful summer afternoon, you sit talking with a friend. You’ve eaten a delicious lunch including a scrumptious lemon tart; your hands are slightly sticky and sweet. It doesn’t matter; you are relaxed and unconcerned about the attention you may be attracting. From the corner of your eye you observe your new puppy frolicking in the weeds. Happily, she is not nibbling at your hands as she frequently does. But then something tooth-like scrapes across one of your fingertips. Confused for a moment, you realize you have been tasted by a yellow jacket.

Fortunately, it dislikes lemon tart.

Wasp image by Steven Bailey via flickr.com

Robin Anderson

The Hunger

Image by Robin Anderson

She was perpetually hungry. For as long as she could remember the gnawing emptiness of her gut had been the very definition of existence. She attempted to erase or ease or appease it with any manner of food.

As a youngster, Mum had found her gobbling up live ants as they exited their nest at the corner of the front porch. “Biddy! Have done!! Them’ll sting yer tongue. Dinner’s but five off.”

Another time her older sister, Margee, caught her climbing a tree in the woods trying for a nest of hatchlings. “Git doon, Biddy. Them’ll peck yer throat. Here, I’ll dig ye some worms at the creek.”

Margee was always hungry too so they ate nasty worms to tide them ‘til supper.

As much as Biddy and Margee ate, they never grew fat; nice slender girls they were. They grew up to be nice slender young women, but none too comely either of them.

Margee married a fat man and moved away. Biddy stayed at home with her mum in the small cottage in the woods. There was more to eat once Margee was out of the house. And after Mum died, there was even more.

For a time, Biddy’s hunger was slaked. And when there was not quite enough in the larder, neither Mum nor Margee was around to tell Biddy she ought not to eat ants and hatchlings.

This period of satiety inspired Biddy to pursue other projects. When flour was plentiful, she taught herself to bake elaborate pies and cakes in the ancient wood fired oven at the back of the cottage. It was a tetchy thing and hard to get started, but once it was hot, the oven was a good baker. Biddy made bread too, which she shared with the crows that hung about the cottage, talking to her from high in the trees. Most days her conversations with the crows were the only ones she had; the few neighbors who lived close by disappeared without ever saying good-bye. Most would find it a lonely life but Biddy enjoyed her solitude.

She discovered a joy in painting and spent many contented hours adding colors to the inside and exterior of her little house. She was no artist, she knew, but was gratified to hear a passing stranger agree with his frolicking child that her cottage looked good enough to eat. Biddy smiled and waved her paint brush at the man and child. Her stomach rumbled.

Eventually, the hunger returned. Like a fury. Neither food from the larder nor ants, nor baby birds, nor worms could squelch the ravening pains. Mum was long gone and no help. But there was still Margee and her fat husband. Biddy decided to pay them a visit. She put on her very best black dress.

She emerged from the woods into glaring sunlight. It hurt her eyes, which she squeezed nearly shut. She hunched her shoulders, drawing her head downward to evade the heat. How could Margee bear this brightness?

Fortunately, her sister’s house was close to the forest. Enclosed by a sturdy fence, the yard was itself filled with shrubs and trees and a small vegetable garden. Margee had done well for herself.

Two young children played in front of the house but quickly caught sight of Biddy as she stood before the gate. The little girl, clearly the bolder of the two, ran to greet her. “Good morning, Ma’am. Are you here to visit Mama?”

“Mama?” Biddy’s voice came out a croak. It had been a long time since she had spoken to anyone. “Yes. If your ma’s name is Margee.”

“Yes, ‘tis.” The girl nodded eagerly as the boy drew closer.

Biddy smiled and licked her lips. “I am Margee’s sister. That makes me your auntie, I suppose.”

The boy turned and ran toward the house shouting for his mama. The girl stood staring at Biddy. She smiled at first but by the time Margee was on the porch, then heading down the walk, the girl’s smile had faded. A knowing one, Biddy thought, and frowned at the little jade.

Margee did not seem pleased to see her but turned her wrath upon the children. “Git inside you two, there’s pots in ta kitchen need scrubbing.” The children fled back to the house. Margee leaned on the gate but did not invite Biddy in. “And what might you be wantin’?”

“Just a visit wit ma sister. Ye look good Margee, yu’ve gained weight.” And indeed she had. Her once boney form had taken on voluptuous proportions. “Marriage must agree wit yu.”

Margee grinned sourly. “It did, but the old man is gone now and I’m left wit his brats.”

“They look like sweet kids to me.”

“Maybe, but they’s not worth the trouble it takes to feed ‘em. They ain’t mine, ya know; old man had another woman b’fore me. And I can’t look out for another husband while I have two skinny kids in tow.”

“I’ll take ‘em off yer hands. Bring ‘em to the cottage and then ye can go husband hunting. Let ‘em stay with old Aunt Biddy for a spell. At least ‘til ye find another fat man to marry.”

Margee said nothing but her eyes gleamed greenly.

“Invite me in for tea?” Biddy laid her hand on the gate latch.

Margee swatted her away. “Not today, Bid. But I’ll take ye up on yer offer to babysit. I’ll bring Hansel and Gretel into the wood early tomorrow morning. I’ll even throw in a loaf of fresh bread.”

“Thank ya, sister, I’ll take good care of ‘em, I will.”

Her stomach growled loudly as Biddy turned toward home. She would stoke a fire in the wood stove as soon as she got there and plan a veritable feast. And serve her niece and nephew.

Old Clothes for Sale

When researching or collecting clothing from by-gone days, it is easier to find apparel of the upper classes. This is simply because the poor and working class wore their garments out, seldom leaving more than rags behind.

Cities in Europe had markets for second hand clothing from at least the 16th century on. London had markets in Petticoat and Rosemary Lanes that carried gently used items, especially frock coats and great coats, as well as extremely worn clothing. Houndsditch market specialized in threadbare attire for the poor. These markets were characterized by writers of the time as boisterous at best and crime ridden at worst. Some claimed most of the clothing for sale was stolen.

By mid-century, the journalist and reformer, Henry Mayhew described London street markets:

Some of the wares are spread on the ground, on wrappers, or pieces of matting or carpet; and some, as the pots, are occasionally placed on straw. The cotton prints are often heaped on the ground, where are also ranges or heaps of boots and shoes, and piles of old clothes, or hats or umbrellas. Other trades place their goods on stalls or barrows, or over an old chair or clothes-horse. And amidst all this motley display the buyers and sellers smoke, and shout, and doze, and bargain, and wrangle, and eat, and drink tea and coffee, and sometimes beer”.