I
"Good morning, Miss Lovill!" said the young man, in the free manner usual with him toward pretty and inexperienced country girls.
Agatha Pollin - the maiden addressed - instantly perceived how the mistake had arisen. Miss Lovill was the owner of a blue autumn wrapper, exceptionally gay for a village; and Agatha, in a spirit of emulation rather than originality, had purchased a similarly enviable article for herself, which she wore to-day for the first time. It may be mentioned that the two young women had ridden together from their homes to Maiden-Newton on this foggy September morning, Agatha prolonging her journey thence to Weymouth by train, and leaving her acquaintance at the former place. The remark was made to her on Weymouth esplanade.
Agatha was now about to reply very naturally, "I am not Miss Lovill," and she went so far as to turn up her face to him for the purpose, when he added, "I've been hoping to meet you. I have heard of your - well, I must say it - beauty, long ago, though I only came to Beaminster yesterday."
Agatha bowed - her contradiction hung back - and they walked slowly along the esplanade together without speaking another word after the above point-blank remark of his. It was evident that her new friend could never have seen either herself or Miss Lovill except from a distance.
And Agatha trembled as well as bowed. This Miss Lovill - Frances Lovill - was of great and long renown as the beauty of Cloton village, near Beaminster. She was five and twenty and fully developed, while Agatha was only the niece of the miller of the same place, just nineteen, and of no repute as yet for comeliness, though she undoubtedly could boast of much. Now, were the speaker, Oswald Winwood, to be told that he had not lighted upon the true Helen, he would instantly apologise for his mistake and leave her side; contingency of no great matter but for one curious emotional circumstance - Agatha had already lost her heart to him. Only in secret had she acquired this interest in Winwood - by hearing much report of his talent and by watching him several times from a window; but she loved none the less in that she had discovered that Miss Lovill's desire to meet and talk with the same intellectual luminary was in a fair way of approaching the intensity of her own. We are never unbiased appraisers, even in love, and rivalry usually operates as a stimulant to esteem even while it is acting as an obstacle to opportunity. So it had been with Agatha in her talk to Miss Lovill that morning concerning Oswald Winwood.
The Weymouth season was almost at an end, and but few loungers were to be seen on the parades, particularly at this early hour. Agatha looked over the iridescent sea, from which the veil of mist was slowly rising, at the white cliffs on the left, now just beginning to gleam in a weak sunlight, at the one solitary yacht in the midst, and still delayed her explanation. Her companion went on:
"The mist is vanishing, look, and I think it will be fine, after all. Shall you stay in Weymouth the whole day?"
"No. I am going to Portland by the twelve o'clock steam-boat. But I return here again at six to go home by the seven o'clock train."
"I go to Maiden Newton by the same train, and then to Beaminster by the carrier."
"So do I."
"Not, I suppose, to walk from Beaminster to Cloton at that time in the evening?"
"I shall be met by somebody - but it is only a mile, you know."
That is how it all began; the continuation it is not necessary to detail at length. Both being somewhat young and impulsive, social forms were not scrupulously attended to. She discovered him to be on board the steamer as it ploughed the emerald waves of Weymouth Bay, although he had wished her a formal good-bye at the pier. He had altered his mind, he said, and thought that he would come to Portland, too. They returned by the same boat, walked the velvet sands till the train started, and entered a carriage together.
All this time, in the midst of her happiness, Agatha's conscience was sombre with guiltiness at not having yet told him of his mistake. It was true that he had not more than once or twice called her by Miss Lovill's name since the first greeting in the morning; but he certainly was still under the impression that she was Frances Lovill. Yet she perceived that though he had been led to her by another's name, it was her own proper person that he was so rapidly getting to love, and Agatha's feminine insight suggested blissfully to her that the face belonging to the name would after this encounter have no power to drag him away from the face of the day's romance.
They reached Maiden-Newton at dusk, and went to the inn door, where stood the old-fashioned hooded van which was to take them to Beaminster. It was on the point of starting, and when they had mounted in front the old man at once drove up the long hill leading out of the village.
"This has been a charming experience to me, Miss Lovill," Oswald said, as they sat side by side. "Accidental meetings have a way of making themselves pleasant when contrived ones quite fail to do it."
It was absolutely necessary to confess this time, though all her bliss were at once destroyed.
"I am not really Miss Lovill!" she faltered.
"What! not the young lady - and are you really not Frances Lovill?" he exclaimed, in surprise.
"O forgive me, Mr Winwood! I have wanted so to tell you of your mistake; indeed I have, all day - but I couldn't - and it is so wicked and wrong of me! I am only poor Agatha Pollin, at the mill."
"But why couldn't you tell me?"
"Because I was afraid that if I did you would go away from me and not care for me any more, and I l-l-love you so dearly!"
The carrier being on foot beside the horse, the van being so dark, and Oswald's feelings being rather warm, he could not for his life avoid kissing her there and then.
"Well," he said, "it doesn't matter; you are yourself anyhow. It is you I like, and nobody else in the world - not the name. But, you know, I was really looking for Miss Lovill this morning. I saw the back of her head yesterday, and I have often heard how very good-looking she is. Ah! suppose you had been she. I wonder--"
He did not complete the sentence. The driver mounted again, touched the horse with the whip, and they jogged on.
"You forgive me?" she said.
"Entirely - absolutely - the reason justified everything. How strange that you should have been caring deeply for me, and I ignorant of it all the time!"
They descended into Beaminster and alighted, Oswald handing her down. They had not moved from the spot when another female figure also alighted, dropped her fare into the carrier's hand, and glided away.
"Who is that?" said Oswald to the carrier. "Why, I thought we were the only passengers!"
"What?" said the carrier, who was rather stupid.
"Who is that woman?"
"Miss Lovill, of Cloton. She altered her mind about staying at Beaminster, and is come home again."
"Oh!" said Agatha, almost sinking to the earth. "She has heard it all. What shall I do, what shall I do?"
"Never mind it a bit," said Oswald.
II
The mill stood beside the village high-road, from which it was separated by the stream, the latter forming also the boundary of the mill garden, orchard, and paddock on that side. A visitor crossed a little wood bridge embedded in oozy, aquatic growths, and found himself in a space where usually stood a waggon laden with sacks, surrounded by a number of bright-feathered fowls.
It was now, however, just dusk, but the mill was not closed, a stripe of light stretching as usual from the open door across the front, across the river, across the road, into the hedge beyond. On the bridge, which was aside from the line of light, a young man and girl stood talking together. Soon they moved a little way apart, and then it was apparent that their right hands were joined. In receding one from the other they began to swing their arms gently backward and forward between them.
"Come a little way up the lane, Agatha, since it is the last time," he said. "I don't like parting here. You know your uncle does not object."
"He doesn't object because he knows nothing to object to," she whispered. And they both then contemplated the fine, stalwart figure of the said uncle, who could be seen moving about inside the mill, illuminated by the candle, and circumscribed by a faint halo of flour, and hindered by the whirr of the mill from hearing anything so gentle as lovers' talk.
Oswald had not relinquished her hand, and, submitting herself to a bondage she appeared to love better than freedom, Agatha followed him across the bridge, and they went down the lane engaged in the low, sad talk common to all such cases, interspersed with remarks peculiar to their own.
"It is nothing so fearful to contemplate," he said. "Many live there for years in a state of rude health, and return home in the same happy condition. So shall I."
"I hope you will."
"But aren't you glad I am going? It is better to do well in India than badly here. Say you are glad, dearest; it will fortify me when I am gone."
"I am glad," she murmured faintly. "I mean I am glad in my mind. I don't think that in my heart I am glad."
"Thanks to Macaulay, of honoured memory, I have as good a chance as the best of them!" he said, with ardour. "What a great thing competitive examination is; it will put good men in good places, and make inferior men move lower down; all bureaucratic jobbery will be swept away."
"What's bureaucratic, Oswald?"
"Oh! that's what they call it, you know. It is - well, I don't exactly know what it is. I know this, that it is the name of what I hate, and that it isn't competitive examination."
"At any rate it is a very bad thing," she said, conclusively.
"Very bad, indeed; you may take my word for that."
Then the parting scene began, in the dark, under the heavy-headed trees which shut out sky and stars. "And since I shall be in London till the Spring," he remarked, "the parting doesn't seem so bad - so all at once. Perhaps you may come to London before the Spring, Agatha."
"I may; but I don't think I shall."
"We must hope on all the same. Then there will be the examination, and then I shall know my fate."
"I hope you'll fail! - there, I've said it; I couldn't help it, Oswald!" she exclaimed, bursting out crying. "You would come home again then!"
"How can you be so disheartening and wicked, Agatha! I-I didn't expect--"
"No, no; I don't wish it; I wish you to be best, top, very very best!" she said. "I didn't mean the other; indeed, dear Oswald, I didn't. And will you be sure to come to me when you are rich? Sure to come?"
"If I'm on this earth I'll come home and marry you."
And then followed the good-bye.
III
In the Spring came the examination. One morning a newspaper directed by Oswald was placed in her hands, and she opened it to find it was a copy of the Times. In the middle of the sheet, in the most conspicuous place, in the excellent neighbourhood of the leading articles, was a list of names, and the first on the list was Oswald Winwood. Attached to his name, as showing where he was educated, was the simple title of some obscure little academy, while underneath came public school and college men in shoals. Such a case occurs sometimes, and it occurred then.
How Agatha clapped her hands! for her selfish wish to have him in England at any price, even that of failure, had been but a paroxysm of the wretched parting, and was now quite extinct. Circumstances combined to hinder another meeting between them before his departure, and, accordingly, making up her mind to the inevitable in a way which would have done honour to an older head, she fixed her mental vision on that sunlit future - far away, yet always nearing - and contemplated its probabilities with a firm hope.
At length he had arrived in India, and now Agatha had only to work and wait; and the former made the latter more easy. In her spare hours she would wander about the river brinks and into the coppices and there weave thoughts of him by processes that young women understand so well. She kept a diary, and in this, since there were few events to chronicle in her daily life, she sketched the changes of the landscape, noted the arrival and departure of birds of passage, the times of storms and foul weather - all which information, being mixed up with her life and taking colour from it, she sent as scraps in her letters to him, deriving most of her enjoyment in contemplating his.
Oswald, on his part, corresponded very regularly. Knowing the days of the Indian mail, she would go at such times to meet the post-man in early morning, and to her unvarying inquiry, "A letter for me?" it was seldom, indeed, that there came a disappointing answer. Thus the season passed, and Oswald told her he should be a judge some day, with many other details, which, in her mind, were viewed chiefly in their bearing on the grand consummation - that he was to come home and marry her.
Meanwhile, as the girl grew older and more womanly, the woman whose name she had once stolen for a day grew more of an old maid, and showed symptoms of fading. One day Agatha's uncle, who, though still a handsome man in the prime of his life was a widower with four children, to whom she acted the part of eldest sister, told Agatha that Frances Lovill was about to become his second wife.
"Well!" said Agatha, and thought, "What an end for a beauty!"
And yet it was all reasonable enough, notwithstanding that Miss Lovill might have looked a little higher. Agatha knew that this step would produce great alterations in the small household of Cloton Mill, and the idea of having as aunt and ruler the woman to whom she was in some sense indebted for a lover, affected Agatha with a slight thrill of dread. Yet nothing had ever been spoken between the two women to show that Frances had heard, much less resented, the explanation in the van on that night of the return from Weymouth.
IV
On a certain day old farmer Lovill called. He was of the same family as Frances, though their relationship was distant. A considerable business in corn had been done from time to time between miller and farmer, but the latter had seldom called at Pollin's house. He was a bachelor, or he would probably never have appeared in this history, and he was mostly full of a boyish merriment rare in one of his years. To-day his business with the miller had been so imperative as to bring him in person, and it was evident from their talk in the mill that the matter was payment. Perhaps ten minutes had been spent in serious converse when the old farmer turned away from the door, and, without saying good-morning, went toward the bridge. This was unusual for a man of his temperament.
He was an old man - really and fairly old - sixty-five years of age at least. He was not exactly feeble, but he found a stick useful when walking in a high wind. His eyes were not yet bleared, but in their corners was occasionally a moisture like majolica glaze - entirely absent in youth. His face was not shrivelled, but there were unmistakable puckers in some places. And hence the old gentleman, unmarried, substantial, and cheery as he was, was not doted on by the young girls of Cloton as he had been by their mothers in former time. Each year his breast impended a little further over his toes, and his chin a little further over his breast, and in proportion as he turned down his nose to earth did pretty females turn up theirs at him. They might have liked him as a friend had he not shown the abnormal wish to be regarded as a lover. To Agatha Pollin this aged youth was positively distasteful.
It happened that at the hour of Mr Lovill's visit Agatha was bending over the pool at the mill head, sousing some white fabric in the water. She was quite unconscious of the farmer's presence near her, and continued dipping and rinsing in the idlest phase possible to industry, until she remained quite still, holding the article under the water, and looking at her own reflection within it. The river, though gliding slowly, was yet so smooth that to the old man on the bridge she existed in duplicate - the pouting mouth, the little nose, the frizzed hair, the bit of blue ribbon, as they existed over the surface, being but a degree more distinct than the same features beneath.
"What a pretty maid!" said the old man to himself. He walked up the margin of the stream, and stood beside her.
"Oh!" said Agatha, starting with surprise. In her flurry she relinquished the article she had been rinsing, which slowly turned over and sank deeper, and made toward the hatch of the mill-wheel.
"There - it will get into the wheel, and be torn to pieces!" she exclaimed.
"I'll fish it out with my stick, my dear," said Farmer Lovill, and kneeling cautiously down he began hooking and crooking with all his might. "What thing is it of much value?"
"Yes; it is my best one!" she said involuntarily.
"It - what is the it?"
"Only something - a piece of linen." Just then the farmer hooked the endangered article, and dragging it out, held it high on his walking-stick - dripping, but safe.
"Why, it is a chemise!" he said.
The girl looked red, and instead of taking it from the end of the stick, turned away.
"Hee-hee!" laughed the ancient man. "Well, my dear, there's nothing to be ashamed of that I can see in owning to such a necessary and innocent article of clothing. There, I'll put it on the grass for you, and you shall take it when I am gone."
Then Farmer Lovill retired, lifting his fingers privately, to express amazement on a small scale, and murmuring, "What a nice young thing! Well, to be sure. Yes, a nice child - young woman rather indeed, a marriageable woman, come to that; of course she is."
The doting old person thought of the young one all this day in a way that the young one did not think of him. He thought so much about her, that in the evening, instead of going to bed, he hobbled privately out by the back door into the moonlight, crossed a field or two, and stood in the lane, looking at the mill - not more in the hope of getting a glimpse of the attractive girl inside than for the pleasure of realising that she was there.
A light moved within, came nearer, and ascended. The staircase window was large, and he saw his goddess going up with a candle in her hand. This was indeed worth coming for. He feared he was seen by her as well, yet hoped otherwise in the interests of his passion, for she came and drew down the window blind, completely shutting out his gaze. The light vanished from this part, and reappeared in a window a little further on.
The lover drew nearer; this, then, was her bedroom. He rested vigorously upon his stick, and straightening his back nearly to a perpendicular, turned up his amorous face.
She came to the window, paused, then opened it.
"Bless its deary-eary heart! it is going to speak to me!" said the old man, moistening his lips, resting still more desperately upon his stick, and straightening himself yet an inch taller. "She saw me then!"
Agatha, however, made no sign; she was bent on a far different purpose. In a box on her window-sill was a row of mignonette, which had been sadly neglected since her lover's departure, and she began to water it, as if inspired by a sudden recollection of its condition. She poured from her water-jug slowly along the plants, and then, to her astonishment, discerned her elderly friend below.
"A rude old thing!" she murmured.
Directing the spout of the jug over the edge of the box, and looking in another direction that it might appear to be an accident, she allowed the stream to spatter down upon her admirer's face, neck, and shoulders, causing him to beat a quick retreat. Then Agatha serenely closed the window, and drew down that blind also.
"Ah! she did not see me; it was evident she did not, and I was mistaken!" said the trembling farmer, hastily wiping his face, and mopping out the rills trickling down within his shirt-collar as far as he could get at them, which was by no means to their termination. "A pretty creature, and so innocent, too! Watering her flowers; how like a girl who is fond of flowers! I wish she had spoken, and I wish I was younger. Yes, I know what I'd do with the little mouse!" And the old gentleman tapped emotionally upon the ground with his stick.
V
"Agatha, I suppose you have heard the news from somebody else by this time?" said her Uncle Humphrey some two or three weeks later. "I mean what Farmer Lovill has been talking to me about."
"No, indeed" said Agatha.
"He wants to marry ye if you be willing."
"O, I never!" said Agatha with dismay. "That old man!"
"Old? He's hale and hearty; and what's more, a man very well to do. He'll make you a comfortable home, and dress ye up like a doll, and I'm sure you'll like that, or you 'aint a woman of woman born."
"But it can't be, uncle! other reasons--"
"What reasons?"
"Why, I've promised Oswald Winwood - years ago!"
"Promised Oswald Winwood years ago, have you?"
"Yes; surely you know it Uncle Humphrey. And we write to one another regularly."
"Well, I can just call to mind that ye are always scribbling and getting letters from somewhere. Let me see - where is he now? I quite forget."
"In India still. Is it possible that you don't know about him, and what a great man he's getting? There are paragraphs about him in our paper very often. The last was about some translation from Hindostani that he'd been making. And he's coming home for me."
"I very much question it. Lovill will marry you at once, he says."
"Indeed, he will not."
"Well, I don't want to force you to do anything against your will, Agatha, but this is how the matter stands. You know I am a little behindhand in my dealings with Lovill - nothing serious, you know, if he gives me time - but I want to be free of him quite in order to go to Australia."
"Australia!"
"Yes. There's nothing to be done here. I don't know what business is coming to - can't think. But never mind that; this is the point: if you will marry Farmer Lovill, he offers to clear off the debt, and there will no longer be any delay about my own marriage; in short, away I can go. I mean to, and there's an end on't."
"What, and leave me at home alone?"
"Yes, but a married woman, of course. You see the children are getting big now. John is twelve and Nathaniel ten, and the girls are growing fast, and when I am married again I shall hardly want you to keep house for me - in fact, I must reduce our family as much as possible. So that if you could bring your mind to think of Farmer Lovill as a husband, why, 'twould be a great relief to me after having the trouble and expense of bringing you up. If I can in that way edge out of Lovill's debt I shall have a nice bit of money in hand."
"But Oswald will be richer even than Mr Lovill," said Agatha, through her tears.
"Yes, yes. But Oswald is not here, nor is he likely to be. How silly you be."
"But he will come, and soon, with his eleven hundred a year and all."
"I wish to Heaven he would. I'm sure he might have you."
"Now, you promise that, uncle, don't you?" she said, brightening. "If he comes with plenty of money before you want to leave, he shall marry me, and nobody else."
"Ay, if he comes. But, Agatha, no nonsense. Just think of what I've been telling you. And at any rate be civil to Farmer Lovill. If this man Winwood were here and asked for ye, and married ye, that would be a very different thing. I do mind now that I saw something about him and his doings in the papers; but he's a fine gentleman by this time, and won't think of stooping to a girl like you. So you'd better take the one who is ready; old men's darlings fare very well as the world goes. We shall be off in nine months, mind, that I've settled. And you must be a married woman afore that time, and wish us good-bye upon your husband's arm."
"That old arm couldn't support me."
"And if you don't agree to have him, you'll take a couple of hundred pounds out of my pocket; you'll ruin my chances altogether - that's the long and the short of it."
Saying which the gloury man turned his back upon her, and his footsteps became drowned in the rumble of the mill.
VI
Nothing so definite was said to her again on the matter for some time. The old yeoman hovered round her, but, knowing the result of the interview between Agatha and her uncle, he forbore to endanger his suit by precipitancy. But one afternoon he could not avoid saying, "Aggie, when may I speak to you upon a serious subject?"
"Next week," she replied, instantly.
He had not been prepared for such a ready answer, and it startled him almost as much as it pleased him. Had he known the cause of it his emotions might have been different. Agatha, with all the womanly strategy she was capable of, had written post-haste to Oswald after the conversation with her uncle, and told him of the dilemma. At the end of the present week his answer, if he replied with his customary punctuality, would be sure to come. Fortified with his letter she thought she could meet the old man. Oswald she did not doubt.
Nor had she any reason to. The letter came prompt to the day. It was short, tender, and to the point. Events had shaped themselves so fortunately that he was able to say he would return and marry her before the time named for the family's departure for Queensland.
She danced about for joy. But there was a postscript to the effect that she might as well keep this promise a secret for the present, if she conveniently could, that his intention might not become a public talk in Cloton. Agatha knew that he was a rising and aristocratic young man, and saw at once how proper this was.
So she met Mr Lovill with a simple flat refusal, at which her uncle was extremely angry, and her disclosure to him afterward of the arrival of the letter went but a little way in pacifying him. Farmer Lovill would put in upon him for the debt, he said, unless she could manage to please him for a short time.
"I don't want to please him," said Agatha. "It is wrong to encourage him if I don't mean it."
"Will you behave toward him as the Parson advises you?"
The Parson! That was a new idea, and, from her uncle, unexpected.
"I will agree to what Mr Davids advises about my mere daily behaviour before Oswald comes, but nothing more," she said. "That is, I will if you know for certain that he's a good man, who fears God and keeps the commandments."
"Mr Davids fears God, for sartin, for he never ventures to name Him outside the pulpit - and as for the commandments, 'tis knowed how he swore at the church-restorers for taking them away from the chancel."
"Uncle, you always jest when I am serious."
"Well, well! at any rate his advice on a matter of this sort is good."
"How is it you think of referring me to him?" she asked, in perplexity; "you so often speak slightingly of him."
"Oh-well," said Humphrey, with a faintly perceptible desire to parry the question, "I have spoken roughly about him once now and then; but perhaps I was wrong. Will ye go?"
"Yes, I don't mind," she said, languidly.
When she reached the Vicar's study Agatha began her story with reserve, and said nothing about the correspondence with Oswald; yet an intense longing to find a friend and confidant led her to indulge in more feeling than she had intended, and as a finale she wept. The genial incumbent, however, remained quite cool, the secret being that his heart was involved a little in another direction - one, perhaps, not quite in harmony with Agatha's interests - of which more anon.
"So the difficulty is," he said to her, "how to behave in this trying time of waiting for Mr Winwood, that you may please parties all round and give offence to none."
"Yes, Sir, that's it," sobbed Agatha, wondering how he could have realised her position so readily. "And uncle wants to go to Australia.
"One thing is certain," said the Vicar; "you must not hurt the feelings of Mr Lovill. Wonderfully sensitive man - a man I respect much as a godly doer."
"Do you, Sir?"
"I do. His earnestness is remarkable."
"Yes, in courting."
"The cue is: treat Mr Lovill gently-gently as a babe! Love opposed, especially an old man's, gets all the stronger. It is your policy to give him seeming encouragement, and so let his feelings expend themselves and die away."
"How am I to? To advise is so easy."
"Not by acting untruthfully, of course. You say your lover is sure to come back before your uncle leaves England?"
"I know he will."
"Then pacify old Mr Lovill in this way: Tell him you'll marry him when your uncle wants to go, if Winwood doesn't come for you before that time. That will quite content Mr Lovill, for he doesn't in the least expect Oswald to return, and you'll see that his persecution will cease at once."
"Yes; I'll agree to it," said Agatha promptly.
Mr Davids had refrained from adding that neither did he expect Oswald to come, and hence his advice. Agatha on her part too refrained from stating the good reasons she had for the contrary expectation, and hence her assent. Without the last letter perhaps even her faith would hardly have been bold enough to allow this palpable driving of her into a corner.
"It would be as well to write Mr Lovill a little note, saying you agree to what I have advised," said the Parson evasively.
"I don't like writing."
"There's no harm. 'If Mr Winwood doesn't come I'll marry you'. Poor Mr Lovill will be content, thinking Oswald will not come; you will be content, knowing he will come; your uncle will be content being indifferent which of two rich men has you and relieves him of his difficulties. Then, if it's the will of Providence, you'll be left in peace. Here's a pen and ink; you can do it at once."
Thus tempted, Agatha wrote the note with a trembling hand. It really did seem upon the whole a nicely strategic thing to do in her present environed situation. Mr Davids took the note with the air of a man who did not wish to take it in the least, and placed it on the mantle-piece.
"I'll send it down to him by one of the children," said Aggy, looking wistfully at her note with a little feeling that she should like to have it back again.
"Oh, no, it is not necessary," said her pleasant adviser. He had rung the bell; the servant now came, and the note was sent off in a trice.
When Agatha got into the open air again her confidence returned, and it was with a mischievous sense of enjoyment that she considered how she was duping her persecutors by keeping secret Oswald's intention of a speedy return. If they only knew what a firm foundation she had for her belief in what they all deemed but an improbable contingency, what a life they would lead her; how the old man would worry her uncle for payment, and what general confusion there would be. Mr Davids' advice was very shrewd, she thought, and she was glad she had called upon him.
Old Lovill came that very afternoon. He was delighted, and danced a few bars of a hornpipe in entering the room. So lively was the antique boy that Agatha was rather alarmed at her own temerity when she considered what was the basis of his gaiety; wishing she could get from him some such writing as he had got from her, that the words of her promise might not in any way be tampered with, or the conditions ignored.
"I only accept you conditionally, mind," she anxiously said. "That is distinctly understood."
"Yes, yes," said the yeoman. "I am not so young as I was, little dear, and beggars musn't be choosers. With my ra-ta-ta-say, dear, shall it be the first of November?"
"It will really never be."
"But if he doesn't come, it shall be the first of November?"
She slightly nodded her head.
"Clk! - I think she likes me!" said the old man aside to Aggy's uncle, which aside was distinctly heard by Aggy.
One of the younger children was in the room, drawing idly on a slate. Agatha at this moment took the slate from the child, and scribbled something on it.
"Now you must please me by just writing your name here," she said in a voice of playful indifference.
"What is it?" said Lovill, looking over and reading. "'If Oswald Winwood comes to marry Agatha Pollin before November, I agree to give her up to him without objection.' Well, that is cool for a young lady under six feet, upon my word - hee - hee!" He passed the slate to the miller, who read the writing and passed it back again.
"Sign - just in courtesy," she coaxed.
"I don't see why--"
"I do it to test your faith in me; and now I find you have none. Don't you think I should have rubbed it out instantly? Ah, perhaps I can be obstinate too!"
He wrote his name then. "Now I have done it, and shown my faith," he said, and at once raised his fingers as if to rub it out again. But with hands that moved like lightning she snatched up the slate, flew up stairs, locked it in her box, and came down again.
"Souls of men - that's sharp practice," said the old gentleman.
"Oh, it is only a whim - a mere memorandum," said she. "You had my promise, but I had not yours."
"Ise wants my slate," cried the child.
"I'll buy you a new one, dear," said Agatha, and soothed her.
When she had left the room old Lovill spoke to her uncle somewhat uneasily of the event, which, childish as it had been, discomposed him for the moment.
"Oh, that's nothing," said Miller Pollin assuringly; "only play - only play. She's a mere child in nater, even now, and she did it only to tease ye. Why, she overheard your whisper that you thought she liked ye, and that was her playful way of punishing ye for your confidence. You'll have to put up with these worries, farmer. Considering the difference in your ages, she is sure to play pranks. You'll get to like 'em in time."
"Ay, ay, faith, so I shall! I was always a Turk for sprees! - eh, Pollin? hee-hee!" And the suitor was merry again.
VII
Her life was certainly much pleasanter now. The old man treated her well, and was almost silent on the subject nearest his heart. She was obliged to be very stealthy in receiving letters from Oswald, and on this account was bound to meet the postman, let the weather be what it would. These transactions were easily kept secret from people out of the house, but it was a most difficult task to hide her movements from her uncle. And one day brought utter failure.
"How's this - out already, Agatha?" he said, meeting her in the lane at dawn on a foggy morning. She was actually reading a letter just received, and there was no disguising the truth.
"I've been for a letter from Oswald."
"Well, but that won't do. Since he don't come for ye, ye must think no more about him."
"But he's coming in six weeks. He tells me all about it in this very letter."
"What - really to marry you?" said her uncle incredulously.
"Yes, certainly."
"But I hear that he's wonderfully well off."
"Of course he is; that's why he's coming. He'll agree in a moment to be your surety for the debt to Mr Lovill."
"Has he said so?"
"Not yet; but he will."
"I'll believe it when I see him and he tells me so. It is very odd, if he means so much, that he he never wrote a line to me."
"We thought you would force me to have the other at once if he wrote to you," she murmured.
"Not I, if he comes rich. But it is rather a cock-and-bull story, and since he didn't make up his mind before now, I can't say I be much in his favour. Agatha, you had better not say a word to Mr Lovill about these letters; it will make things deuced unpleasant if he hears of such goings on. You are to reckon yourself bound by your word. Oswald won't hold water, I'm afeard. But I'll be fair. If he do come, proves his income, marries ye willy-nilly, I'll let it be, and the old man and I must do as we can. But barring that - you keep your promise to the letter."
"That's what it will be, uncle. Oswald will come."
"Write you must not. Lovill will smell it out, and he'll be sharper than you will like. 'Tis not to be supposed that you are to send love-letters to one man as if nothing was going to happen between ye and another man. The first of November is drawing nearer every day. And be sure and keep this a secret from Lovill for your own sake.
The more clearly that Agatha began to perceive the entire contrast of expectation as to issue between herself and the other party to the covenant, the more alarmed she became. She had not anticipated such a narrowing of courses as had occurred. A malign influence seemed to be at work without any visible human agency. The critical time drew nearer, and, though no ostensible preparation for the wedding was made, it was evident to all that Lovill was painting and papering his house for somebody's reception. He made a lawn where there had existed a nook of refuse; he bought furniture for a woman's room. The greatest horror was that he insisted upon her taking his arm one day, and there being no help for it she assented, though her distaste was unutterable. She felt the skinny arm through his sleeve, saw over the wry shoulders, looked upon the knobby feet, and shuddered. What if Oswald should not come; the time for her uncle's departure was really getting near. When she reached home she ran up to her bedroom.
On recovering from her dreads a little, Agatha looked from the window. The deaf lad John, who assisted in the mill, was quietly glancing toward her, and a gleam of friendship passed over his kindly face as he caught sight of her form. This reminded her that she had, after all, some sort of friend close at hand. The lad knew pretty well how events stood in Agatha's life, and he was always ready to do on her part whatever lay in his power. Agatha felt stronger, and resolved to bear up.
VIII
Heavens! how anxious she was! It actually wanted only ten days to the first of November, and no new letter had come from Oswald.
Her uncle was married, and Frances was in the house, and the preliminary steps for emigration to Queensland had been taken. Agatha surreptitiously obtained newspapers, scanned the Indian shipping news till her eyes ached, but all to no purpose, for she knew nothing either of route or vessel by which Oswald would return. He had mentioned nothing more than the month of his coming, and she had no way of making that single scrap of information the vehicle for obtaining more.
"In ten days, Agatha," said the old farmer. "There is to be no show or fuss of any kind; the wedding will be quite private, in consideration of your feelings and wishes. We'll go to church as if we were taking a morning walk, and nobody will be there to disturb you. Tweedledee!" He held up his arm and crossed it with his walking-stick, as if he were playing the fiddle, at the same time cutting a caper.
"He will come, and then I shan't be able to marry you, even th-th-though I may wish to ever so much," she faltered, shivering. "I have promised him, and I must have him, you know, and you have agreed to let me."
"Yes, yes," said Farmer Lovill, pleasantly. "But that's a misfortune you need not fear at all, my dear; he won't come at this late day and compel you to marry him in spite of your attachment to me. But, ah - it is only a joke to tease me, you little rogue! Your uncle says so."
"Agatha, come, cheer up, and think no more of that fellow," said her uncle when they chanced to be alone together. "'Tis ridiculous, you know. We always knew he wouldn't come."
The day passed. The sixth morning came, the noon, the evening. The fifth day came and vanished. Still no sound of Oswald. His friends now lived in London, and there was not a soul in the parish, save herself, that he corresponded with, or one to whom she could apply in such a delicate matter as this.
It was the evening before her wedding-day, and she was standing alone in the gloom of her bedchamber looking out on the plot in front of the mill. She saw a white figure moving below, and knew him to be the deaf miller lad, her friend. A sudden impulse animated Agatha. She had been making desperate attempts during the last two days to like the old man, and, since Oswald did not come, to marry him without further resistance, for the sheer good of the family of her uncle, to whom she was indeed indebted for much; but had only got so far in her efforts as not to positively hate him. Now rebelliousness came unsought. The lad knew her case, and upon this fact she acted. Gliding down stairs, she beckoned to him, and, as they stood together in the stream of light from the open mill door, she communicated her directions, partly by signs, partly by writing, for it was difficult to speak to him without being heard all over the premises.
He looked in her face with a glance of confederacy, and said that he understood it all. Upon this they parted.
The old man was at her house that evening, and when she withdrew wished her good-bye "for the present" with a dozen smiles of meaning. Agatha had retired early, leaving him still there, and when she reached her room, instead of looking at the new dress she was supposed to be going to wear on the morrow, busied herself in making up a small bundle of ordinary articles of clothing. Then she extinguished her light, lay down upon the bed without undressing, and waited for a preconcerted time.
In what seemed to her the dead of night, but which she concluded must be the time agreed upon - half-past five - there was a slight noise as of gravel being thrown against her window. Agatha jumped up, put on her bonnet and cloak, took up her bundle, and went down stairs without a light. At the bottom she slipped on her boots, and passed amid the chirping crickets to the door. It was unbarred. Her uncle, then, had risen, as she had half expected, and it necessitated a little more caution. The morning was dark as a cavern, not a star being visible; but knowing the bearings well, she went cautiously and in silence to the mill door. A faint light shone from inside, and the form of the mill-cart appeared without, the horse ready harnessed to it. Agatha did not see John for the moment, but concluded that he was in the mill with her uncle, who had just at this minute started the wheel for the day. She at once slipped into the vehicle and under the tilt, pulling some empty sacks over, as it had been previously agreed that she should do, to avoid the risk of discovery. After a few minutes of suspense she heard John coming from under the wall, where he had apparently been standing and watching her safely in, and mounting in front, away he drove at a walking pace.
Her scheme had been based upon the following particulars of mill business: Thrice a week it was the regular custom for John and another young man to start early in the morning, each with a horse and covered cart, and go in different directions to customers a few miles off, the carts being laden overnight. All that she had asked John to do this morning was to take her with him to a railway station about ten miles distant, where she might safely wait for an up train.
How will John act on returning - what will he say - how will he excuse himself she thought as they jogged along. "John!" she said, meaning to ask him about these things; but he did not hear, and she was too confused and weary after her wakeful night to be able to think consecutively on any subject. But the relief of finding that her uncle did not look into the cart caused a delicious lull in her, and while listlessly watching the dark grey sky through the triangular opening between the curtains at the fore part of the tilt, and John's elbow projecting from the folds of one of them, showing where he was sitting on the outside, she fell asleep.
She awoke after a short interval - everything was just the same - jog, jog, on they went; there was the dim slit between the curtains in front, and, after slightly wondering that John had not troubled himself to see that she was comfortable, she dozed again. Thus Agatha remained until she had a clear consciousness of the stopping of the cart. It aroused her, and looking at once through a small opening at the back, she perceived in the dim dawn that they were turning right about; in another moment the horse was proceeding on the way back again.
"John, what are you doing" she exclaimed, jumping up, and pulling aside the curtain which parted them.
John did not turn.
"How fearfully deaf he is!" she thought, "and how odd he looks behind, and he hangs forward as if he were asleep. His hair is snow-white with flour; does he never clean it, then?" She crept across the sacks, and slapped him on the shoulder. John turned then.
"Hee-hee, my dear!" said the blithe old gentleman; and the moisture of his aged eye glistened in the dawning light, as he turned and looked into her horrified face. "It is all right; I am John, and I have given ye a nice morning's airing to refresh ye for the uncommon duties of to-day; and now we are going back for the ceremony - hee hee!"
He wore a miller's smock-frock on this interesting occasion, and had been enabled to play the part of John in the episode by taking the second cart and horse and anticipating by an hour the real John in calling her.
Agatha sank backward. How on earth had he discovered the scheme of escape so readily; he, an old and by no means suspicious man? But what mattered a solution! Hope was crushed, and her rebellion was at an end. Agatha was awakened from thought by another stopping of the horse, and they were again at the mill-door.
She dimly recognised her uncle's voice speaking in anger to her when the old farmer handed her out of the vehicle, and heard the farmer reply, merrily, that girls would be girls and have their freaks, that it didn't matter, and that it was a pleasant jest on this auspicious morn. For himself, there was nothing he had enjoyed all his life so much as a practical joke which did no harm. Then she had a sensation of being told to go into the house, have some food, and dress for her marriage with Mr Lovill, as she had promised to do on that day.
All this she did, and at eleven o'clock became the wife of the old man.
When Agatha was putting on her bonnet in the dusk that evening, for she would not illuminate her ghastly face by a candle, a rustling came against the door. Agatha turned. Her uncle's wife, Frances, was looking into the room, and Agatha could just discern upon her aunt's form the blue cloak which had ruled her destiny.
The sight was almost more than she could bear. If, as seemed likely, this effect was intended, the trick was certainly successful. Frances did not speak a word.
Then Agatha said in quiet irony, and with no evidence whatever of regret, sadness, or surprise at what the act revealed: "And so you told Mr Lovill of my flight this morning, and set him on the track? It would be amusing to know how you found out my plan, for he never could have done it by himself, poor old darling."
"Oh, I was a witness of your arrangement with John last night - that was all, my dear," said her aunt pleasantly. "I mentioned it then to Mr Lovill, and helped him to his joke of hindering you . . . You remember the van, Agatha, and how you made use of my name on that occasion, years ago, now?"
"Yes, and did you hear our talk that night? I always fancied otherwise."
"I heard it all. It was fun to you; what do you think it was to me - fun, too? - to lose the man I longed for, and to become the wife of a man I care not an atom about?"
"Ah, no. And how you struggled to get him away from me, dear aunt!"
"And have done it, too."
"Not you, exactly. The Parson and fate."
"Parson Davids kindly persuaded you, because I kindly persuaded him, and persuaded your uncle to send you to him. Mr Davids is an old admirer of mine. Now do you see a wheel within a wheel, Agatha?"
Calmness was almost insupportable by Agatha now, but she managed to say: "Of course you have kept back letters from Oswald to me?"
"No, I have not done that," said Frances. "But I told Oswald, who landed at Southampton last night, and called here in great haste at seven this morning, that you had gone out for an early drive with the man you were to marry to-day, and that it might cause confusion if he remained. He looked very pale, and went away again at once to catch the next London train, saying something about having been prevented by a severe illness from sailing at the time he had promised and intended for the last twelvemonth."
The bride, though nearly slain by the news, would not flinch in the presence of her adversary. Stilling her quivering flesh, she said smiling: "That information is deeply interesting, but does not concern me at all, for I am my husband's darling now, you know, and I wouldn't make the dear man jealous for the world." And she glided down stairs to the chaise.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Rose legend
People have been passionate about roses since the beginning of time. In fact, it is said that the floors of Cleopatra1’s palace were carpeted with delicate rose petals, and that the wise and knowing Confucius had a 600-book library specifically on how to care for roses.
The rose is a legend on its own. The story goes that during the Roman Empire, there was an incredibly beautiful maiden named Rhodanthe. Her beauty drew many zealous suitors who pursued her relentlessly. Exhausted by their pursuit, Rhodanthe was forced to take refuge from her suitors in the temple of her friend Diana. Unfortunately, Diana became jealous. And when the suitors broke down her temple gates to get near their beloved Rhodanthe, she became angry turning Rhodanthe into a rose and her suitors into thorns.
In Greek legend, the rose was created by Chloris, the Greek goddess of flowers. It was just a lifeless seed of a nymph2 that Chloris found one day in a clearing in the woods. She asked the help of Aphrodite, the goddess of love, who gave her beauty Dionysus, the god of wine, added nectar3 to give her a sweet scent, and the three Graces4 gave her charm, brightness and joy. Then Zephyr, the West Wind, blew away the clouds so that Apollo, the sun god, could shine and made this flower bloom. And so the Rose was born and was immediately crowned the Queen of Flowers.
The first true primary red rose seen in Europe was “Slater’s Crimson China” introduced in 1792 from China, where it had been growing wild in the mountains. Immediately, rose breeders began using it to hybridize5 red roses for cultivation. Ever since, the quest for the perfect red rose has been the Holy Grail6 of rosarians： a fragrant, disease-resistant, long-lasting, long-stemmed, reblooming, perfectly formed rose with a clear non-fading vivid red color. Absolute perfection still hasn’t been attained, and of course never will!
There is a special rose language invented as a secret means of communication between lovers who were not allowed to express their love for one another openly. In the mid 18th century the wife of the British ambassador in Constantinople described this in her letters, which were published after her death. These letters inspired many books on the language of flowers, each describing the secret message hidden in each flower. A red rose bud stands for budding desire an open white rose asks “Will you love me﹖” An open red rose means “I’m full of love and desire,” while an open yellow rose asks “Don’t you love me any more﹖”
The rose is a legend on its own. The story goes that during the Roman Empire, there was an incredibly beautiful maiden named Rhodanthe. Her beauty drew many zealous suitors who pursued her relentlessly. Exhausted by their pursuit, Rhodanthe was forced to take refuge from her suitors in the temple of her friend Diana. Unfortunately, Diana became jealous. And when the suitors broke down her temple gates to get near their beloved Rhodanthe, she became angry turning Rhodanthe into a rose and her suitors into thorns.
In Greek legend, the rose was created by Chloris, the Greek goddess of flowers. It was just a lifeless seed of a nymph2 that Chloris found one day in a clearing in the woods. She asked the help of Aphrodite, the goddess of love, who gave her beauty Dionysus, the god of wine, added nectar3 to give her a sweet scent, and the three Graces4 gave her charm, brightness and joy. Then Zephyr, the West Wind, blew away the clouds so that Apollo, the sun god, could shine and made this flower bloom. And so the Rose was born and was immediately crowned the Queen of Flowers.
The first true primary red rose seen in Europe was “Slater’s Crimson China” introduced in 1792 from China, where it had been growing wild in the mountains. Immediately, rose breeders began using it to hybridize5 red roses for cultivation. Ever since, the quest for the perfect red rose has been the Holy Grail6 of rosarians： a fragrant, disease-resistant, long-lasting, long-stemmed, reblooming, perfectly formed rose with a clear non-fading vivid red color. Absolute perfection still hasn’t been attained, and of course never will!
There is a special rose language invented as a secret means of communication between lovers who were not allowed to express their love for one another openly. In the mid 18th century the wife of the British ambassador in Constantinople described this in her letters, which were published after her death. These letters inspired many books on the language of flowers, each describing the secret message hidden in each flower. A red rose bud stands for budding desire an open white rose asks “Will you love me﹖” An open red rose means “I’m full of love and desire,” while an open yellow rose asks “Don’t you love me any more﹖”
love
A girl and a boy were on a motorcycle, speeding through the night.
They loved each other a lot.
Girl: "Slow down a little. I'm scared."
Boy: "No, it's so fun."
Girl: "Please... it's so scary."
Boy: "Then say that you love me."
Girl: "Fine. I love you. Can you slow down now?"
Boy: "Give me a big hug."
The girl gave him a big hug.
Girl: "Now can you slow down?"
Boy: "Can you take off my helmet and put it on? It's uncomfortable and it's bothering me while I drive."
The next day, there was a story in the newspaper. A motorcycle had crashed into a building because its brakes were broken.
There were two people on the motorcycle, of which one died, and the other had survived...
The guy knew that the brakes were broken. He didn't want to let the girl know, because he knew that the girl would have gotten scared.
Instead, he was told the last time that she loved him, got a hug from her, put his helmet on her so that she can live, and die himself...
Once in a while, right in the middle of an ordinary life, Love gives us a fairy tale...
They loved each other a lot.
Girl: "Slow down a little. I'm scared."
Boy: "No, it's so fun."
Girl: "Please... it's so scary."
Boy: "Then say that you love me."
Girl: "Fine. I love you. Can you slow down now?"
Boy: "Give me a big hug."
The girl gave him a big hug.
Girl: "Now can you slow down?"
Boy: "Can you take off my helmet and put it on? It's uncomfortable and it's bothering me while I drive."
The next day, there was a story in the newspaper. A motorcycle had crashed into a building because its brakes were broken.
There were two people on the motorcycle, of which one died, and the other had survived...
The guy knew that the brakes were broken. He didn't want to let the girl know, because he knew that the girl would have gotten scared.
Instead, he was told the last time that she loved him, got a hug from her, put his helmet on her so that she can live, and die himself...
Once in a while, right in the middle of an ordinary life, Love gives us a fairy tale...
The Angel In My Heart
The story is about William Warren, a 16-year-old student, who fall in love with Sarah Emerson, a charming pretty girl. The story telling the love between them and Sarah is the angel in William Warren’s heart, now and ever......
It was a beautiful morning, birds chirping merrily in the trees, the day has slowly begun to warm up. This was the first day of May, the beginning of flower-blossoming season, and it was the beginning of the story…
The clock sat upon the wall pointed to 7 o’clock. William Warren, a 16-year-old student, still in a sleepy haze. He put on his favourite blue colored T-shirt, which there was an alphabet “W” on the front of the T-shirt. The color of the T-shirt was a bit faded but William did not bother about it, after all, this was the best clothes he had. There were only half loaf of bread and a cup of coffee on the old wooden table.
“Half loaf is better than none,” William said in a soft voice. Half loaf of bread and a cup of coffee were the usual breakfast for William Warren, a poor boy who lost his closes parents in the early age of 9 years old. He has been living with his only grandfather for seven years. His grandfather, Old Mr. Warren, was a peasant. He took good care of William after his son, Jack Warren and Rose Warren, William’s mother died in a terrible car accident.
The tick-tock sound of the old clock surrounded the atmosphere of the small cottage. William used to be having breakfast alone as his grandfather; Old Mr. Warren was mostly working at this time. William sipped the last drop of coffee and bit the piece of rock-tasted bread before putting on his worn-out sport shoes, and run to catch the bus.
William always sat at the behind of the class. He was an ordinary boy with painfully shy character. He did not like to talk. He chose to sit at the back so that no one would notice him and nobody would talk to him. William took an emerald coloured sketchbook from his bag. There was a tree portray on the front cover. William treasured this sketchbook very much. His late parents’ death left him nothing but this sketchbook, his drawing talent, and an endless sorrow in his heart. He walked down the memory lane. Hundreds and thousands of things came flooding back. William opened the sketchbook and start drawing a picture of an angel. No doubt, he was looking for an angel to save him from the grievance he has been going through, an angel who can inspire him to proceed his endless, seem to be meaningless life and protect him from the shade of sadness.
“Class, we have a new student with us today,” said Madam Hockingson with her deep voice.
“Let’s Welcome Sarah Emerson!” A huge applause echoed right after Madam Hockingson dropped her voice. William felt interrupted and he stopped drawing. He still has not added a pair of wings for his angel.
There was a blonde-haired girl standing beside Madam Hockingson, their school principal who was a plump lady. The lovely girl, Sarah successfully caught William’s attention. No, not just her beauty, but she looked exactly like his angel, or his angel looked exactly like the graceful Sarah Emerson!
Since all the seats in William’s class were fully occupied, except one (the seat beside William), Sarah was offered to take the seat. William was not ready to speak with Sarah, when they had eye contact, he turned away to hide his blushes. The appearance of Sarah in his life with a surprise had caused William to lose his concentration during the class.
“Is it just a coincident? Or she could be my angel?” These questions kept bothering William. When the class dismissed, William quickly kept all his books and stationery before went out of the class straight away without saying good-bye or looked at Sarah Emerson. Before going back home, William realised that emerald’s sketchbook was not with him – he accidentally dropped it in his class. Without any hesitation, he rushed back to his class.
Sarah found the emerald coloured sketchbook on the floor near William’s seat. She was very curious about the contents of the sketchbook and therefore started to flip the book. She was greatly impressed for William’s talent. However, what surprised her most was a portrait of her!
William was terrified to see Sarah holding his precious sketchbook in her hands. Speechless, he failed to utter any words in front of Sarah.
William Warren threw himself onto his bed. He was too exhausted after helping his grandfather in the farm. He started flashing back to the afternoon incident.
“I believe that this book is yours.” Sarah gave William back his sketchbook. “I’m Sarah Emerson, call me Sarah,” she continued with her sweet voice.
“Can we be friend?” Sarah took the initiative to build the bridge of friendship between them.
“Y…ye…yes! Of course.” William was a bit tongue-fight while speaking to Sarah. Sarah showed a sweet smile on her face, apparently, she liked William as well.
That was the first day when their friendship begun or even more than a friendship.
---
Sarah Emerson is a poor girl who had just lost her parents. Her parents used to be one of the famous entrepreneurs in the world, which passed away in a car crash. The incident is still under investigation. Since then, she moved to live with her uncle, Mr. Triump and his wife Mrs. Triump. The Triump couple lives in a huge, elegant mansion. Although Sarah is under their guidance, she never feels happy about it. In her eyes, two of them were such grasping misers and she never liked them. Luckily, Sarah has a faithful servant with her, Madam Beringia, a chubby-looked kind lady. She was the one who Sarah trusted and share everything with her, as if her late mother.
“You look quite chirpy today, my mistress. How was your day?” asked Madam Beringia while serving tea for Sarah. Sarah started talking about her first day in the new school, of course included William, the young handsome guy as well.
“Mr. William Warren, sound interesting.” said Madam Beningia with a glance at her mistress. She knew what was in Sarah’s mind. Sarah did not hear what Madam Beringia said, for her mind was absent now. Perhaps her heart was absent as well, stolen by the young William Warren.
They sat together in the class, discussed the homework together, study together, talked together and even shared everything happened in every week, everyday and every moment together. The relationship between them grew fonder and closer. They felt the need of each other. How was the day if one day one of them missing? They dared not to think about it and they did not even want to think about it. The love in both heart brought them nearer and nearer to each other’s heart.
“Welcome to my secret paradise – The Garden of Eden.” That was the first time Sarah introduced her secret paradise to William. It is a jungle near Mr. Triump’ mansion. There was a big ancient tree in the central of the jungle.
“I always wish to build a small house on the tree, a house that belongs to me, a place I can call it HOME.” Sarah showed William the tree.
William felt Sarah’s miserable feeling. Since the first day they became friend, now they grew closer to each other. William had already fallen for the exquisite young lady who was sharing the same tragedy with him, perhaps even more than that. Sarah was the one who has the key to open up the door of his heart. William took her by hand; hoping that this would bring some warmth for her and made her feels secured.
---
It was a grey day. This was the forth day since Sarah absence from school. William failed to track her in her secret paradise. William was trying to build a little wooden house for Sarah. He spent every single day in the secret paradise sketching a dream home for Sarah. He planned to realise his plan before the spring. At the same time, Sarah sudden disappearance agitated him. As the saying goes, “absent make the heart grown fonder” Sarah already walked into his life, that he could not stop thinking about her. So, he decided to pay a her a visit.
---
Sarah was lying on her bed. Her face looked as pale as the white paper. Obviously, she was terminally ill. The doctors could not find the reason why she suddenly fell sick. Madam Beringia was very worried about her mistress. She feel suspicious about her mistress’s sickness. The Triump couple’s company was running a loss business currently. They needed an enormous fund to cover their debts. Three days ago, Madam Beringia saw Mrs. Triump went into Sarah’s bedroom with something in her hands. Terrified, Madam Beringia hardly believe that the Triump couple was trying to kill her lovely mistress, Sarah Emerson. Madam Beringia was worrying about Sarah’s safety. Immediately, she thought of Inspector John Robert. Inspector J.R. was a friend of Sarah’s parents. Madam Beringia managed to seek for his help in the investigation without Triump couple’s notice.
William Warren was standing in front of the marvelous mansion. He was extremely worried about Sarah, he wondered why she had been absent for so many days. He insisted to find out what was happening. He took a deep breath and knocked the door, before greeted with a servant shortly.
“Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?” said the servant politely.
“I’m William Warren, Ms. Sarah Emerson’s classmate.” William addressed himself. “I wonder what happened…” His words were interrupted by the frustrated Mr. Triump.
“You deadful scruff! Get out of my mansion and stay away from Sarah!” shouted Mr. Triump, with a mean look on his face.
“But, before I leave, could you please tell me what happened to Sarah?” William voiced out his will. Nevertheless, expectedly, the egoistic Triump refused him rudely.
William tried to slip into the big mansion, and he succeeded doing this. The beauty of the house, just like the first time he met Sarah Emerson, stunned him. He saw an unlocked door. He peeped through the slit due to his curiosity.
“Give the lady some homicide to euthanatize her, after all she’s dying soon.” said Mr. Triump scrupulously.
“We’ll reward you for what you’d done.” said Mrs. Triump.
“Remember for what you’d promise.” said a man who was wearing a white suit, probably Sarah’s doctor. William could sense that she was in danger. He quickly left the place and look for Sarah’s bedroom.
This was the first time William Warren saw Sarah since her absence. His heart as if cut by a knife and pickling by thousands needles after seeing Sarah suffering. He was thinking of bringing her out. On that moment, someone entered the bedroom. It was Madam Beringia. She was shocked when there was a young man standing beside Sarah’s bed.
“Who’re you?” Madam Beringia asked.
“I’m William Warren, Ma’am.” William Warren said politely. Madam Beringia knew William Warren from her mistress and she likes him.
“Ma’am, I’m afraid that Sarah will be murdered if she stays here. Mr. Triump is trying to kill her, explained William to Madam Beringia.
Madam Beringia could sense that her mistress’ days will be brought to an end if they do not do anything.
“Mr. Warren, please bring my mistress out of here, I’ll called someone for help.” Madam Beringia was thinking of a plan to rescue Sarah.
Mr. Triump and Mrs. Triump accompanied the doctor into Sarah’s bedroom. They were looking forward to Sarah’s death so that they could seize upon the fortunate of her. When they entered Sarah Emerson’s bedroom, they were shocked that Sarah Emerson was not there.
“Where is Sarah?” asked Mr. Triump in a superbly angry tone. He banged his fist against the table. The flower vase on the table lost its stability and dropped on the floor.
“Clang…” the flower vase was scattered into pieces. “What happen if she knew we’re trying to kill her?” Mrs. Trumph started to panic.
“Think, my master. She is very severe-ill now. It is impossible for her to move from bed. Unless someone helped her.” analysed the doctor
“Oh, it must be the fat lady Beringia!” Mrs. Triump smashed her forehead. She could not believe that she had made such a mistake.
“We must kill her at once, or else, she would ruin the whole plan,” said Mrs. Triump in a panic voice.
Mr. Triump was playing another plan in his mind. He was a clever businessman. He was counting the feasibility of killing the poor girl and her servant, and the percentage they could run away from the law’s punishment.
“My sweet heart, go to pack your thing and all of our precious things, we’re going to the Netherland for a holiday.” said Mr. Triump to his wife.
His wife, Mrs. Triump knew that it was a lie; they were not going for a holiday, but an escape.
---
William brought Sarah to a place where they usually spent time together. He wanted to show Sarah his sketch of their dream house.
She was now safe with him. They were in the Garden of Eden now. Garden of Eden is a place where God created everything, where life begins. Magically, Sarah was given another chance to start all over her life again. He called her and tried to wake her up. Sarah opened her eyes weakly trying to look at her prince.
---
Soon, the police surrounded Triump’s mansion. The Triump couple and the doctor were under arrest.
“Mr. Triump, you are found guilty in an attempt to murder Ms. Emerson by camouflaging the crime as a car accident.” said Inspector J.R.
“Mr. and Mrs. Triump, Doctor Jackson, you are found guilty for trying to murder Sarah Emerson for all of her possession.
The criminals were brought to the police station shortly. Later, three of them were finally damned due to their actions.
---
Fifty years later…
It was a chilly winter. The sky was snowing. The Garden of Eden were covered with the white layer of snow. Under the shield of the ancient tree, there stood a little wooden house. Beside the house, a grey haired old man was mourning, right in front of a gravestone.
“Rest in peace, Sarah Warren,” William Warren touched softly on the gravestone.
“Sarah, my love, even you’re with my Lord now, my love to you will not fade until the end of my life. I love you Sarah, for, you are the angel in my heart…”
It was a beautiful morning, birds chirping merrily in the trees, the day has slowly begun to warm up. This was the first day of May, the beginning of flower-blossoming season, and it was the beginning of the story…
The clock sat upon the wall pointed to 7 o’clock. William Warren, a 16-year-old student, still in a sleepy haze. He put on his favourite blue colored T-shirt, which there was an alphabet “W” on the front of the T-shirt. The color of the T-shirt was a bit faded but William did not bother about it, after all, this was the best clothes he had. There were only half loaf of bread and a cup of coffee on the old wooden table.
“Half loaf is better than none,” William said in a soft voice. Half loaf of bread and a cup of coffee were the usual breakfast for William Warren, a poor boy who lost his closes parents in the early age of 9 years old. He has been living with his only grandfather for seven years. His grandfather, Old Mr. Warren, was a peasant. He took good care of William after his son, Jack Warren and Rose Warren, William’s mother died in a terrible car accident.
The tick-tock sound of the old clock surrounded the atmosphere of the small cottage. William used to be having breakfast alone as his grandfather; Old Mr. Warren was mostly working at this time. William sipped the last drop of coffee and bit the piece of rock-tasted bread before putting on his worn-out sport shoes, and run to catch the bus.
William always sat at the behind of the class. He was an ordinary boy with painfully shy character. He did not like to talk. He chose to sit at the back so that no one would notice him and nobody would talk to him. William took an emerald coloured sketchbook from his bag. There was a tree portray on the front cover. William treasured this sketchbook very much. His late parents’ death left him nothing but this sketchbook, his drawing talent, and an endless sorrow in his heart. He walked down the memory lane. Hundreds and thousands of things came flooding back. William opened the sketchbook and start drawing a picture of an angel. No doubt, he was looking for an angel to save him from the grievance he has been going through, an angel who can inspire him to proceed his endless, seem to be meaningless life and protect him from the shade of sadness.
“Class, we have a new student with us today,” said Madam Hockingson with her deep voice.
“Let’s Welcome Sarah Emerson!” A huge applause echoed right after Madam Hockingson dropped her voice. William felt interrupted and he stopped drawing. He still has not added a pair of wings for his angel.
There was a blonde-haired girl standing beside Madam Hockingson, their school principal who was a plump lady. The lovely girl, Sarah successfully caught William’s attention. No, not just her beauty, but she looked exactly like his angel, or his angel looked exactly like the graceful Sarah Emerson!
Since all the seats in William’s class were fully occupied, except one (the seat beside William), Sarah was offered to take the seat. William was not ready to speak with Sarah, when they had eye contact, he turned away to hide his blushes. The appearance of Sarah in his life with a surprise had caused William to lose his concentration during the class.
“Is it just a coincident? Or she could be my angel?” These questions kept bothering William. When the class dismissed, William quickly kept all his books and stationery before went out of the class straight away without saying good-bye or looked at Sarah Emerson. Before going back home, William realised that emerald’s sketchbook was not with him – he accidentally dropped it in his class. Without any hesitation, he rushed back to his class.
Sarah found the emerald coloured sketchbook on the floor near William’s seat. She was very curious about the contents of the sketchbook and therefore started to flip the book. She was greatly impressed for William’s talent. However, what surprised her most was a portrait of her!
William was terrified to see Sarah holding his precious sketchbook in her hands. Speechless, he failed to utter any words in front of Sarah.
William Warren threw himself onto his bed. He was too exhausted after helping his grandfather in the farm. He started flashing back to the afternoon incident.
“I believe that this book is yours.” Sarah gave William back his sketchbook. “I’m Sarah Emerson, call me Sarah,” she continued with her sweet voice.
“Can we be friend?” Sarah took the initiative to build the bridge of friendship between them.
“Y…ye…yes! Of course.” William was a bit tongue-fight while speaking to Sarah. Sarah showed a sweet smile on her face, apparently, she liked William as well.
That was the first day when their friendship begun or even more than a friendship.
---
Sarah Emerson is a poor girl who had just lost her parents. Her parents used to be one of the famous entrepreneurs in the world, which passed away in a car crash. The incident is still under investigation. Since then, she moved to live with her uncle, Mr. Triump and his wife Mrs. Triump. The Triump couple lives in a huge, elegant mansion. Although Sarah is under their guidance, she never feels happy about it. In her eyes, two of them were such grasping misers and she never liked them. Luckily, Sarah has a faithful servant with her, Madam Beringia, a chubby-looked kind lady. She was the one who Sarah trusted and share everything with her, as if her late mother.
“You look quite chirpy today, my mistress. How was your day?” asked Madam Beringia while serving tea for Sarah. Sarah started talking about her first day in the new school, of course included William, the young handsome guy as well.
“Mr. William Warren, sound interesting.” said Madam Beningia with a glance at her mistress. She knew what was in Sarah’s mind. Sarah did not hear what Madam Beringia said, for her mind was absent now. Perhaps her heart was absent as well, stolen by the young William Warren.
They sat together in the class, discussed the homework together, study together, talked together and even shared everything happened in every week, everyday and every moment together. The relationship between them grew fonder and closer. They felt the need of each other. How was the day if one day one of them missing? They dared not to think about it and they did not even want to think about it. The love in both heart brought them nearer and nearer to each other’s heart.
“Welcome to my secret paradise – The Garden of Eden.” That was the first time Sarah introduced her secret paradise to William. It is a jungle near Mr. Triump’ mansion. There was a big ancient tree in the central of the jungle.
“I always wish to build a small house on the tree, a house that belongs to me, a place I can call it HOME.” Sarah showed William the tree.
William felt Sarah’s miserable feeling. Since the first day they became friend, now they grew closer to each other. William had already fallen for the exquisite young lady who was sharing the same tragedy with him, perhaps even more than that. Sarah was the one who has the key to open up the door of his heart. William took her by hand; hoping that this would bring some warmth for her and made her feels secured.
---
It was a grey day. This was the forth day since Sarah absence from school. William failed to track her in her secret paradise. William was trying to build a little wooden house for Sarah. He spent every single day in the secret paradise sketching a dream home for Sarah. He planned to realise his plan before the spring. At the same time, Sarah sudden disappearance agitated him. As the saying goes, “absent make the heart grown fonder” Sarah already walked into his life, that he could not stop thinking about her. So, he decided to pay a her a visit.
---
Sarah was lying on her bed. Her face looked as pale as the white paper. Obviously, she was terminally ill. The doctors could not find the reason why she suddenly fell sick. Madam Beringia was very worried about her mistress. She feel suspicious about her mistress’s sickness. The Triump couple’s company was running a loss business currently. They needed an enormous fund to cover their debts. Three days ago, Madam Beringia saw Mrs. Triump went into Sarah’s bedroom with something in her hands. Terrified, Madam Beringia hardly believe that the Triump couple was trying to kill her lovely mistress, Sarah Emerson. Madam Beringia was worrying about Sarah’s safety. Immediately, she thought of Inspector John Robert. Inspector J.R. was a friend of Sarah’s parents. Madam Beringia managed to seek for his help in the investigation without Triump couple’s notice.
William Warren was standing in front of the marvelous mansion. He was extremely worried about Sarah, he wondered why she had been absent for so many days. He insisted to find out what was happening. He took a deep breath and knocked the door, before greeted with a servant shortly.
“Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?” said the servant politely.
“I’m William Warren, Ms. Sarah Emerson’s classmate.” William addressed himself. “I wonder what happened…” His words were interrupted by the frustrated Mr. Triump.
“You deadful scruff! Get out of my mansion and stay away from Sarah!” shouted Mr. Triump, with a mean look on his face.
“But, before I leave, could you please tell me what happened to Sarah?” William voiced out his will. Nevertheless, expectedly, the egoistic Triump refused him rudely.
William tried to slip into the big mansion, and he succeeded doing this. The beauty of the house, just like the first time he met Sarah Emerson, stunned him. He saw an unlocked door. He peeped through the slit due to his curiosity.
“Give the lady some homicide to euthanatize her, after all she’s dying soon.” said Mr. Triump scrupulously.
“We’ll reward you for what you’d done.” said Mrs. Triump.
“Remember for what you’d promise.” said a man who was wearing a white suit, probably Sarah’s doctor. William could sense that she was in danger. He quickly left the place and look for Sarah’s bedroom.
This was the first time William Warren saw Sarah since her absence. His heart as if cut by a knife and pickling by thousands needles after seeing Sarah suffering. He was thinking of bringing her out. On that moment, someone entered the bedroom. It was Madam Beringia. She was shocked when there was a young man standing beside Sarah’s bed.
“Who’re you?” Madam Beringia asked.
“I’m William Warren, Ma’am.” William Warren said politely. Madam Beringia knew William Warren from her mistress and she likes him.
“Ma’am, I’m afraid that Sarah will be murdered if she stays here. Mr. Triump is trying to kill her, explained William to Madam Beringia.
Madam Beringia could sense that her mistress’ days will be brought to an end if they do not do anything.
“Mr. Warren, please bring my mistress out of here, I’ll called someone for help.” Madam Beringia was thinking of a plan to rescue Sarah.
Mr. Triump and Mrs. Triump accompanied the doctor into Sarah’s bedroom. They were looking forward to Sarah’s death so that they could seize upon the fortunate of her. When they entered Sarah Emerson’s bedroom, they were shocked that Sarah Emerson was not there.
“Where is Sarah?” asked Mr. Triump in a superbly angry tone. He banged his fist against the table. The flower vase on the table lost its stability and dropped on the floor.
“Clang…” the flower vase was scattered into pieces. “What happen if she knew we’re trying to kill her?” Mrs. Trumph started to panic.
“Think, my master. She is very severe-ill now. It is impossible for her to move from bed. Unless someone helped her.” analysed the doctor
“Oh, it must be the fat lady Beringia!” Mrs. Triump smashed her forehead. She could not believe that she had made such a mistake.
“We must kill her at once, or else, she would ruin the whole plan,” said Mrs. Triump in a panic voice.
Mr. Triump was playing another plan in his mind. He was a clever businessman. He was counting the feasibility of killing the poor girl and her servant, and the percentage they could run away from the law’s punishment.
“My sweet heart, go to pack your thing and all of our precious things, we’re going to the Netherland for a holiday.” said Mr. Triump to his wife.
His wife, Mrs. Triump knew that it was a lie; they were not going for a holiday, but an escape.
---
William brought Sarah to a place where they usually spent time together. He wanted to show Sarah his sketch of their dream house.
She was now safe with him. They were in the Garden of Eden now. Garden of Eden is a place where God created everything, where life begins. Magically, Sarah was given another chance to start all over her life again. He called her and tried to wake her up. Sarah opened her eyes weakly trying to look at her prince.
---
Soon, the police surrounded Triump’s mansion. The Triump couple and the doctor were under arrest.
“Mr. Triump, you are found guilty in an attempt to murder Ms. Emerson by camouflaging the crime as a car accident.” said Inspector J.R.
“Mr. and Mrs. Triump, Doctor Jackson, you are found guilty for trying to murder Sarah Emerson for all of her possession.
The criminals were brought to the police station shortly. Later, three of them were finally damned due to their actions.
---
Fifty years later…
It was a chilly winter. The sky was snowing. The Garden of Eden were covered with the white layer of snow. Under the shield of the ancient tree, there stood a little wooden house. Beside the house, a grey haired old man was mourning, right in front of a gravestone.
“Rest in peace, Sarah Warren,” William Warren touched softly on the gravestone.
“Sarah, my love, even you’re with my Lord now, my love to you will not fade until the end of my life. I love you Sarah, for, you are the angel in my heart…”
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Three Letters
1
It was autumn. Although still afternoon the journey had been spent peering at slowly moving red lights through clouds of condensing exhaust and the intermittent slip-slip of wipers. Now as she turned off the ignition darkness gathered silently around her. She walked head down, hood up, feeling plastic handles moulding themselves around her fingers, the carrier bag spinning one way then the next as it clipped against her leg. The pavement was thick with the slippery brown mulch of fallen leaves and the smell of bonfires wafted across the common. A thin mist clung around the streetlights producing a shifting yellow gas. Sounds were muffled and movements lethargic. Cars slipped slowly by on a film of dirty water. At her gate she delayed, unwilling to break the stillness with squeaking hinges; not yet teatime and the city was being put to sleep.
The terrace before her hugged the curve of the road tumbling erratically down the hill and into the gloom. Bending around the edges of her vision she was conscious of curtains being swished closed, stone faces bathed by the grey light of televisions, broken roof tiles, satellite dishes, bay windows, the whole higgledy-piggledy collection of guttering and skylights. For a moment her home was a stranger, a simple compartment in this huge connected structure.
She rattled the key into the lock, tilting it to the particular angle that would allow it to catch. She stepped inside, her hand brushing the light switch as she closed the door behind her. The softly lit warmth of the interior walls were a welcome contrast to the dark slimy surfaces of the outside. Two elderly neighbours warmed the house from the sides and soon she would hear the comforting noises of the boiler rousing itself into life.
She kept her mind occupied by these happy details of returning home as she walked along the hall and into the kitchen. She lifted the carrier bag onto the worktop and reached for the kettle. Standing in the centre of the room, still in her anorak, she listened to the sound of the water boil and felt the house adjust itself to her presence. Now she returned at all times of the day she sometimes sensed she had caught it unawares. What ghosts that had been running through rooms were now slipping reluctantly back into walls? While its inhabitants had moved the house stayed still, preserving pockets of time in dusty corners. The blue-tak tears on bedroom walls, a water-colour sun and stick man hiding behind a fitted wardrobe, a dent in a table, a crack in a mirror, were all passing moments etched into the physical world, like voices pressed into vinyl.
2
Steam began to rise vertically to the ceiling where it changed direction aware of the presence of some subtle draft (or draft of some subtle presence). Through the window she could see the outline of the narrow garden, the fuzzy grey shapes of a rusting climbing frame and overflowing compost heap. Along one side a scruffy fence lent drunkenly one way then the other, while a brutally straight line of six-foot high boards marked the other side of the territory. What further anti-cat measures (minefields, tripwires perhaps) lay waiting beyond? As if summoned by her thoughts Rahel, green eyes and a flicking tail, appeared on the window ledge, her silent meows making small circles of condensation. Smiling, she unlocked the door. The cat padded in, figures of eight around her feet represented by muddy paw prints on the kitchen floor. The kettle worked itself towards a crescendo, beads of perspiration appeared on its sides and it shook violently unable to contain the bubbling pressure inside. Abruptly it finished, sat back on the filament and turned itself off.
She reached up to the top cupboards for the coffee jar and bent down for those that contained the mugs. Here she paused, confused by the vast number of assorted cup, mugs and beakers that stared blankly back at her. Why did she have so many? Where had they come from? She sighed as she straightened pulling out a standard shaped mug with handle; colour - light blue; design - three letters emblazoned in gold, S U E.
She took off her coat and laid it over the back of the oak kitchen chair and sat down. She let her feet slip out of her shoes and raised them onto the fitted bench across the other side of the table. Above the bench were shelves supporting decorative plates in wire stands, a Charles and Diana mug (more mugs!), and a collection of photographs showing either madly grinning or defiantly sulky children (both on the verge of crying). As she looked the image of a growing family seemed to slowly recede to reveal the image of a shrinking woman.
There was the sudden sound of water flooding into a drain as somewhere nearby a plug was pulled from a sink, a toilet was flushed or maybe a washing machine emptied itself and she realised that her coffee had gone cold. She moved to the sink and ran the hot water. Staring out into darkness she listened to the succession of far-off bangs and shudders from the network of pipes. Bathed in yellow light hovering over the gloom of the garden she looked in at a woman repeatedly working a tea towel around the inside of a mug. Who was she? Why was she so miserable?
3
She shook herself and took out the plug. Slipped away again into nothing time (that time that flowed into the gaps between the things you did). Wouldn't a wasted minute become a wasted hour, wasted hours become wasted days? Where could she be now if she hadn't been doing, what? - making tea, sitting in traffic jams, reading the local paper, standing in a supermarket queue. Best avoided, the thought of her life draining into these moments.
She unpacked the carrier bag. She put away the milk, the orange, the biscuits and the cat food, then struggled to slide the two pizza's into an already crowded freezer spraying tiny shards of ice across the floor. An overflowing collection of polythene bags scrunched inside other polythene bags in the bottom of a cupboard was her commitment to recycling. When it was opened a white plastic avalanche slid towards her. She threw in the latest addition and slammed the door. A lone bag made a break for freedom and buoyed by the swish of air it lifted across the room like a jellyfish. Two pairs of eyes followed its progress over the spice rack and breadboard until it was caught on a bottle of olive oil.
The oak bench was not just a foot rest. She had made this discovery during a rigorous cleaning session one New Year. Under the lip of the removable cushioned seat she had found a small catch, rusty enough to break two nails. Eventually it yielded and raised to reveal a dark, hollow chest. Despite a few moments when her heartbeat seemed to fill the house, it proved to contain nothing more exciting than a pile of old newspapers - more dirtiness to clean. It was, she decided, an ideal place to store tablecloths and tea towels, but steadily it began to swallow bedding, pillowcases and blankets of various sorts. Really, it was ridiculous to think that no one else was aware of its existence (was she the only one ever to change a bed, lay a table?) Still, she always thought of it as hers, and, when alone in the house, she opened it, she experienced a flush of childish excitement. She felt it rise now as her fingers fumbled beneath soft layers of folded cotton searching for the sharp cold of a shiny metal toffee tin.
4
She put the tin on the table. Inside lay a medal from the Polish Airforce; a commemorative coin; a pebble taken from Ilfracomb beach in 1978 (could she really remember the heavy heat of that day or did she need the proof of the pebble to tell her she had been there); a present bought but never given; and inside a neatly folded bag, three envelopes. She glanced around the room, from somewhere inside a wall a pipe clanked - the house clearing its throat - and took out the top envelope.
An antelope leapt across a colourful stamp. It looked startled as antelopes often do caught in the sights of the black postmark. The paper inside was thick and cream-coloured, it had a blue letterhead and the date in the top right hand corner was July 2000. As she let her eyes wander over the page she noticed it was just a little crumpled, stiff in places, as if it had been wetted then dried.
This must be something of a surprise. If, that is, this letter gets to you. I remembered your address, of course, but then it suddenly struck me that maybe you had moved and I didn't know and anyway the post round here isn't exactly reliable. So perhaps I am only writing a letter to myself.
Really now that I've started I can't think what it was I wanted to say. I think it was just the act of writing that was important, just to feel as if I was still in contact with things, although I guess a blank piece of paper in an envelope would have seemed a little strange.
I've really no need to ask how things are with you. It all seems to have worked out pretty much as you planned. But still I hope you are both healthy and happy.
I am afraid I've done nothing very exciting to tell you about. Here is just an endless succession of long boring tasks, and then there's the heat and the clouds of flies that rise from the river and make everything twice as hard. But this evening as I washed and dried my clothes suddenly there was this feeling of satisfaction. Strange, five months of toil and worry then calm descends as welcome and unexpected as an ice-cream van clattering through the bush.
5
Maybe that's why I am writing this letter. Perhaps it's thinking about England in the summer, perhaps it's the sounds of the river at night but my mind wandered back to the place of long afternoons, listening to Pink Moon and Lay Lady Lay. Can you still find a way back to the taste of cheap wine, the feel of grass between your fingers and a world that was all shimmering reflections?
All those people disappeared into the world. How would they be recognised now - perhaps only by the sound of their laughter?
I'm afraid I once damaged the environment in your name and took a penknife to the willow we used to sit by. I can remember wondering if the bark would ever grow back. If you ever find yourself driving past one weekend . . . Well perhaps not, it's probably so sadly different. But I know your name will still be there, carved in the memory of a tree.
She re-folded the letter and tapped it several times against her top lip. From the hall the clock calling out the quarter hour, then a moment of stillness - time stalling - before, faintly, the clock in her study responded.
She took out the next envelope. While her fingers searched for the flap she looked at the Queen's silver silhouette. The letter was written on paper so white and thin that as her gaze fell across it she saw it as a shade of blue. The date was April 1976.
Do I remember that September afternoon when I first met you? Is it possible to remember the slide into sleep or the hypnotist's fingers on your eyelids? I only know that it happened because at some stage I awoke.
Some things are clear, the lucid fragments of a dream, a conversation over the phone one Easter. We both felt down because I was working in a stuffy shop and you in a sorting office. I hated it and asked you how it was that time moved so slowly. It's okay, you said, it doesn't matter, because it will end and time passed is all the same, and anyway, in the end it's not time that you're left with.
You told me to go look for happiness and bring some back when I found it. But you can't bank happiness. You can't keep it for when you need it and you cannot give to someone else simply by having it yourself.
6
I thought I would be content to watch the river flow past and drift away on the scent of water lilies. I watched days become nights and nights gently give way to days, believing I was shedding my cares when really I was storing regrets. Now I know that reading is dreaming, that dreaming is sleeping and thought inaction. When I wake I find that all I have left is thoughts of you.
The noise of the cat jumping clumsily onto her lap, the feeling of her pressing up and down with alternate paws, claws snagging loops of cotton.
This time the silhouette is not the Queen's but that of Nehru, a white head against an orange background. The stamp is stuck on at an odd angle (but still stuck after all this time!) and he stares down at the scraggly lines of a familiar address. The letter itself is written on a school child's lined paper, as her eyes run down the page they linger on the date, Nov. 1968 and the dappling of yellow blotches. What were they? Had they always been there?
I still can't believe you decided to go. Why go back to the grey, the dirt, the noise, the rush? There is a lifetime to do those things. I know you chase that dream of yours, but the dream is so sweetly deferred here. Here I feel as if I am absorbing the sunshine and serenity.
Since you left we moved further east where the earth here has a reddish tinge and so does the food. Today we met a group of Americans. We got a ride on the roof of their van and helped them collect firewood. They say there is an old man who sells the beads you wanted from the front of his hut, and eight miles of white sand.
I am writing this in a flickering of orange and blackness. This is the best time, talking and reading, the world melting away into words, although sometimes a phrase is so beautiful I have to walk around a little just to let them settle in. One of these made me think of you. 'Do that which makes you happy to do, and you will do right.'
The freezer's cooling mechanism rattled, then fell silent, and she realised that she hadn't been aware of the noise it was making. In its absence the air in the house seemed to hang with that same question; how would her life have been if she had managed to send just one of them? But the air received no answers and went back to its lazy circulation.
7
In time she would fold the letter away and place it back in the envelope, place the envelopes back into the bag, the bag back into the tin and the tin into the trunk. She would cover it with layers of cloth and place down the seat and lock the catch. But now she just sat for a moment, the noise of the cat's contented breathing filling the house.
It was autumn. Although still afternoon the journey had been spent peering at slowly moving red lights through clouds of condensing exhaust and the intermittent slip-slip of wipers. Now as she turned off the ignition darkness gathered silently around her. She walked head down, hood up, feeling plastic handles moulding themselves around her fingers, the carrier bag spinning one way then the next as it clipped against her leg. The pavement was thick with the slippery brown mulch of fallen leaves and the smell of bonfires wafted across the common. A thin mist clung around the streetlights producing a shifting yellow gas. Sounds were muffled and movements lethargic. Cars slipped slowly by on a film of dirty water. At her gate she delayed, unwilling to break the stillness with squeaking hinges; not yet teatime and the city was being put to sleep.
The terrace before her hugged the curve of the road tumbling erratically down the hill and into the gloom. Bending around the edges of her vision she was conscious of curtains being swished closed, stone faces bathed by the grey light of televisions, broken roof tiles, satellite dishes, bay windows, the whole higgledy-piggledy collection of guttering and skylights. For a moment her home was a stranger, a simple compartment in this huge connected structure.
She rattled the key into the lock, tilting it to the particular angle that would allow it to catch. She stepped inside, her hand brushing the light switch as she closed the door behind her. The softly lit warmth of the interior walls were a welcome contrast to the dark slimy surfaces of the outside. Two elderly neighbours warmed the house from the sides and soon she would hear the comforting noises of the boiler rousing itself into life.
She kept her mind occupied by these happy details of returning home as she walked along the hall and into the kitchen. She lifted the carrier bag onto the worktop and reached for the kettle. Standing in the centre of the room, still in her anorak, she listened to the sound of the water boil and felt the house adjust itself to her presence. Now she returned at all times of the day she sometimes sensed she had caught it unawares. What ghosts that had been running through rooms were now slipping reluctantly back into walls? While its inhabitants had moved the house stayed still, preserving pockets of time in dusty corners. The blue-tak tears on bedroom walls, a water-colour sun and stick man hiding behind a fitted wardrobe, a dent in a table, a crack in a mirror, were all passing moments etched into the physical world, like voices pressed into vinyl.
2
Steam began to rise vertically to the ceiling where it changed direction aware of the presence of some subtle draft (or draft of some subtle presence). Through the window she could see the outline of the narrow garden, the fuzzy grey shapes of a rusting climbing frame and overflowing compost heap. Along one side a scruffy fence lent drunkenly one way then the other, while a brutally straight line of six-foot high boards marked the other side of the territory. What further anti-cat measures (minefields, tripwires perhaps) lay waiting beyond? As if summoned by her thoughts Rahel, green eyes and a flicking tail, appeared on the window ledge, her silent meows making small circles of condensation. Smiling, she unlocked the door. The cat padded in, figures of eight around her feet represented by muddy paw prints on the kitchen floor. The kettle worked itself towards a crescendo, beads of perspiration appeared on its sides and it shook violently unable to contain the bubbling pressure inside. Abruptly it finished, sat back on the filament and turned itself off.
She reached up to the top cupboards for the coffee jar and bent down for those that contained the mugs. Here she paused, confused by the vast number of assorted cup, mugs and beakers that stared blankly back at her. Why did she have so many? Where had they come from? She sighed as she straightened pulling out a standard shaped mug with handle; colour - light blue; design - three letters emblazoned in gold, S U E.
She took off her coat and laid it over the back of the oak kitchen chair and sat down. She let her feet slip out of her shoes and raised them onto the fitted bench across the other side of the table. Above the bench were shelves supporting decorative plates in wire stands, a Charles and Diana mug (more mugs!), and a collection of photographs showing either madly grinning or defiantly sulky children (both on the verge of crying). As she looked the image of a growing family seemed to slowly recede to reveal the image of a shrinking woman.
There was the sudden sound of water flooding into a drain as somewhere nearby a plug was pulled from a sink, a toilet was flushed or maybe a washing machine emptied itself and she realised that her coffee had gone cold. She moved to the sink and ran the hot water. Staring out into darkness she listened to the succession of far-off bangs and shudders from the network of pipes. Bathed in yellow light hovering over the gloom of the garden she looked in at a woman repeatedly working a tea towel around the inside of a mug. Who was she? Why was she so miserable?
3
She shook herself and took out the plug. Slipped away again into nothing time (that time that flowed into the gaps between the things you did). Wouldn't a wasted minute become a wasted hour, wasted hours become wasted days? Where could she be now if she hadn't been doing, what? - making tea, sitting in traffic jams, reading the local paper, standing in a supermarket queue. Best avoided, the thought of her life draining into these moments.
She unpacked the carrier bag. She put away the milk, the orange, the biscuits and the cat food, then struggled to slide the two pizza's into an already crowded freezer spraying tiny shards of ice across the floor. An overflowing collection of polythene bags scrunched inside other polythene bags in the bottom of a cupboard was her commitment to recycling. When it was opened a white plastic avalanche slid towards her. She threw in the latest addition and slammed the door. A lone bag made a break for freedom and buoyed by the swish of air it lifted across the room like a jellyfish. Two pairs of eyes followed its progress over the spice rack and breadboard until it was caught on a bottle of olive oil.
The oak bench was not just a foot rest. She had made this discovery during a rigorous cleaning session one New Year. Under the lip of the removable cushioned seat she had found a small catch, rusty enough to break two nails. Eventually it yielded and raised to reveal a dark, hollow chest. Despite a few moments when her heartbeat seemed to fill the house, it proved to contain nothing more exciting than a pile of old newspapers - more dirtiness to clean. It was, she decided, an ideal place to store tablecloths and tea towels, but steadily it began to swallow bedding, pillowcases and blankets of various sorts. Really, it was ridiculous to think that no one else was aware of its existence (was she the only one ever to change a bed, lay a table?) Still, she always thought of it as hers, and, when alone in the house, she opened it, she experienced a flush of childish excitement. She felt it rise now as her fingers fumbled beneath soft layers of folded cotton searching for the sharp cold of a shiny metal toffee tin.
4
She put the tin on the table. Inside lay a medal from the Polish Airforce; a commemorative coin; a pebble taken from Ilfracomb beach in 1978 (could she really remember the heavy heat of that day or did she need the proof of the pebble to tell her she had been there); a present bought but never given; and inside a neatly folded bag, three envelopes. She glanced around the room, from somewhere inside a wall a pipe clanked - the house clearing its throat - and took out the top envelope.
An antelope leapt across a colourful stamp. It looked startled as antelopes often do caught in the sights of the black postmark. The paper inside was thick and cream-coloured, it had a blue letterhead and the date in the top right hand corner was July 2000. As she let her eyes wander over the page she noticed it was just a little crumpled, stiff in places, as if it had been wetted then dried.
This must be something of a surprise. If, that is, this letter gets to you. I remembered your address, of course, but then it suddenly struck me that maybe you had moved and I didn't know and anyway the post round here isn't exactly reliable. So perhaps I am only writing a letter to myself.
Really now that I've started I can't think what it was I wanted to say. I think it was just the act of writing that was important, just to feel as if I was still in contact with things, although I guess a blank piece of paper in an envelope would have seemed a little strange.
I've really no need to ask how things are with you. It all seems to have worked out pretty much as you planned. But still I hope you are both healthy and happy.
I am afraid I've done nothing very exciting to tell you about. Here is just an endless succession of long boring tasks, and then there's the heat and the clouds of flies that rise from the river and make everything twice as hard. But this evening as I washed and dried my clothes suddenly there was this feeling of satisfaction. Strange, five months of toil and worry then calm descends as welcome and unexpected as an ice-cream van clattering through the bush.
5
Maybe that's why I am writing this letter. Perhaps it's thinking about England in the summer, perhaps it's the sounds of the river at night but my mind wandered back to the place of long afternoons, listening to Pink Moon and Lay Lady Lay. Can you still find a way back to the taste of cheap wine, the feel of grass between your fingers and a world that was all shimmering reflections?
All those people disappeared into the world. How would they be recognised now - perhaps only by the sound of their laughter?
I'm afraid I once damaged the environment in your name and took a penknife to the willow we used to sit by. I can remember wondering if the bark would ever grow back. If you ever find yourself driving past one weekend . . . Well perhaps not, it's probably so sadly different. But I know your name will still be there, carved in the memory of a tree.
She re-folded the letter and tapped it several times against her top lip. From the hall the clock calling out the quarter hour, then a moment of stillness - time stalling - before, faintly, the clock in her study responded.
She took out the next envelope. While her fingers searched for the flap she looked at the Queen's silver silhouette. The letter was written on paper so white and thin that as her gaze fell across it she saw it as a shade of blue. The date was April 1976.
Do I remember that September afternoon when I first met you? Is it possible to remember the slide into sleep or the hypnotist's fingers on your eyelids? I only know that it happened because at some stage I awoke.
Some things are clear, the lucid fragments of a dream, a conversation over the phone one Easter. We both felt down because I was working in a stuffy shop and you in a sorting office. I hated it and asked you how it was that time moved so slowly. It's okay, you said, it doesn't matter, because it will end and time passed is all the same, and anyway, in the end it's not time that you're left with.
You told me to go look for happiness and bring some back when I found it. But you can't bank happiness. You can't keep it for when you need it and you cannot give to someone else simply by having it yourself.
6
I thought I would be content to watch the river flow past and drift away on the scent of water lilies. I watched days become nights and nights gently give way to days, believing I was shedding my cares when really I was storing regrets. Now I know that reading is dreaming, that dreaming is sleeping and thought inaction. When I wake I find that all I have left is thoughts of you.
The noise of the cat jumping clumsily onto her lap, the feeling of her pressing up and down with alternate paws, claws snagging loops of cotton.
This time the silhouette is not the Queen's but that of Nehru, a white head against an orange background. The stamp is stuck on at an odd angle (but still stuck after all this time!) and he stares down at the scraggly lines of a familiar address. The letter itself is written on a school child's lined paper, as her eyes run down the page they linger on the date, Nov. 1968 and the dappling of yellow blotches. What were they? Had they always been there?
I still can't believe you decided to go. Why go back to the grey, the dirt, the noise, the rush? There is a lifetime to do those things. I know you chase that dream of yours, but the dream is so sweetly deferred here. Here I feel as if I am absorbing the sunshine and serenity.
Since you left we moved further east where the earth here has a reddish tinge and so does the food. Today we met a group of Americans. We got a ride on the roof of their van and helped them collect firewood. They say there is an old man who sells the beads you wanted from the front of his hut, and eight miles of white sand.
I am writing this in a flickering of orange and blackness. This is the best time, talking and reading, the world melting away into words, although sometimes a phrase is so beautiful I have to walk around a little just to let them settle in. One of these made me think of you. 'Do that which makes you happy to do, and you will do right.'
The freezer's cooling mechanism rattled, then fell silent, and she realised that she hadn't been aware of the noise it was making. In its absence the air in the house seemed to hang with that same question; how would her life have been if she had managed to send just one of them? But the air received no answers and went back to its lazy circulation.
7
In time she would fold the letter away and place it back in the envelope, place the envelopes back into the bag, the bag back into the tin and the tin into the trunk. She would cover it with layers of cloth and place down the seat and lock the catch. But now she just sat for a moment, the noise of the cat's contented breathing filling the house.
Friday, December 7, 2007
The Replacement
1
Stacy was stuck. When she had arrived at the filming location she'd been so shocked she'd pretended everything was okay. And of course there was the little matter of the contract. It was, after all, her signature, and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it. If she had bolted as she'd been tempted to do, she knew she would never get hired again for shoots. Independent film, that's what she'd been told.
The 'actress' broke into Stacy's thoughts,
"Hon, not too much lip gloss, the first scene is just a head scene." For a moment Stacy's hand faltered, but ever the professional she replied,
"Don't worry, Amber. I'll go light." Using the lip brush she worked in from the corners and made Amber's unnaturally large lips look positively luminous. When she finished, Stacy handed Amber a mirror. Smiling at her reflection, Amber tossed her hair in a way that Stacy knew was practiced. Groaning inwardly, Stacy reminded herself about the money she'd be making at this gig. One day's work on this film and she'd pocket more money than she'd make in a week at the make-up counter. Even if she was making it off a porno flick. Not exactly what she'd had in mind when she was offered one day's work as a replacement make-up artist. She wouldn't include this job on her resume.
Amber brought the mirror up close and examined her face from every angle. Finally she put the mirror down and announced,
"The last make-up artist they sent over was so awful, we sent her home. You should stick around. You've got a gift."
"Thanks," Stacy answered graciously as she shuddered inside. No way. She smiled at Amber just the same. It was true, Stacy knew she was talented. She could make any woman look beautiful. Her regular clientele loved what she did. They were suburban housewives who drove into the city for lunch and a show. Even some of the socialites came to her at Benthoff's Department Store. In fact, it was those women who had encouraged her to sign with the Blue Agency for shoots. If they could see her now.
In the last few months she'd worked several local commercials and thought she was on her way to the big time. Well, as least as big as you could get in San Francisco. She knew Los Angeles was where the real money was, but she wasn't ready to leave the Bay Area. Not yet, anyway. After all, she had just met Alex. And she'd be seeing him tonight.
2
Absentmindedly, Stacy unsnapped Amber's smock and watched as she slowly rose from the chair and dropped her silk robe to the floor. Stretching, a nearly naked Amber raised her arms to the ceiling. Unable to take her eyes off Amber, Stacy stared at the perfectly round breasts that almost burst out of the purple lace demi-bra. Her belly was concave, a diamond sparkling from the navel. Amber wore a tiny matching lace thong and Stacy could see no discernable hairline. How come when she shaved, she always wound up with tiny red bumps? Amber must get professionally waxed. Amber's body was perfect: tanned and taut. Stacy cursed herself for pigging out on Mexican last night. She'd always considered herself to be on the thin side, but she felt positively obese right now. No more guacamole and chips. Stacy glanced around. The lighting guys were setting up. Cameramen were racing around. The action appeared to be taking place in one of the bedrooms. Stacy tried not to look interested, but she wondered where all the 'actors' were. Was she expected to do their make-up, too?
Right near Stacy was a rolling wardrobe. Hanging inside were costumes and plenty of lingerie. Stacy tried not to stare at the peek-a-boo garments, flimsy things and crotchless panties on display. Frederick's of Hollywood, no doubt. There were plenty of shoes to choose from as well. None that looked too comfortable, as they all seemed to be six-inch stilettos. There were even props laying on a chair: whips, chains, handcuffs and ropes. And a stethoscope?
Stacy saw Amber's manager Bruno sitting at a table in the dining room talking to some big, beefy guy. Was he a bodyguard? Why would these people need bodyguards? Stacy continued looking around the room and wondered who actually lived here and if they knew what their home was being used for. Probably not.
In the far corner of the living room there were more 'actresses' waiting for her. A gorgeous brunette, wearing a blue robe, sat in a flowered loveseat, chatting with an amazing looking redhead in a green kimono. As Stacy's eyes darted from Amber to the other women, she realized they all looked the same. It was as if they had all taken a Barbie doll to the plastic surgeon and said, 'I want to look like this. They hadn't come out with X-rated Barbie yet, but of course anything was possible.
3
Chuckling to herself, Stacy went over to the banquet table and poured herself a glass of Perrier. As she was perusing the food, she bumped into someone. "Oh, excuse me," she said as she looked up into deep-blue eyes and the handsomest man she'd ever seen.
He grinned, showing off perfect white teeth.
"My fault." He put his hand out and grasped hers. "Todd Johnson."
Stacy blinked, but couldn't speak. She tried to smile, and failed. She wanted to pull back her hand. All she could do was stare. It took all her might not to look 'down there'. Oh, she knew who he was, she knew exactly who he was. The big star. The man who'd had sex with countless women. Was it only women? Yes, he had to be straight. Damn, she hadn't expected it, but he was so gorgeous.
Somehow she managed to squeak, "I'm Stacy. The make-up artist."
Todd eyed her up and down while still holding onto her hand.
"Oh, Stacy, you're a big improvement over the last one. Yes, you are fine." Stacy felt chills, but couldn't believe it. This man, this huge porno star who was paid to fuck women was actually turning her on. And she could see he was aroused. Blushing nervously, she pulled her hand away.
"Sweet, too," Todd said with a laugh. "You can do me later. My scene's at two."
Stacy nearly choked as she pretended to sip her Perrier. Setting the green bottle aside, she headed straight for the bathroom. She shut the door behind her and sat down on one of the velvet lounge chairs. Closing her eyes, she did yoga deep-breathing exercises to try to center herself. When she was feeling calmer, her eyes drifted open and she glanced around. The bathroom was larger than her whole studio apartment. The walls were sponge-painted in a soft peach and looked gorgeous against the white crown molding. All the chairs were Queen Anne. There were hanging plants and potted plants in beautiful ceramic bowls. The fixtures were gold, the floor was a cream tile with gold flecks. It was ostentatious, yet very elegant. Stacy felt better, almost ready to go out and face the rest of her day.
She stood up and washed her hands, drying them on one of the softest hand towels. Unable to resist, Stacy opened the vanity. Boxes of condoms stared at her. Large and extra large. Ribbed, neon and edible. Edible? She needed to breathe again. Surely Todd used the extra large. No, no, she shouldn't think about him. Maybe she should think about Alex. She began to breathe normally again. Alex. Her type of guy. Tall, but not over six feet. Brown eyes. Great smile. Seemed really into her. Not into porno. Well, not that she knew of, but she hoped not. Oh, god, what would she say to him tonight? They hadn't even slept together, had barely kissed. Breathe, breathe. Stacy got up to leave, but turned back around and slipped a condom in her jeans pocket. What the hell.
4
No sooner had she closed the door behind her than Bruno came over and draped an arm over her shoulder.
"Wanted to let you know you did a good job on Amber," he whispered into her ear.
Wincing inside, Stacy forced a smile.
"Thanks. It wasn't difficult. Amber's a beautiful woman."
"No, really, you made her look...classy." Bruno laughed. "Amber really likes you. And she never likes anyone. She's the star, you know. You could get permanent work with her.
Stacy lifted Bruno's arm off her shoulder.
"I'm really busy with my clientele at Benthoff's, you know. I'm not ready to switch jobs just yet. Thanks for the offer, I better get back to work." Stacy pointed at the brunette reading a magazine already seated in the designated make-up chair.
"Looks like she's ready for me."
What a pig, Stacy thought. She couldn't imagine how Amber put up with him. Bruno seemed like a caricature of everything she'd ever expected. Maybe not a pig, more like a pimp. She wondered if Amber ever slept with him. Maybe she had to. Shivering, Stacy introduced herself to the next actress.
"I'm Crystal. And whatever you did to Amber, make me look better." Her brown eyes burned into Stacy.
Stacy was taken aback. Better? How could she make her look better? This woman was serious. But, Stacy treated her as she would any other client. She put her hands on Crystal's face, turned it right and left, nodding her head as she did so.
"Sure, a much different look for you. I'd say you're more of the jewel tones, you can take brighter colors." Crystal sat back, mollified.
Stacy began with foundation and smoothed it over Crystal's beautiful skin. She could model, Stacy thought, as she brushed powder all over Crystal's face. All these women were so beautiful, what were they doing here? Why had they chosen this life? She'd heard that the women who chose this line of work were into drugs, had been abused. Was there more than that? Could it be they were just into sex? Maybe they thought it was glamorous, the dressing up, the playacting. She wanted to ask Crystal, but couldn't.
Stacy worked quietly, enjoying Crystal's natural beauty. Arch the eyebrows. A little spray to keep them in place.
"Look up, Crystal." Stacy always used three coats of mascara, waiting for each one to dry in between. It helped any woman look as if she had long, full lashes. And now the lipstick.
5
"We really should use a true red, it will look great with your hair and eyes."
"Sure, " Crystal agreed.
Suddenly, Stacy heard loud moaning and banging, followed by 'Oh, yes, yes, yes!'
Startled, Stacy looked at Crystal.
Crystal smirked, "That's just Amber doing her 'come scene.'"
Stacy wanted to put her hands over her ears.
Rolling her eyes, Crystal said, "She's so fake. At least when she's with men."
Stacy begged silently, please don't tell me anymore. Just let me do my job, collect my money and get on with the rest of my life. Back to the bored housewives. Back to Alex.
It was hard, but Stacy tuned out the noises and focused her attention back on Crystal. After outlining her lips, Stacy applied the red lipstick. Satisfied with the result, Stacy handed Crystal the mirror. Just as Amber had done, Crystal checked her face carefully.
"Do you think the blush is a little dark for me?" she asked petulantly.
Stacy felt like screaming. As if anyone looks at your face anyway.
Dutifully, Stacy applied some sheer white powder to soften the blush and then dusted on a lighter blush. She handed Crystal the mirror again.
"Oh, much better." She smiled at her reflection and squinted her eyes. "Thanks, Stacy. Good job."
"My pleasure," Stacy replied, immediately regretting her choice of words.
"It would be my pleasure, too." Crystal smiled and winked as she got up from the chair. Just then Stacy heard Bruno call out, "Crystal, on set. Amber, see Stacy for a touch up."
Loosely pulling on a robe, Amber sat down in the chair. Her skin was damp, her make-up smudged. Lipstick gone. Stacy felt like spraying her with disinfectant. Instead, she got out some cotton squares to blot Amber's face and began again. Amber grabbed Stacy's arm.
"Just so you know, Stacy, Todd is still my man. I know how he always goes after the virgins on the set, but, sweetheart, a word of advice, stay away."
"Virgin?" Stacy stammered as she tried to apply powder.
"You're just working on the set. Keep that in mind."
"Don't worry about me." Stacy looked down at her plain black T-shirt and worn blue jeans, her long curly hair in a ponytail.
Amber looked her straight in the eyes.
"Don't give me any of that. Get rid of those clothes and put on something sexy(you could make it with anyone here."
6
Oh, yeah. Stacy laughed to herself, picturing herself as a French maid. Did they carry whips, maybe handcuffs? Maybe she could request Todd? Really piss of Amber.
She finished Amber's touch-up as quickly as possible. Watched her change into a new get-up. Some kind of black dominatrix thing. Then she did one actor and two other actresses before she grabbed a bite to eat with the one of the lighting guys. He flirted with her, too. Gave her his card. Explained that he didn't always work porno sets. As if she did. She took the card, figuring she'd throw it away later. Or maybe not. Who was she to argue? Sex was in the air. The afternoon quickly sped by: make-up, touch-up, body make-up, come-ons, jokes, moans and groans. All in a day's work. She wondered where Todd was. He was the only actor not yet in a scene.
And then there he was. He'd slipped into the make-up chair. Stacy didn't know how to act. She did her best to be nonchalant and quietly said hi as she tried not to stare at his gorgeous face or anywhere else. But it was hard not to. After all he was wearing the briefest of shorts. She couldn't help but notice-definitely extra large.
"So, Stacy, what can you do with this ugly mug?"
Sure. As if he didn't know he was incredibly hot. "Well, you don't need much." She touched his face with her hand and felt the electricity. Had he felt it too?
Pulling out a fresh sponge, she blotted his face with a tinted moisturizer to even out his tan. Running the sponge over Todd's skin felt to Stacy as if she were caressing him. She wanted to kiss his lips. Instead, she blushed again, sure he could read her thoughts. Finished, she dusted him with powder. His eyes bore straight into hers as she handed him the mirror. He didn't look into it and kept staring at Stacy until she spoke.
"Something wrong?"
"I was just thinking about you." Again he eyed her body. He leaned forward and said, "You're as pretty as any of these others. Why not give it a try?"
"Me?" Stacy stuttered.
"Sure. Why not? These girls, Amber, Crystal, they're just in it for the drugs and the money. I can tell with you, it would be different. You'd do it for the excitement...like I do."
7
It would be different, too different. Out of her league. However tempting it might be with him, bottom line(he was a porn star. He'd fucked hundreds, maybe a thousand women. Why would she want to be one of them?
Stacy smiled weakly. "I have a boyfriend," she lied. Oh, that was so lame.
"That's okay." Todd grinned. "I'm not the jealous type."
Alex is, she wanted to tell him. Truth is she wasn't sure. They'd only been out a few times. She didn't know him all that well, but she hoped he'd be jealous. Why was she letting Todd get to her? She preferred a man like Alex. Maybe she should call him. Todd was done anyway. And the others could wait.
"Excuse me," Stacy said, "I've got to make a call." She picked up her purse and walked over to the bathroom for more privacy. A few of the actresses were siting around between scenes. Stacy heard them talking as she walked by.
"You know Todd, he's always looking to find a new girl. Same tired lines." Crystal laughed. " 'It would be different,'" she mimicked his husky voice.
"Yeah," a blonde agreed. "That's what he told me when I met him at The X Bar. It was different, all right."
The others laughed and Stacy walked by, smiling. Just make it to the bathroom. Then you can die.
Once again, Stacy found herself in the beautiful bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror. How could she have taken him seriously? He didn't want her because of her, he just wanted to fuck her, the virgin on the set. How could she have thought it could be anything else? Stacy pulled her cell phone out of her purse and dialled Alex. Four rings and a recording. Stacy hung up without leaving a message. She'd just meet him at the restaurant. She had to finish the job. No one else would make a fool of her.
The day wore on and so did the actors. What had once seemed tempting seemed tawdry. Every time they came back for a touch up, they looked tired, used and older. Especially Amber. She didn't even bother with a robe anymore. Once, Stacy had picked it up to hand to her and she'd seen the label: 100% polyester, not even real silk. Nothing was real and nothing was glamorous. She didn't care how much money they made, this was not her thing. Stacy wondered how they could do it, again and again. They didn't seem into it any more. Just a job. Even their sexuality was diminished. She didn't know what could be left for them at the end of the day except more drugs or booze. Stacy ignored Todd. The spark was gone, whatever had been there. Stacy accepted her payment in cash from Bruno and brushed off any offers of more work. She was grateful she'd only been a one-day replacement. She had her money. What a day. She just wanted to get out of here and meet Alex. Packing up her make-up, she ignored everyone.
8
Once outside, she drank in the foggy July air. Fresh air. Her legs ached and she pulled her jacket tighter. She spotted a trash can and pulled the condom out from her pocket. Tossed it in. She threw out the card too. Didn't care.
Stacy saw her car down the block and almost started to run. Safe inside her car, Stacy sat for a few minutes watching the windshield wipers do their job. Calm enough, she started the car and headed to the Marina. To see Alex.
She couldn't deal with parking and used the valet. Through the double doors and there he was waiting at the bar, already sipping a margarita. He spied her immediately and stood up. Crushing her in his arms, Alex planted a salty tequila flavored kiss on her lips. Offering her his seat at the crowded bar, he asked, "How was your day?"
Stacy was stuck. When she had arrived at the filming location she'd been so shocked she'd pretended everything was okay. And of course there was the little matter of the contract. It was, after all, her signature, and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it. If she had bolted as she'd been tempted to do, she knew she would never get hired again for shoots. Independent film, that's what she'd been told.
The 'actress' broke into Stacy's thoughts,
"Hon, not too much lip gloss, the first scene is just a head scene." For a moment Stacy's hand faltered, but ever the professional she replied,
"Don't worry, Amber. I'll go light." Using the lip brush she worked in from the corners and made Amber's unnaturally large lips look positively luminous. When she finished, Stacy handed Amber a mirror. Smiling at her reflection, Amber tossed her hair in a way that Stacy knew was practiced. Groaning inwardly, Stacy reminded herself about the money she'd be making at this gig. One day's work on this film and she'd pocket more money than she'd make in a week at the make-up counter. Even if she was making it off a porno flick. Not exactly what she'd had in mind when she was offered one day's work as a replacement make-up artist. She wouldn't include this job on her resume.
Amber brought the mirror up close and examined her face from every angle. Finally she put the mirror down and announced,
"The last make-up artist they sent over was so awful, we sent her home. You should stick around. You've got a gift."
"Thanks," Stacy answered graciously as she shuddered inside. No way. She smiled at Amber just the same. It was true, Stacy knew she was talented. She could make any woman look beautiful. Her regular clientele loved what she did. They were suburban housewives who drove into the city for lunch and a show. Even some of the socialites came to her at Benthoff's Department Store. In fact, it was those women who had encouraged her to sign with the Blue Agency for shoots. If they could see her now.
In the last few months she'd worked several local commercials and thought she was on her way to the big time. Well, as least as big as you could get in San Francisco. She knew Los Angeles was where the real money was, but she wasn't ready to leave the Bay Area. Not yet, anyway. After all, she had just met Alex. And she'd be seeing him tonight.
2
Absentmindedly, Stacy unsnapped Amber's smock and watched as she slowly rose from the chair and dropped her silk robe to the floor. Stretching, a nearly naked Amber raised her arms to the ceiling. Unable to take her eyes off Amber, Stacy stared at the perfectly round breasts that almost burst out of the purple lace demi-bra. Her belly was concave, a diamond sparkling from the navel. Amber wore a tiny matching lace thong and Stacy could see no discernable hairline. How come when she shaved, she always wound up with tiny red bumps? Amber must get professionally waxed. Amber's body was perfect: tanned and taut. Stacy cursed herself for pigging out on Mexican last night. She'd always considered herself to be on the thin side, but she felt positively obese right now. No more guacamole and chips. Stacy glanced around. The lighting guys were setting up. Cameramen were racing around. The action appeared to be taking place in one of the bedrooms. Stacy tried not to look interested, but she wondered where all the 'actors' were. Was she expected to do their make-up, too?
Right near Stacy was a rolling wardrobe. Hanging inside were costumes and plenty of lingerie. Stacy tried not to stare at the peek-a-boo garments, flimsy things and crotchless panties on display. Frederick's of Hollywood, no doubt. There were plenty of shoes to choose from as well. None that looked too comfortable, as they all seemed to be six-inch stilettos. There were even props laying on a chair: whips, chains, handcuffs and ropes. And a stethoscope?
Stacy saw Amber's manager Bruno sitting at a table in the dining room talking to some big, beefy guy. Was he a bodyguard? Why would these people need bodyguards? Stacy continued looking around the room and wondered who actually lived here and if they knew what their home was being used for. Probably not.
In the far corner of the living room there were more 'actresses' waiting for her. A gorgeous brunette, wearing a blue robe, sat in a flowered loveseat, chatting with an amazing looking redhead in a green kimono. As Stacy's eyes darted from Amber to the other women, she realized they all looked the same. It was as if they had all taken a Barbie doll to the plastic surgeon and said, 'I want to look like this. They hadn't come out with X-rated Barbie yet, but of course anything was possible.
3
Chuckling to herself, Stacy went over to the banquet table and poured herself a glass of Perrier. As she was perusing the food, she bumped into someone. "Oh, excuse me," she said as she looked up into deep-blue eyes and the handsomest man she'd ever seen.
He grinned, showing off perfect white teeth.
"My fault." He put his hand out and grasped hers. "Todd Johnson."
Stacy blinked, but couldn't speak. She tried to smile, and failed. She wanted to pull back her hand. All she could do was stare. It took all her might not to look 'down there'. Oh, she knew who he was, she knew exactly who he was. The big star. The man who'd had sex with countless women. Was it only women? Yes, he had to be straight. Damn, she hadn't expected it, but he was so gorgeous.
Somehow she managed to squeak, "I'm Stacy. The make-up artist."
Todd eyed her up and down while still holding onto her hand.
"Oh, Stacy, you're a big improvement over the last one. Yes, you are fine." Stacy felt chills, but couldn't believe it. This man, this huge porno star who was paid to fuck women was actually turning her on. And she could see he was aroused. Blushing nervously, she pulled her hand away.
"Sweet, too," Todd said with a laugh. "You can do me later. My scene's at two."
Stacy nearly choked as she pretended to sip her Perrier. Setting the green bottle aside, she headed straight for the bathroom. She shut the door behind her and sat down on one of the velvet lounge chairs. Closing her eyes, she did yoga deep-breathing exercises to try to center herself. When she was feeling calmer, her eyes drifted open and she glanced around. The bathroom was larger than her whole studio apartment. The walls were sponge-painted in a soft peach and looked gorgeous against the white crown molding. All the chairs were Queen Anne. There were hanging plants and potted plants in beautiful ceramic bowls. The fixtures were gold, the floor was a cream tile with gold flecks. It was ostentatious, yet very elegant. Stacy felt better, almost ready to go out and face the rest of her day.
She stood up and washed her hands, drying them on one of the softest hand towels. Unable to resist, Stacy opened the vanity. Boxes of condoms stared at her. Large and extra large. Ribbed, neon and edible. Edible? She needed to breathe again. Surely Todd used the extra large. No, no, she shouldn't think about him. Maybe she should think about Alex. She began to breathe normally again. Alex. Her type of guy. Tall, but not over six feet. Brown eyes. Great smile. Seemed really into her. Not into porno. Well, not that she knew of, but she hoped not. Oh, god, what would she say to him tonight? They hadn't even slept together, had barely kissed. Breathe, breathe. Stacy got up to leave, but turned back around and slipped a condom in her jeans pocket. What the hell.
4
No sooner had she closed the door behind her than Bruno came over and draped an arm over her shoulder.
"Wanted to let you know you did a good job on Amber," he whispered into her ear.
Wincing inside, Stacy forced a smile.
"Thanks. It wasn't difficult. Amber's a beautiful woman."
"No, really, you made her look...classy." Bruno laughed. "Amber really likes you. And she never likes anyone. She's the star, you know. You could get permanent work with her.
Stacy lifted Bruno's arm off her shoulder.
"I'm really busy with my clientele at Benthoff's, you know. I'm not ready to switch jobs just yet. Thanks for the offer, I better get back to work." Stacy pointed at the brunette reading a magazine already seated in the designated make-up chair.
"Looks like she's ready for me."
What a pig, Stacy thought. She couldn't imagine how Amber put up with him. Bruno seemed like a caricature of everything she'd ever expected. Maybe not a pig, more like a pimp. She wondered if Amber ever slept with him. Maybe she had to. Shivering, Stacy introduced herself to the next actress.
"I'm Crystal. And whatever you did to Amber, make me look better." Her brown eyes burned into Stacy.
Stacy was taken aback. Better? How could she make her look better? This woman was serious. But, Stacy treated her as she would any other client. She put her hands on Crystal's face, turned it right and left, nodding her head as she did so.
"Sure, a much different look for you. I'd say you're more of the jewel tones, you can take brighter colors." Crystal sat back, mollified.
Stacy began with foundation and smoothed it over Crystal's beautiful skin. She could model, Stacy thought, as she brushed powder all over Crystal's face. All these women were so beautiful, what were they doing here? Why had they chosen this life? She'd heard that the women who chose this line of work were into drugs, had been abused. Was there more than that? Could it be they were just into sex? Maybe they thought it was glamorous, the dressing up, the playacting. She wanted to ask Crystal, but couldn't.
Stacy worked quietly, enjoying Crystal's natural beauty. Arch the eyebrows. A little spray to keep them in place.
"Look up, Crystal." Stacy always used three coats of mascara, waiting for each one to dry in between. It helped any woman look as if she had long, full lashes. And now the lipstick.
5
"We really should use a true red, it will look great with your hair and eyes."
"Sure, " Crystal agreed.
Suddenly, Stacy heard loud moaning and banging, followed by 'Oh, yes, yes, yes!'
Startled, Stacy looked at Crystal.
Crystal smirked, "That's just Amber doing her 'come scene.'"
Stacy wanted to put her hands over her ears.
Rolling her eyes, Crystal said, "She's so fake. At least when she's with men."
Stacy begged silently, please don't tell me anymore. Just let me do my job, collect my money and get on with the rest of my life. Back to the bored housewives. Back to Alex.
It was hard, but Stacy tuned out the noises and focused her attention back on Crystal. After outlining her lips, Stacy applied the red lipstick. Satisfied with the result, Stacy handed Crystal the mirror. Just as Amber had done, Crystal checked her face carefully.
"Do you think the blush is a little dark for me?" she asked petulantly.
Stacy felt like screaming. As if anyone looks at your face anyway.
Dutifully, Stacy applied some sheer white powder to soften the blush and then dusted on a lighter blush. She handed Crystal the mirror again.
"Oh, much better." She smiled at her reflection and squinted her eyes. "Thanks, Stacy. Good job."
"My pleasure," Stacy replied, immediately regretting her choice of words.
"It would be my pleasure, too." Crystal smiled and winked as she got up from the chair. Just then Stacy heard Bruno call out, "Crystal, on set. Amber, see Stacy for a touch up."
Loosely pulling on a robe, Amber sat down in the chair. Her skin was damp, her make-up smudged. Lipstick gone. Stacy felt like spraying her with disinfectant. Instead, she got out some cotton squares to blot Amber's face and began again. Amber grabbed Stacy's arm.
"Just so you know, Stacy, Todd is still my man. I know how he always goes after the virgins on the set, but, sweetheart, a word of advice, stay away."
"Virgin?" Stacy stammered as she tried to apply powder.
"You're just working on the set. Keep that in mind."
"Don't worry about me." Stacy looked down at her plain black T-shirt and worn blue jeans, her long curly hair in a ponytail.
Amber looked her straight in the eyes.
"Don't give me any of that. Get rid of those clothes and put on something sexy(you could make it with anyone here."
6
Oh, yeah. Stacy laughed to herself, picturing herself as a French maid. Did they carry whips, maybe handcuffs? Maybe she could request Todd? Really piss of Amber.
She finished Amber's touch-up as quickly as possible. Watched her change into a new get-up. Some kind of black dominatrix thing. Then she did one actor and two other actresses before she grabbed a bite to eat with the one of the lighting guys. He flirted with her, too. Gave her his card. Explained that he didn't always work porno sets. As if she did. She took the card, figuring she'd throw it away later. Or maybe not. Who was she to argue? Sex was in the air. The afternoon quickly sped by: make-up, touch-up, body make-up, come-ons, jokes, moans and groans. All in a day's work. She wondered where Todd was. He was the only actor not yet in a scene.
And then there he was. He'd slipped into the make-up chair. Stacy didn't know how to act. She did her best to be nonchalant and quietly said hi as she tried not to stare at his gorgeous face or anywhere else. But it was hard not to. After all he was wearing the briefest of shorts. She couldn't help but notice-definitely extra large.
"So, Stacy, what can you do with this ugly mug?"
Sure. As if he didn't know he was incredibly hot. "Well, you don't need much." She touched his face with her hand and felt the electricity. Had he felt it too?
Pulling out a fresh sponge, she blotted his face with a tinted moisturizer to even out his tan. Running the sponge over Todd's skin felt to Stacy as if she were caressing him. She wanted to kiss his lips. Instead, she blushed again, sure he could read her thoughts. Finished, she dusted him with powder. His eyes bore straight into hers as she handed him the mirror. He didn't look into it and kept staring at Stacy until she spoke.
"Something wrong?"
"I was just thinking about you." Again he eyed her body. He leaned forward and said, "You're as pretty as any of these others. Why not give it a try?"
"Me?" Stacy stuttered.
"Sure. Why not? These girls, Amber, Crystal, they're just in it for the drugs and the money. I can tell with you, it would be different. You'd do it for the excitement...like I do."
7
It would be different, too different. Out of her league. However tempting it might be with him, bottom line(he was a porn star. He'd fucked hundreds, maybe a thousand women. Why would she want to be one of them?
Stacy smiled weakly. "I have a boyfriend," she lied. Oh, that was so lame.
"That's okay." Todd grinned. "I'm not the jealous type."
Alex is, she wanted to tell him. Truth is she wasn't sure. They'd only been out a few times. She didn't know him all that well, but she hoped he'd be jealous. Why was she letting Todd get to her? She preferred a man like Alex. Maybe she should call him. Todd was done anyway. And the others could wait.
"Excuse me," Stacy said, "I've got to make a call." She picked up her purse and walked over to the bathroom for more privacy. A few of the actresses were siting around between scenes. Stacy heard them talking as she walked by.
"You know Todd, he's always looking to find a new girl. Same tired lines." Crystal laughed. " 'It would be different,'" she mimicked his husky voice.
"Yeah," a blonde agreed. "That's what he told me when I met him at The X Bar. It was different, all right."
The others laughed and Stacy walked by, smiling. Just make it to the bathroom. Then you can die.
Once again, Stacy found herself in the beautiful bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror. How could she have taken him seriously? He didn't want her because of her, he just wanted to fuck her, the virgin on the set. How could she have thought it could be anything else? Stacy pulled her cell phone out of her purse and dialled Alex. Four rings and a recording. Stacy hung up without leaving a message. She'd just meet him at the restaurant. She had to finish the job. No one else would make a fool of her.
The day wore on and so did the actors. What had once seemed tempting seemed tawdry. Every time they came back for a touch up, they looked tired, used and older. Especially Amber. She didn't even bother with a robe anymore. Once, Stacy had picked it up to hand to her and she'd seen the label: 100% polyester, not even real silk. Nothing was real and nothing was glamorous. She didn't care how much money they made, this was not her thing. Stacy wondered how they could do it, again and again. They didn't seem into it any more. Just a job. Even their sexuality was diminished. She didn't know what could be left for them at the end of the day except more drugs or booze. Stacy ignored Todd. The spark was gone, whatever had been there. Stacy accepted her payment in cash from Bruno and brushed off any offers of more work. She was grateful she'd only been a one-day replacement. She had her money. What a day. She just wanted to get out of here and meet Alex. Packing up her make-up, she ignored everyone.
8
Once outside, she drank in the foggy July air. Fresh air. Her legs ached and she pulled her jacket tighter. She spotted a trash can and pulled the condom out from her pocket. Tossed it in. She threw out the card too. Didn't care.
Stacy saw her car down the block and almost started to run. Safe inside her car, Stacy sat for a few minutes watching the windshield wipers do their job. Calm enough, she started the car and headed to the Marina. To see Alex.
She couldn't deal with parking and used the valet. Through the double doors and there he was waiting at the bar, already sipping a margarita. He spied her immediately and stood up. Crushing her in his arms, Alex planted a salty tequila flavored kiss on her lips. Offering her his seat at the crowded bar, he asked, "How was your day?"
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