R. Harrison's Blog, page 36

Dartmoor story VI #amwriting #WIP

Elizabeth has a disturbed night.

 The start of the story can be found here.

Following from the last installment: Elizabeth overdid it on a visit to the exciting hamlet of Moreton Hampstead, and is ill. Mary has tucked her up in bed.

“I suppose I’m just tired and seeing things.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Miss Elizabeth. See what you feel like when it’s time for supper.”

Elizabeth was sound asleep when it was time for supper. So sound asleep that they left her sleeping while they ate. When her uncle and Mary looked in at her at dusk, he said, “Mary, I would like you to sit up with Elizabeth. Come find me if she has difficulty breathing. Poor girl, she must be exhausted, shouldn’t have sent her to town today.”

Mary saw the concern in his face and said, “I’ll keep an eye on her, but I’m sure she’ll be fine.” It took her no little effort to keep the doubt from her voice.

“I hope so. I’m not sure our visitors won’t be back. Best to be prepared.”

Mary nodded. While she didn’t like it, she understood what he meant.

Elizabeth finally stirred in the middle of the night. The noise at the window, the noise of cutting glass and working on the lock, awoke her. It also awoke Mary, who stood and pointed something at the window. Whatever it was, it gave an incomprehensible shout and then jumped off the window.  Elizabeth drifted back to sleep and missed the noise from the outside when her uncle said, “Got you, you bugger.”

When she finally awoke in the morning, Elizabeth still felt weak. So her uncle bundled her in a quilt and sat her in front of a fire in the parlour. He said, “Best if you take it easy today, my dear Elizabeth. Have a valetudinarian morning, if not an entire day.”

Elizabeth was in no shape to argue, and honestly enjoyed trying to read a novel, something by Trollope, while she stared at the flickering flames of the fire. It wasn’t until Mary came in and asked if she’d like some tea, that she said, “Mrs Trent, I had the oddest dream last night.”

“You did?”

“Yes, you were in it. There was a noise at the window.”

Mary stiffened, “There was?”

“Yes, and you were watching me, from a chair in my room. You stood up and pointed a rifle at the window. There was a scream. It sounded like nothing on Earth.” Elizabeth paused, “Then, well, I forget the rest. But it seemed so real.”

“You have a vivid imagination Miss Elizabeth. I did spend the night in your room, in case you took a turn for the worse. Whatever would I be doing with a rifle, now?”

Elizabeth looked at Mary and noticed, at last, how tired she looked, “Are you well, don’t you need to rest now?”

Mary said, “Nay lass. I’ve been up longer at lambing season. Have to keep something ready for George at all hours. I’ll catch my rest in between. Did you want that tea?”

“Yes, please. Oh, have you seen my Uncle? I’d like to thank him for the novel.”

“He’s gone into town Miss. Had to send a telegram, and said he’d be back for dinner.”

Elizabeth felt decidedly restless by mid-day, so she moved to a chair where she could see outside. Shortly after that, she saw Uncle Sylvester ride at a canter to the stable, dismount, and walk his horse inside. She waved when she saw him, and he waved back. Before he could come to the house and chat, a dark black closed carriage, one with bars on the windows and an armed guard as well as a driver pulled up. While the driver steadied the team of four strong horses, the guard climbed down and walked into the stables. A few moments later, both the guard and Uncle Sylvester reappeared. They escorted a short, stout, and decidedly foreign looking man to the back of the carriage. The guard unlocked the back and opened the door.  Over the man’s objections and struggles, they forced him inside. After that, the guard locked the carriage. He and her uncle chatted. The guard climbed back onto the carriage and with a shout it was off. The entire episode was over in a matter of a few minutes.

When her uncle came in, Elizabeth said, “What was that about?”

Normally abstemious, her uncle went to the sideboard and poured himself a large tot of whiskey. Then he tossed it off as though it were water. “You saw?”

“The black carriage and the man.”

Uncle Sylvester sighed, “Poor fellow, criminally insane.” He paused, “After what he did last night, it was best to keep him here until he could be picked up. That was his transport to Princeton. The Queen’s prison for the worst offenders.”

“Is that why you were in town?”

“Yes, and it’s why,” he paused to pour himself another drink, “I’m having this. I always feel dirty when I commit someone.”

“I thought you were just a doctor.”

“I am, but I’m the closest thing to an alienist in this part of Dartmoor. When there’s trouble, I am called to certify insanity. I testified this morning, along with Sergeant Hopwell, to the magistrate, and they took the poor fellow away. It’s not likely he’ll recover his wits, so they’ll lock him up and throw away the key.” He stared out the window and muttered, “I wish there was something I could do about it. There ought to be something besides locking them up.” Then he shrugged, and asked Elizabeth, “Can I see that bracelet of yours?”

“This one?” Elizabeth took off an ornate chain bracelet. “I like it, but it’s just a bit of trumpery I bought from a street seller. He said it would give me good luck.” She handed it to her uncle. To her surprise, he snatched it from her hand, took it to the window and examined it closely.

Saying, “I should have known,” he dashed to the fire and tossed it in. There was a greenish flash and it vanished in a puff of acrid smoke.

Image courtesy of http://www.inverarayjail.co.uk

Hoppin’ John and Stella’s Polish Cabbage. #recipe

Two New Year’s recipes.

Traditional food that’s good tasting.

Hopin’ John.

Hoppin’ John is a traditional Southern dish using blackeyed peas and smoked hammocks. It’s an example of “poor food” that is both good and fills a cultural niche. Eat this on January first and the rest of the year you’ll eat better. Well maybe, I think it’s pretty darn good no matter when you eat it.

1/2 pound dried blackeyed peas. Ideally soak these the night before in cold water.
At least one smoked hammock.
One onion coarsely chopped and sauteed at least to the wilt stage
1 tablespoon prepared mustard.
1 tablespoon hot sauce

Put the ingredients in a pot, typically the one you saute’ed the onions in, and add enough water to cover the peas with about one inch to spare.



Bring to a boil and simmer until done. It takes several hours for the meat and beans to be completely done with the meat falling off the bone. Periodically stir, and add more water if needed. I adjust the amounts of mustard and hot sauce to taste. This example is a bit rich in hammocks because they came in a pack of three.

Stella’s Polish Cabbage.

Stella’s Polish Cabbage is a family recipe from my Irish mother-in-law. She figured out how to cook cabbage the way her husband, a Polish pilot in the RAF during world war 2, liked. My English wife has always called it “Polish Cabbage.” It’s not particularly New Year’s food, but goes exceedingly well with Hoppin’ John.

1 Head Cabbage. Cored and coarsely chopped. Sprinkle with salt and set to wilt overnight in the refrigerator. In the old days in England, when the house had a single coal fire, she’d just leave it out on the counter.
1 Onion, Coarsely chopped
2 tablespoons butter and a teaspoon of oil. Melt the butter in the oil (avoids burning).

Thoroughly rinse the cabbage, to remove the excess salt. Saute the onion in the butter and oil mixture. When it is past the wilt stage add the cabbage and cover.

The cabbage will give off water as it wilts. The mixture will rapidly lose about half its volume. Stir to prevent scorching and periodically add a few tablespoons of water. The amount isn’t critical, you need enough to keep it from burning, and it will evaporate over time.

For the next hour, until thoroughly done, simmer over a low heat. Periodically stir and refresh water.

England in 1819

Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792 – 1822

An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king,—

Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow

Through public scorn,—mud from a muddy spring,—

Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,

But leech-like to their fainting country cling,

Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow,—

A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field,—

An army, which liberticide and prey

Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield

Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;

Religion Christless, Godless—a book sealed;

A Senate,—Time’s worst statute unrepealed,—

Are graves, from which a glorious Phantom may

Burst, to illumine our tempestous day.

FrankenKitty 12 #wewriwar #amwriting

Frankenkitty
(Some assembly required)

Welcome to Weekend Writing Warriors.  This is a sample from my work in progress, “Frankenkitty”, and I hope you enjoy it.  It started out as a young-adult superhero book, and well, you’ll see.  After blowing out the town power grid (temporarily as it turns out) Jenny reminds Amber with an IM that Mrs. Jones, the fons et origo, of the project wanted a sample of the pink solution.

In the morning Amber took a half-liter of the pink solution, still glowing though not as brightly as the night before, and put it in a bottle. On the way to the bus, she stopped at the Towers. She hesitated, then walked in and asked the attendant if he could give something to Mrs. Jones. He said he could;  Amber pulled out the bottle and he said, “Homebrew?”

“Not really; don’t drink it.”

“It’s not dangerous, is it?”

“I don’t think so; Mrs. Jones gave us a recipe and wanted to see a sample when we made it; perfume.” It didn’t look nor did it smell like the attendant would even know what perfume was.

“Alright.”

This is a work in progress. In other news, I’ve become a booktrope author, but more on that latter. It has meant a change in pen-name.

I’m also looking for reviewers for my nearly ready book “The Curious Profession of Dr. Craven” It’s moved out of layout to final assembly, and is now waiting only on the final cover.  There was a bit of a hiccough in production, but that’s sorted out.

Get Free Stuff and try out my landing page. There are two free complete short stories available after you’ve gone through the hoops.

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Nightlife in Atlanta #kindle

Nightlife in Atlanta is vampire/sf/aliens book set in modern Atlanta. Not a bad novelette if I say so myself.

Without further ado, here’s chapter one as a teaser. (0.99 and free in KU)

Chapter 1, Brave New World

My department chair called me into his office.

“I have a course for you to teach”

“But I’m teaching a full load already”

“Yes, but you haven’t had much luck with the NSF lately, have you?”

“No”

“So the dean won’t let me keep your teaching load so low.”

“Which one?”

“Jennie needs a new section”

“Not that – vampire science!”

“Well, yes – that”

“No, please -I’ll do double sections of chem 1101 instead”

“You’ll enjoy it”

Vampire science was a popular, if not exactly respectable, course.  So that was that. I’d be teaching which chemical fraction of garlic repelled mythical creatures and which shape of a cross worked best – if it worked at all when the vampires were Jewish.  Actually it could be worse, with the explosion of interest in “alternative science” coupled with the complete lack of interest in real science meant steadily declining interest and research funds.  It was either learn Chinese (their 5 ways of saying “ma” were beyond me), find a real job, or teach vampire science.

So it was off to Jennie’s office to get the syllabus and coordinate lesson plans.  She was looking paler than usual. Her office had changed as well.  When I’d last visited it was a more or less normal chemistry professor’s office – a few knickknacks here and there, but mostly books, files, and papers – covering everything.  Instead, there was a wreath of garlic, a cross, an image of the cross painted in tar on the door, a holly plant, and a rose arranged with Hawthorne on her desk.  All it would take was a vial of holy water and a bit of consecrated host – but Jennie wasn’t Catholic so these were hard for her to get.  She wore a neck brace, but one inlaid with silver crosses and cryptic Transylvanian sayings. Not much to inspire confidence.

She was glad to see me, if for no other reason than that I could take the day classes and let her handle the night-time laboratories.  Lectures in the morning followed by laboratory classes at 10 in the evening quickly grow old. We quickly shifted from the mechanics of the class, since one class is much like another in terms of grades and tests, to the important question of grants and funding.

“You hike a lot the hills in north Georgia, don’t you John?”

“Well, yes”, backpacking was one of the things that kept me sane.  If you want friends in the game of faculty politics and finding funding – get a dog. “I was just up north of blood mountain”

“I can help you put together a proposal on the werewolves out there”

“But there are only black bears – and they’re pretty timid”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely – them and the occasional coyote”

“You need vision, John, no one cares about analytical chemistry any longer”

That was for sure.

“But Jennie, there really aren’t werewolves up there, not even a shampe, a chupachonga or big foot or anything.  I put my food in a bear bag and sleep soundly”

“Then you’ve been lucky”

“No I’ve just used good bear country discipline.”

“Well – think about it. You know the NSF will have a name change soon?”

“I’ve heard – National Psychic Foundation? – but that’s a joke”

“It isn’t”

Actually we were both misinformed.  The NSF formed a new directorate, which cannibalized the few remaining funds, the directorate for psychic studies with branches in paranormal creatures, telepathy and telekinesis, and (my favorite) séance science. Why bother with mundane issues like chemistry and biology when there were more exciting and less reproducible things like ghouls, magic and alchemy to study. Didn’t Schrodinger’s cat prove that ghosts could exist? At least as long as you didn’t try to look at them.

As I was leaving Jenny’s office my cell rang. It was my lawyer.

“Well, John, your divorce was finalized today.”

“Oh”

“She gets the house, the best car, and most of your salary”

“But we showed she was the one sleeping around and it was supposed to be an amicable split – we don’t have any children and she has better paying job than me”

“Off the record- I think she slept with the judge.”

“What!”

“He’s married, a pillar of his community and parish, but not above a little on the side”

“Is there anything I can do – any action?”

“No, and I’ll deny what I just said if you make a fuss – Can’t prove it”

“Just a suspicion?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time – now about my fees”

So I was free, at last, free of a real vampire who sucked my life dry, but at what a cost. Fortunately I’d developed a taste for Ramen noodles when a graduate student.

 

Friday started with the normal routine, shower, breakfast and the morning fishwrapper (i.e. the Atlanta newspaper). As usual I started with the obituaries, but no luck, my ex was still living.  Atlanta, being a transportation hub, has an ongoing problem with vagrant or migrant homeless who wander through and seek sustenance by petty theft and major begging. Two headlines caught my eye – The Mayor announced that his plan for controlling the homeless was making progress, and there was a nasty wild animal attack underneath the highway.  No one of importance was killed, but it was pretty grizzly and the police officer who discovered the attack saw a pack of wild dogs or coyotes running from the scene. The one man who survived for a few minutes mentioned something about being attacked – but was clearly delirious and didn’t live long enough to give a clear description. There was another article about trapping coyotes out in Dekalb County, as they had become a local problem – too many pampered pets were disappearing.

 

Off to work and the comfortable familiar lecturing of freshman chemistry, followed by the abysmal experience of “vampire science”. An hour explaining about balancing reactions and stoichiometry, an hour off, and an hour of, quite frankly, bullshit. This class was spent discussing whether the shape of the ends of a cross and its material had any effect on repelling the undead. It was, in my humble opinion a cake of superstition, layered on imagination, iced with make-belief and decorated with B.S. But, of course, I didn’t dare convey that idea to the students – they’d give me bad teaching reviews if I insisted on evidence-based thinking, you know, facts.

 

The students were a varied lot.  About a quarter of them were otherwise serious students, who were taking this class to meet a requirement in humanities or science. It was an easy ‘A’. The rest were true believers who dressed by and large in the Goth style. The serious students sat in the back, smirked and played games on their laptops.  The Goth students sat in the front, riveted.  There seemed to be some divisions among them and they clustered into separate clumps.  I’d long ago learned never to ask questions about the sanity-challenged students.

 

Sanity-challenged was an accurate description of someone. This sanity-challenged individual kept leaving presents for me – presents like a bloody hank of hair wrapped around two chicken bones placed in my faculty mailbox, or a stuffed rat – with bat wings spliced onto it and left staring at me from my office bookcase. A scroll written in a dark brown ink that could be blood. A bundle of thorn bush twigs, wrapped in a dead snake-skin. Pleasant reminders of the less than rational. The campus police, as usual, were less than enthusiastic about finding out who and why. It could always be love messages from the ex.

 

The next few weeks continued in the same vein. Familiar chemistry, followed by crazy talk. The closest “vampire science” ever got to reality was when I gave the one lecture about fractionating garlic juice to find the active compounds. I remarked to the class

“It seems, however, that all the fractions are equally active – no vampires”

The Gothic students were not amused, complained, and I was called to account for my ‘flippant’ attitude.

“Look John”, continued my chair, “I know you’re frustrated but it is quite simple – just teach the course to the syllabus.”

“But it is so wrong – so crazy!”

“Just do it, and anyway now that you’re a free man – you can always chase a little undergrad tail”

“What?”

“Just pick a pretty one – they don’t complain if you give them an ‘A’ and don’t give them the clap”.

Seeing my incredulity, he continued, “Just think of it as a side benefit of teaching – like health insurance”

 

One of the more Gothic of the Goth students came up to me after class.  I was in a bit of a hurry because the weekend promised to be fine weather and a great weekend for exploring the back country. The way things had been going, of late, I needed the break.  No matter what I met, it wouldn’t be my ex or one of her manifold paramours – it got to be embarrassing when you went to a bar and half the men winked at you. It was even worse when you recognized the pole dancer.

“Dr James, I really enjoy your class”

“Thank you”

“Do you believe?”

“No – but this is how I pay the bills”

“You should – they walk at night”

“Who?”

“The night people, the undead, the walkers”

Oh – no, another true believer. Science doesn’t care about belief – it cares about what you can measure and observe.

“The undead, Dr James, they know about you now – so be careful”

I was intrigued, most of the students took this class as a joke – “Zombie U.” an easy A, but the real believers tended to take this seriously and felt they knew more that the professors. Actually, they probably did. Jenny had warned me to pay attention to them – if for no other reason than they might need to be watched.

“How do you – know this?”

She pulled the scarf down from her neck and revealed a scar.

“They tell me – ask about class”

Great – another cutter. We’d had a spate of students who dealt with the stress of classes by cutting themselves in various creative ways. There’d even been a campus email about it – warning the faculty to be on the lookout.

“What is that?”

“It’s not my time – so they let me still see the sun.”

I wondered,

“Did you know anything about these”, and pulled my stuffed rat with wings out of the filing cabinet.

She shuddered.

“They want you”

“What does it mean?”

“Was there anything else?”

I showed her my other presents – the hank of hair with chicken bones and the scroll.

She looked at the scroll, unrolled it, and started to read.

“neveah tra ohw rehtaf ruo”

She stopped, staggered and blanched.

“Dr. James – professor – please take care – these are powerful objects. They can harm you.”

 

Speaking of powerful objects, I needed to get more fuel for my stove.  I planned to get out on the trail this weekend and it is a melancholy situation when you can’t cook.  Fuel tablets are the lightest, easiest and cheapest solution for a short trip, and so, of course, the local outdoor shop was down to its last box.

A young woman, clearly another back-country aficionado, and I reached for it.

“It’s mine”, she said, despite my having a solid grip on it.

“Let’s share – I only need a few tablets.”

So carrying the box between us we approached the line at the front of the store. Waiting gave some time for conversation.

“Where are you planning to go?”, she asked

“The Pinhoti – in Alabama – I need some time alone, and you?”

“The smokies, a bunch of us girls from college get together for a reunion.”

“Sounds like fun, by the way I’m John”

“Oh, I’m Brittany”

 

We’d continued in this manner, even after buying and splitting up the fuel tablets. I gave her my card, and added.

“Call me – it would be fun to think about a trip together.”

“I will”

               Black, leather and lace, miscellaneous piercings, pale (if white), and highly contrasting red or black lipstick (even the males).

               It isn’t exactly good for the university if too many of the students commit suicide.

 

Dartmoor story V #amwriting #WIP

Things get a tad more strange.

Following from the last installment: A new chapter. The start of the story can be found here.

Chapter 2.

Elizabeth was glad enough of her waterproof by the time they arrived back at her uncle’s house in Barnecourt. A rain squall had blown through, and even though she’d managed to put the cloak on, her dress was soaked. So was Mary’s but she laughed it off. Elizabeth just sat there and shivered. Unfortunately, their pony could only pull the trap slowly up the steep hills between Moreton Hampstead and Barnecourt. Elizabeth wondered if it would be faster to get out and walk. It hadn’t mattered the day before when the weather was fair and the scenery novel.

“My dear niece,” her uncle said, when they finally arrived at the house. “You look positively blue with the cold. Come into the kitchen and warm yourself.” He bustled her inside to the stove, where a few coals kept the boiler warm. “Are you feeling well?”

“Cold,” Elizabeth’s teeth chattered, and she had a short coughing spell.

“Had I known the weather would turn, I’d have never let you go in the open trap.” He put a couple more pieces of coal in the stove and stirred it up to get the fire going. “Hope I don’t put it out. Mary’s the expert with this dratted contraption.”

The warm close air of the kitchen helped Elizabeth, and after a few minutes she stopped shaking. She did not stop coughing.

Uncle Sylvester listened to the cough, and balanced the administration of a tot of warm whiskey against the alternative of a dose of Ipecac. Finally, he asked Elizabeth, “Has Ipecac ever helped your cough?”

She shook her head, “No!”

“Then whiskey it is. A touch of honey mixed in sometimes helps.” He went off to prepare the medicine. By the time he returned, Mary had arrived and produced a bowl of hot water. Elizabeth sat with her head over it, wrapped in a towel and inhaling the steam. Mary looked up at him when he returned and said, “Whiskey, is that all you doctors ever think about? Cut some thyme from the garden, and I’ll put it in the bowl with the steam.”

The warm moist aromatic mixture soon soothed Elizabeth’s cough. Her uncle took one look at her, and said, “Bed. You need your rest. … Mary, will you see that she’s tucked in and warm? I must see to my laboratory; things are afoot.” He dashed out.

Mary smiled at her charge and added, “I could give you some broth, or would you prefer to just sleep?”

“I’ll go to sleep, and maybe then I’ll be able to join you for supper.”

On the way upstairs, Elizabeth stopped for a breath and said, “Is my uncle always so odd, distracted?”

Mary chuckled, “Not usually. He must be hard at work on something. We’ll probably hear it soon enough – when it explodes.”

“Does he always make things explode?”

Mary added, “I don’t think that’s his idea; it’s just what always seems to happen. Still, he’s happy and usually unhurt.” Then she led Elizabeth to her room and helped her into her dry nightdress. Then she wrapped her in a warm quilt and helped her into bed.

In the process, Elizabeth noticed that some of her things had been moved. “Mrs Trent, would anyone have looked through my room while we were away?”

“Why ever would anyone do that, Miss? It’s only George and Dr Standfast who were here.”

“It’s just things aren’t quite the way I remember leaving them.”

“You must be tired, I can’t imagine either of them searching your things. Maybe they had to move something when they were fixing the roof. In case plaster fell.”

“I suppose I’m just tired and seeing things.”

Hope is the thing with feathers (254)

Emily Dickinson, 1830 – 1886

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

Mending

Hazel Hall

Here are old things:

Fraying edges,

Ravelling threads;

And here are scraps of new goods,

Needles and thread,

An expectant thimble,

A pair of silver-toothed scissors.

Thimble on a finger,

New thread through an eye;

Needle, do not linger,

Hurry as you ply.

If you ever would be through

Hurry, scurry, fly!

Here are patches,

Felled edges,

Darned threads,

Strengthening old utility,

Pending the coming of the new.

Yes, I have been mending …

But also,

I have been enacting

A little travesty on life.

Moonrise

D. H. Lawrence, 1885 – 1930

And who has seen the moon, who has not seen

Her rise from out the chamber of the deep,

Flushed and grand and naked, as from the chamber

Of finished bridegroom, seen her rise and throw

Confession of delight upon the wave,

Littering the waves with her own superscription

Of bliss, till all her lambent beauty shakes towards us

Spread out and known at last, and we are sure

That beauty is a thing beyond the grave,

That perfect, bright experience never falls

To nothingness, and time will dim the moon

Sooner than our full consummation here

In this odd life will tarnish or pass away.

Dartmoor story IV #amwriting

Things get a tad more strange.

Following from the last installment:

“Other than that thunderstorm, like a baby. This is the first time I haven’t had my nightmares in a couple of years. Well, I did wake up to something scrabbling at my window, but that had to be mice.”

“Yes, mice.” Uncle Sylvester paused, “Mice yes, that’s right, mice. Mary told me that your dresses were fine, well made, suitable for London, but not suitable for country rambles. We were thinking that you would like to get some plainer ones made so you can wander about the downs without worry.”

“Are you sure I’ll be strong enough?”

“I think,” Her uncle said, “you’ll make a rapid recovery. I can already see that the fresh air agrees with you.”

Elizabeth smiled at him and said, “I hope so.”

“You’ll be surprised how good the clean air and healthy living in Dartmoor are for consumption. Finish your breakfast, and I’ll have Mary take you to Moreton Hampstead. See a draper.”

“Uncle, I’m sure I could make my own, and with Mrs Trent’s help.”

“Yes, yes, but we don’t have the fabric. You’ll need supplies, even if you stitch them yourself.”

Mary started to object, as a competent housekeeper she had more than enough fabric on hand for a simple farm-dress, but then she caught Dr Standfast’s glance and agreed to the trip.

“Excellent,” he said, “While you’re out, George and I will need to repair the roof. It looks as if there’s a pair of broken tiles over the window to Elizabeth’s room.”

“There are?” Elizabeth asked.

“When you go to put on your town clothes, take a look up from the window.”

Having finished her tea, and a hefty helping of bread, butter and jam, Elizabeth returned to her room to change. She followed her uncle’s advice and looked above the window. There were several shattered and damaged tiles. If she didn’t know better, she could have sworn that they had been shot. Certainly something hard had shattered them. She said to herself, “I wonder if one of the local children was throwing stones.”

“Mrs Trent,” Elizabeth said, as their pony easily trotted downhill to Moreton Hampstead, “It sounded to me that my uncle wanted us out of the house. Is something going on?”

“No Miss, he wants you to get out in the sunshine. At least while the weather’s good. It can be awful close weather up here at times. Have you see the downs and tors at their best.”

“I guess. Do we need the fabric?”

“I wouldn’t say we do, but Miss, there’s always something to look at in the town. You do need a plain dress that won’t get too mucky and we can brush clean when it does. That and a rain cloak. That pretty little thing of a parasol umbrella you brought from London won’t last long when the rain sets in.”

“And I suppose we can’t make a good rain cloak.”

“Not a good one, Miss,” Mary laughed.

“You know Mrs Trent, I wouldn’t have believed it, but I think Uncle’s right. I am breathing better.”

“Dr Standfast is a sharp man and a good doctor, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Mrs Trent, do you know what happened to the roof by my window? It sounded as though something were there last night. Just when the thunderstorm started. There wasn’t any hail was there?”

Mary paused, and changed the direction of the conversation. “Nay Miss. This here is North Bovey. A pretty little place, but nothing to compare with Moreton Hampstead.”

“Or London.” Elizabeth added with a laugh.

“Nor London. Not that I’ve ever been there. Can you tell me about it?”

Mary queried Elizabeth about the wonders of the city all the way into town. Crowds, omnibuses, gas-lights, museums, concerts, and even whether she’d danced with young men and had a fancy for one. Elizabeth sighed that the men she had met so far were rather dull.

“Well, Miss,” Mary said, “I don’t know that country folk are exciting.”

“I expect they just weren’t the right men for me.”

They pulled into town, and after arranging to bate their pony at The Horse, walked across the street to the ironmongers. Mary paused outside and said, “I need to check on some things Mr Trent ordered, I’ll meet you at the Moreton Drapers. They’re just up the street.” She pointed the direction.

Elizabeth agreed to walk on ahead and left for the drapers. The store supplied a combination of the fabrics and notions needed to make clothing as well as a small selection of readymade clothing for the touring and less-discerning or perhaps, more desperate, trade.

The clerk greeted her, “Miss, can I be of service?”

“I hope so. I need a rain cloak.”

“Here on a walking holiday?”

“No, but after that thunderstorm last night, I should think I need one.”

The clerk said, “What thunderstorm?”

“Wasn’t there one here? There were flashes and bangs all around the farmhouse.”

“That must have been that crazy old coot who lives up at Barnecourt. Always making noisy bangs, firing off fireworks and dashed silly things like that. Wish he wouldn’t ’cause he’s a good doctor.”

“I think you mean my Uncle Standfast.”

“Oh.” The clerk paused and then after a moment to sort his feelings turned back to the business at hand and said, “You were wanting a rain cloak. We have a wide selection.”

He was displaying their selection, kept on hand for the visitors from the city who discovered that the wind-driven rain of the high moors and umbrellas did not mix. Elizabeth was deciding between a yellow vulcanized rubber slicker and a green waxed cape when Mary came in. The clerk said, “Mrs Trent, I shall be with you presently.”

“I’m with her. Miss James, have you seen anything you like?”

“Which is better, a waxed cape or this rubber one?”

“Get the waxed, it won’t be torn by the briers.”

The clerk promptly took the waxed cape and set it aside for her. “Anything else you’ll be needing Miss?”

“A skirt, something that will do for walking.”

“I have some ready-made’s, but Mrs Trent is an excellent needlewoman.”

“As am I, but need something now. We need fabric as well, don’t we, Mrs Trent?”

Mary stepped up and gave the clerk her requirements. She’d written them down to save time. A few minutes later, with the cloak, an awful woollen skirt, and a small bolt of fabric put on the account, Mary and Elizabeth left the shop.

Elizabeth said, “He called my uncle a ‘crazy old coot’ and said he shot off rockets and made all sorts of odd noises. Is that true?”

“He’s not crazy nor a coot, but he does like his explosions. He’s been known to help test blasting powders for the quarries at Hayter, up on the Tor.”

“Was that what happened last night? I only ask so I can get some notice and not be surprised.”

Mary said, “Did you care for some tea before we return?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“No, I didn’t. Ask your uncle about it. Are you hungry after our expedition?”

The start of the story can be found here.