Did I ever tell you the time….
Good God, has it been three years already? You know, the first one didn’t nearly happen. Did I ever tell you of the Sabotaging Swede?
Well, better bring that whole decanter of brandy over, and pull up a seat. I’m sure the manager won’t mind.
It was the eve of the day the 1st competion was due to be held, and I was invited by Lady Watson to attend a small pre-competition soirée. I was reluctant to go at first, as I found out that one of the judges was none other than Arthur Conan Doyle. I think its pretty well known in London circles that I do not like the fellow. Did I ever tell you the time I got caught up in a Murder in Mullingar? Well, I told Mr Conan Doyle and three months later, he has taken my tale, placed it in Dartmoor and published under the name Hounds of the Baskerville! To this day he has refused to acknowledge the fact that he stole my idea – but I digress.
The soirée itself, was taking place in the Arena foyer of the Albert Hall. It was a hive of activity, as in the background the staff were setting up for the competition. There was also a fellow in the corner tinkling the ivories with some of those delightful ragtime tunes. I was enjoying a conversation with Sir Charles Lawes, one of the other judges, when there was an almighty crash.
A large banner depicting Atlas had come crashing down. Thankfully no one was hurt but it was to mark the start of a series of strange events.
The competitors had now joined the party, and it was Lady Watson who pointed out the fact, that the star of the proceedings was no where to be seen…
One of these chaps was an Austrian called Alois, who I have to say was a bit of the small side – i don’t think those austrians are going to amount to much in this body sculpturing, truth be told. He ofered to come with me as I took it on myself to find Mr Sandow.
It didn’t take much looking at all, for we found him in his dressing room, the door having been jammed with a chair. It was a good job Alois had came along as it had been jammed with some force. With Mr Sandow free, we proceeded to make our way back to the party.
No sooner had we got halfway than there was another almighty crash. As the other two went back to the party, I went to investigate. Several plinths had been erected in the auditorium for the competition and the crashing had come from one of them tumbling over. Speaking to the head joiner, there had been a catalogue of mishaps. Someone had also stolen his favourite saw.
Before returning to the mingling, I took a look at the flagpole of the original banner that had come down. It had been sawn…
I went straight over to the pianist and asked him, as delightful as his playing was, would he mind awfully if I asked him to stop as I needed everyone’s attention.
“Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, there is a saboteur in our midst and I know who it is,” I bellowed. I also noticed Mr Conan Doyle get his notebook out – I gave him a stern look before continuing. “We all witnessed the banner falling down earlier this evening, and I am sure some of you are now aware of why Mr Eugen Sandow was late for his own party. For those of you who don’t, he was trapped in his dressing room! I spoke with the chief joiner who tells me there has been a string of mishaps and that his favourite saw is missing. This is all down to that man there – ” I pointed to the Swedish competitor Magnus. As a gasp went round the room, he shouted something quite profane and several stepped to his defence. Including Lady Watson, who asked me to explain the accusation. I continued:
“Well Lady Watson, it’s quite elementary. You see, my suspicions were first raised when you pointed out that Mr Eugen was missing. I hope you don’t mind me saying that your voice, ah, carries somewhat, and several people overheard. The reaction of the people who overhead was that of a slightly raised eyebrow, except for one… When Alois and I went to move the chair that had been blocking Mr Sandow’s door, the force with which it had been applied was considerable. It would have taken a person with some build to put it there. But it was upon reentering this room and noticing the sawn flagpole that I had my proof and I knew Magnus to be the saboteur for he is somewhat in flagrante delicto. For you see, if you look behind the pedestal he has been standing next to, you will find the chief joiner’s saw. I know it to be there because I saw the daft Swede put it there the moment he came into the room. Also look – you can see he still has sawdust on his shoes!
As two large Poles escorted Magnus to the nearest police station, the pianist resumed and played a most delightful ditty which I later found to be called “Peacherine Rag”; the party got back into full swing. A right hoot! And when no one was looking, I swiped Arthur Conan Doyle’s notebook.
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Tags: #fridayflash, 1900's, 1904, Alois, Arthur Conan Doyle, England, Eugen Sandow, Europe, Kensington and Chelsea, London, Magnus, Royal Albert Hall, Sir Charles Lawes, Tiberius
You only need a little bit of Gentlemen’s Spice for a rise…
“Get your lips tighter around it, you’re dribbling.”
This was the third time in the space of ten minutes I had to draw attention to Miss Rotterlicks’ technique. She looked up to me with those bugged eyes of hers, blessed with all the grace of a grasshopper. As she always did in these scenarios, she began to go faster.
I slammed my baton down on the pedestal. Christ! I curse the day I ever began teaching music at the Rotherham Girls’ Finishing School. For the last two years, I had taught at a private girls’ school in the foothills of the Swiss Alps, surrounded by beauty as we bathed in the delights of Chopin. But, there was an unfortunate misunderstanding. You must see, I was only massaging the young girl’s bare thigh to help her accommodate the cello better. Since then, this was the only school that would take me on.
Where once I had been surrounded by the delicate creatures of Europe’s aristocratic elite, I now found myself amidst the far-from-darling offspring of the city of Sheffield’s steel elite – all three of them. There was a fourth, but she was removed by her father after he misheard me talking about wanting to get my legato.
It was Saturday, the worst day in my now miserable existence, because I had the angels of death for a full four hours. They arrive at 10am, dropped off by their fathers, who constantly try and give me the horn – do they not know there is more to music than the brass band?
The girls below me stared as I got my baton up. Miss Rotterlicks sits in the middle with her clarinet – how she has turned playing this fine instrument into a sideshow at the Moulin Rouge, I do not know. To her right is the large round Miss Lumpington and her double bass – sometimes I have to do a double-take to remind myself which one is made of wood. Finally, on the left, is Miss Teakles, who handles the violin with the grace of a miner attacking the strongest material known to man.
They all constantly fight to be on top, but usually Miss Lumpington’s heavy plucking wins out. I did once volunteer to spend some extra time with her, to lighten her fingering. But this was met with a black eye from her father, when I explained I wanted to work on his daughter’s crotchet.
Sigh… I brought my baton halfway down and gave it a flick, and Miss Rotterlicks resumed her practice of pleasuring the British Navy. With my left hand, I waved in Miss Teakles who fiddled up, then down, then up, down, up, down, and – surprise! Teakles’ all over the place. Which is the cue for Miss Lumpington to come in with her coma-inducing plucking.
Slurp, clump, clump plunk, slurp, clump, plunk…
“Girls, Triad! You’ve got to be together on this.“
“We’re trying as hard as we can, sir.”
Do you see? Do you see what I have to put up with?
“Softer, girls, this is Scheidt.”
“I don’t think that’s very fair, sir.“
Is it any wonder I spend my day constantly pissed?
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Tags: 1880's, 1888, crotchet, England, Europe, Legato, Miss Lumpington, Miss Rotterlicks, Miss Teakles, Music, Orchestra, Rotherham, Scheidt, school, Teacher, Triad, Yorkshire
the last page of henry lamberton’s journal
My experiment worked and I have my proof that Newton was wrong. I have been exploring ways to pass on my observations and I feel that, after going through this in my head, the following is the best way I can find.
Let us say that today, I walk across Dulwich Common. I pass a gentleman who I have never made the acquaintance of. Neither do we acknowledge each other as we pass.
When I retire that evening, I dream the event that took place on the common in the exact same way. From my observation point, the gentleman I passed now exists in two states.
The first, the past where I passed him.
The second, where I dreamt I passed him.
Now let us theorise a third party, an observer. In the context of the park this may be a nanny who is sitting on a bench whilst her care run around. She witnessed myself passing the gentleman and introduces a third state. It is the state, and the only state, where both I and the gentleman are observed to exist.
We can refer to both the first and third states as being part of the Real. I know it to be real for it is my observation, and because the nanny is the only witness to both me and the gentleman existing in the same space. If I know I exist, then for me to be real, so must too that third state be real. As the second state is a product of my observation in the first state, we can note that for the first and second states to exist, the third state must exist.
Now I will refer to the second state as the unknown state. As the nanny did not see my dream, she did not observe me passing the gentleman in my dream – there is no verifiable evidence, but both I and the nanny in the first and third states have observed the gentleman to exist in that space. We must then conclude, that the gentleman in the second state can both exist and not exist.
I trust you are still with me. These three states, the First Real, the Second Unknown, and the Third Real, comprise the very fabric of our Universe. But that is not to say there are not more states. Imagine that the nanny went home tonight and dreamt about the same event I did. From her point of view, she has the three states, but because I also dreamt it, I now have my 3 states, plus her 3 states. If you will now entertain that the gentleman also dreamt of the event, that becomes 3 plus 3 plus 3.
Each time there is a difference in the event (say I dreamt that the gentleman’s cravat was blue and not red) this causes what I refer to as a new plane of reality, and all the states from the previous plane are repeated. (3+3+3)+(3+3+3). Now think of all the people you may pass in a busy day in London and, as I’m sure you can imagine, the numbers get big very quick – everyone has that first state which is observed by many combinations of third states, which means an infinite number of second states, on an infinite number of planes.
There is an indescribable amount of energy holding this together. I would need a blackboard to run through my hypothesis here, but my final observation is there is no mass or force. Ha! I will have to be fair, however, and give Newton his ‘action’. My experiment has also, unexpectedly, proven that time is irrelevant, which I have yet to understand.
So you see, after I fired my machine up, the iron support I was forced to use (thanks to not getting the funding from the Academy) broke. As I went to stop the machine from falling over, the carrier tube shattered and I was covered in my Huygen fluid, which was the key to this whole experiment. Amusingly, you may say, I now have no mass, nor can I apply any force. My eye-line was fixed in that split-second before I was covered in the fluid. From this viewpoint, I have witnessed my experiment over and over again.
Sometimes the differences are slight; my hair is longer, the room a different colour. Other times it would cause Charles Darwin to spin in his grave. I am sure that by these laws, there eventually must come a state where the ‘me’ doing the experiment, will notice the ‘me’ watching, and act accordingly. Though I do worry about the problem of time.
I cannot see, but I feel as if the walls of my laboratory have long since gone. It was about observation 400 when I felt the wallpaper was getting mouldy. Around 800 to 900 I could have sworn I smelt fresh paint. Long after I stopped counting, I felt at one point there were children in the room with me. And then there was an entire period of cycles where I regularly imagined I could hear sirens, followed by large explosions, until that ended abruptly. Now there is the feeling that I am in an open space. Sometimes I feel as I can taste the dew in my mouth.
I feel quite content, for I am watching the mechanics of the universe. I never get tired or bored and each cycle teaches me something new. I am also happy to fulfil myself with the thought, that one day, I will get back to that Academy, face my critics and physically shove Newton’s Principia where it belongs.
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Tags: #fridayflash, 1890's, 1897, Academy, Brass, Dulwich, England, Entanglement, Europe, Experiment, Henry Lamberton, London, Machine, Newton, Quantum, Schrodinger, Scientist, Space, Time
No one can quite tell it, as Tiberius O’Donnell…
I say, toy soldiers! What fun! What’s this fellow’s name?
Colonel Robert Kekewich? Who’s this chap? General Jan Kemp?. He seems to have a lot more horses, that doesn’t seem fair.
Oh I see, silly me, you are discussing the situation in Southern Africa and that snuff tin is the British Camp.
Mmm, yes I see, yes… Yes it is, somewhat. You know, it reminds me of a decision I had to make once. Did I ever tell you the time I was faced with the Complexing Conundrum?
Well, if we are going to talk tactics, then we need officers’ drinks. You, young sir at the bar, fetch us some gin and tonics, will you?
As you are well aware, I promised my mammy I would never fight for the English, but father insisted (with the exception of Caligula) that all us O’Donnells would do service. I did a year as a mercenary within the Royal Austrian Hungary Imperial Calvary. However, my tale does not stem from here, but a few years later, when I went to visit an old cavalry chum in his hometown of Montespertoli, Italy.
Our regiment had been a right mixed bag of potatoes, mainly made up of Saxons and Hungarians and a group of Italians, including my chum, Marco. He had joined the mercenary core to raise money to start his own vineyard. We kept in touch, and I promised one day I would come out and visit him. Roll on five years, and I happened to find myself in Florence – a day’s ride away – and I decided to pop in.
When I arrived, I was most shocked. Expecting to find a merry hamlet in the glorious Tuscany countryside and wine flowing freely, I instead found a dusty, soulless shell, and not a wine barrel in sight.
I seemed to attract hidden stares from behind closed blinds, which made one feel most awkward – like when you accidentally step in a puddle and have to put up with a wet shoe. I was nearly about to leave, when who should appear… not my friend Marco, but another from my regiment, a Bavarian fellow called Hermann.
After we exchanged hails and hellos, I enquired what he was doing here and why the place was so glum. He said two words which changed the taste in my mouth.
“Capitano Vittore.”
I had the displeasure of serving under him and he was a vile man. The kind who moments before parade, picks up a large handful of mud and wipes it all over your Shabraque.
Turns out he was now the Mayor – Vae Victis! No one was allowed to make any wine in the village except for him, and having tasting a bottle of the stuff, it was as foul as his nature. Next, he had taken everyone’s horses in the village and kept them locked up in a huge barn on his estate. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
He had resurrected Jus primae noctis, the right to take the virginity of the maidens of the estate. It was then Hermann revealed why he was here. Turns out the old Hun had fallen hopelessly in love with Marco’s daughter, Letizia. The Capitano had taken her to his villa and was keeping her locked up. It had nearly ruined Marco, and Hermann was on the point of breaking himself.
If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is a bully, and with all bullies, one must confront them straight on.
I went straight up to his villa, jumped over the wall and barged my way in. I found the Capitano, lying down eating grapes.
“I will not call you ‘sir’, for you do not deserve such a title. You have made my chums Marco and Hermann quite sad. I will not leave here until you learn your lesson and release Letizia into my custody.”
Do you know what he did then? He had the nerve to pass wind, and defiantly at that. Well, I made to walk straight past him so I could find Letizia, but before I got halfway across the room I was stopped by a sabre that flew past and embedded itself in the wall. I turned to see the Captain, now standing. He belched, then called, “En guard!”
For a whole hour it was clash, clash, clash, and our fight took us out onto the balcony. He had grabbed Letizia and was holding his sabre to her throat when he said:
“You have proved to me that you are my equal when it comes to the sabre, but are you my equal when it comes to the mind? You can continue to fight me for the girl, or you can rescue the villagers’ horses.”
There was a small fire pit on the balcony, and he kicked the lit contents over the edge, onto the roof of the barn. It caught instantly.
As you can see, it was quite a complexing conundrum. Would I put the happiness of my chums before an entire village?
Never let your heart rule your head, gentlemen. I rationalised that like most bullies he was full of codswallop, and would not harm the girl. He would, however, allow a stable of other people’s horses to burn, so I jumped down from the balcony and let the horses out.
It was quite a sight – the flames leaping high in the air and all the horses running down to the village. So much so, that this sign of freedom was enough to rally the entire village! Soon there was a mob at the gates and the Capitano Villa was being torn down brick by brick. Letizia, Hermann and Marco were all reunited and I stayed on for the wedding, which was a right hoot!
As for the Capitano? He was locked up in his cellars, and was not let out until he had drunk all of his foul wine. The last I heard of him, he had re-enlisted in the French Foreign Legion and was last seen on a slow boat to Indochina.
Now, let’s say we stop talking about the Boer crisis and have a proper game of toy soldiers.
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Tags: #fridayflash, 1900's, 1902, Capitano Vittore, Colonel Robert Kekewic, Europe, General Jan Kemp, gin and tonic, Hermann, Italy, Jus primae noctis, Letizia, Marco, Montespertoli, Royal Austrian Hungary Imperial Calvary, Tiberius, Vae Victis
The first sprinkle this year of Gentlemen’s Spice
Stagehand: Curtain call, five minutes, ladies…
Doris: He wanted to put it where?
Ethel: Me back passage.
Doris: But, Ethel… That’s tiny.
Ethel: I know, that’s what I said, wouldn’t listen though. He gave it a good try and got covered in oil, the silly goose. Told him, to stick it round front.
Doris: What I don’t get is why ‘e didn’t do that in the first place.
Ethel: Well, ‘e was ‘fraid someone would nick it. Doubt anyone in Lambeth would knows how to drive it any’ow.
Doris: They do like their toys. ‘Ere, can you pass us those nipple tassles – the blue ones. So are you seeing him again?
Ethel: Well I don’t know, seems a bit obsessed with wanting to educate me, gave me a dictionary last night.
Doris: Any good?
Ethel: Not really, it keeps changing subject every other line. Nah, don’t think I will see him again. For one thing ‘e’s got his eye on Gladys over at the Imperial.
Doris: Gladys? Thought she went off to sea with that sailor fellow with the beard.
Ethel: She went off to SEE the sailor with the beard, that didn’t last very long at all. She met him round the back of the music hall expecting for him to take her on the town, and he was expecting her to take him right there and then on the floor – are my feathers straight, love?
Doris: Nah, bend over a second I’ll fix it for ya… (Sigh) – Do you ever ask what it’s all about?
Ethel: What, Doris?
Doris: You know… this.
Ethel: You mean the frilly knickers?
Doris: No, I mean… Surely there must be more to life than gettin’ on stage and whirling our bits for the lord and gentry.
Ethel: Oh Doris… ‘ere, stand up and look in the mirror, will ya. What do you see?
Doris: Me left nipple tassle is wonky.
Ethel: Your bottom, Doris!
Doris: Me bottom?
Ethel: Yes, your bottom.
Doris: What about me bottom?
Ethel: It’s a very pretty bottom.
Doris: I don’t see what me bottom has to do with wondering if there is more to life.
Ethel: You ever asked yourself why you have such a pretty bottom?
Doris: I….
Ethel: It’s becasue God wanted you to have that bottom and you were meant to wiggle it. Not just for the lord and gentry, for everyone.
Doris: It is rather pretty, ain’t it?
Ethel: Yes, yes it is, Doris… The prettiest bottom I have ever seen. Every night when we come to the end of our act and I am standing behind you as you bend down — It, well… It, it makes me smile inside.
Doris: Oh, Ethel, that’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me, I think I’m going to cry.
Ethel: Don’t cry, remember the crowd, they need to see your bottom smiling.
Doris: And so they shall…..
— 00 —
Stagehand: ‘Ere, what did you say to Doris? She’s been a moody moo-ha all day and now she looks like she’s on top of the world.
Ethel: Well, it was what this gentlemen was telling us last night really. To get to the top, you got start at the bottom.
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Tags: #fridayflash, 1920's, 1928, Chorus Girl, Chorus Line, England, Ethel.Doris, Europe, Gladys., Lambeth, London, The Imperial
“Voglio spedire un telegramma per Londra.”
“Certo. Inglese?”
“Si.”
Adam Fletcher pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow as the young lady behind the counter at the Poste e Telegrafi stepped off her small stool to reach one of the blank telegram forms behind her. She picked up one of the green slips, laid it out neatly in front of her and poised her pen ready to start.
“Questo i testo di telegramma?” she paused “What text of telegram? ”
Adam felt as if the air was being ripped from his lungs as she looked up at him and smiled. What would he say? He had it all worked out in his head before entering through the door, but like the air from his lungs, words were now rushing out of his head. He excused himself from the counter and sat on the tiny bench in the room, the heat overwhelming him. While his peers would be counting down their final days before retirement in the luxury of an oak carved office in London, Adam had spent the last three weeks on a hunt that had started on the coasts of Cornwall and had become a race against a decrepit sea-going boat and the European rail system.
He had only been two days behind the boat when he had arrived at the port of Lisbon in a post-revolutionary Portugal. Some expensive information bought here, had informed him that the boat Ta Metut would head first to Morroco to resupply and then would be proceeding to Gibraltar – which Adam had hoped would be where he would make his intercept. Seven days he had waited and the ship had indeed come into the port, but had not docked, the Captain having chosen instead to anchor in deep water and send a small lighter ashore for whatever business it had.
Information had been harder to come by on the ship’s next move. A Corsican Merchant Captain had told him that these Berber pirate ships normally kept away from the French Algerian coast and the most likely next stopping ports would either be Civitavecchia or Napoli in Italy. After that the boat would only land at obscure ports in Asia Minor where westerners were not welcomed. It would end its journey in Syria and from there its cargo would be taken deep into Arabia. This was something Adam could not allow to happen – Isabella, the daughter of his best friend of thirty years, was a part of that cargo.
Having arrived in Civitavecchia two days previously, he had instructed his business partner to wire him more funds; he had known he would have to have help if he was to have any chance of rescuing her. He had spent the first night scouting the most run-down looking bars and brothels around the dock, but to no avail. He had in his mind a romantic notion of finding a British crew he would be able to rally to his cause in the name of righteousness; reality would be much different.
Along the main dock front had been a brothel with a bar that stretched out along the quay. He had been drinking there, watching the clientele in the hope of finding that crew when he had felt a blunt object being pressed into his lower back. A voice had whispered “Lira, Lira”. Adam had slowly gone to reach for his money, but as he did the look of his friend the morning after Isabella was kidnapped appeared his mind. It was the look of a man who had lost everything and it filled him with rage.
He had then clenched his fist and unleashed a punch that belonged to man half his age and twice his size, sending the vagrant flying backwards. In an area in which fights were an hourly occurrence, he had been surprised to find himself surrounded in response by several of the other bar patrons who branded knives.
Adam had got into a boxing stance – if he was to have gone down it wouldn’t of been without a fight. The stand-off had been broken just as quickly as it had started when the brothel’s Madam had pushed her way through to the vagrant and started screaming at him Italian. She had then made Adam sit down and started to scream at him.
An ex-navy Dutch fisherman Pauel had helped translate. The youth who had tried to attack Adam had been her son, and she had berated the boy, not for robbing her clients, but for having had the daylights knocked out of him by a man who was old enough to be his grandfather. She had then demanded to know Adam’s story and so he then told it, not just to her but to the entire bar.
He had spoken of his friend having found love later in life, and had described how the man had lost his wife in childbirth; how he had brought up a beautiful daughter he doted; how the child had taught him to love the world again. He had told of their holiday in Cornwall when the Berber pirates had come in the middle of the night and kidnapped the fourteen-year-old girl. Adam had spoken of how he could not bear to look at his friend the next morning, then how he had for the last three weeks been trying to get to the boat.
By the time dawn had come, Adam had had all the assistance in place that he would need to take on the pirates, including the Madam’s son. Pauel had warned him that half of those who had taken his money in the promise of help would not turn up, but Adam had been sure that even half would be twice as much as he’d need. Pauel had also offered his boat and crew (for a price, of course) in case the chase needed to go further.
This had been four hours ago; Adam got to his feet and walked back over to the counter. The Ta Metut was due to arrive this evening.
“Signoria, erm, testo…” he watched as the young lady picked up the pen, he cleared his throat and continued ” H…O…P…E…”
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Tags: #fridayflash, 1910's, 1911, Adam Fletcher, Berbers, Civitavecchia, Europe, Isabella, Italy, Pauel, Pirates, Rome, Ta Metut, Telegram
He has hunted monsters in Marrakesh, had fisticuffs with undesirables, explored the paranormal, battled with the elements and captured smugglers. Its now time for a letter home…
December 21st 1901
Hello Mammy,
It’s with great sadness that I write to tell you I will not be making it back home for Christmas. It sounds like it is going to be quite a feast and the largest O’Donnell reunion in years. I have even heard that Father has sent a young man over from Argentina in proxy – that must be nice for you, Mammy. Please pass on my apologies to all, I am most disappointed that I will not get to see my new nephew. Do give Drusilla and her husband my warmest congratulations. And how is Titus? Has he grown out of eating flowers?
I ask for your strictest confidence as I tell you my reasons why. I know you brought me up to believe the affairs of men are best left to other men, such as my Uncle Seamus and my younger brothers, Claudius and Galba, but I couldn’t help get involved in this matter.
It began when I was traveling down from Leeds to London and was entertaining a fellow passenger with the time I was on a whaling ship. I told him how I had made the faux pas of bringing brandy instead of rum onto the ship. I cried, “What could possibly be worse?” The fellow sitting opposite me shouted out, “What rot!” Well, I was a little taken back and asked him to explain himself, and by the end of his speech I had to admit that the wrong choice of spirit on a whaling ship was a rather trivial matter.
You see, he explained to me there were some boys and girls who have no mammy and daddies, and they live in this rather sad-looking building. I know this, for when we alighted at Kings Cross he invited me to come and see it with my own eyes. I was most shocked at what I saw, for their accommodation was somewhat basic and a bit rough around the edges. The gentleman from the train explained to me that they relied on charity and really had to work hard to stretch every penny. He also added that he was lobbying Parliament to change this, and that night at my club I ruddy well gave my MP a good clump around the ear. I am also pleased to say that my club now has a swear box set up, with the proceeds going to the orphanage – we have raised the extraordinary sum of twenty pounds so far.
Mammy, I do need to make a confession to you. I have to admit I have been going to the square church as I have been helping out every Sunday at the orphanage, and that is their faith. I’ve been teaching them to play rugby, entertaining them with my tales, and I have tried to get them excited by Ceaser’s Commentarii de Bello Gallico. But we need to make a few more nursery steps first. In the meantime, Hans Christian Anderson seems to be the biggest hoot!
I spoke to Father Kelly about going to the other church and he said Jesus wouldn’t mind in this case – I hope you don’t either, Mammy.
What most got me, though, was Christmas was going to be a most sad affair for them. No presents, no turkey and not even brandy and mince pies. There weren’t even the funds to put up a tree. Well, you know me, Mammy, and I don’t like to be sad.
Again, in the interests of subterfuge, I ask you to keep this to yourself. Even my household staff do not know – which reminds me… I told my cook that there was a bird shortage in Ireland this year, and had him cook up eight large turkeys. I would be most grateful if you could keep up this pretense when you come to visit in the spring.
My man is aware of one disappearing on Sunday mornings, but as far as he is aware I am playing rugby – in which I have the misfortune of constantly losing my balls. I also told him (hee he he!) that I read in The London Paper of pirates in the Irish Sea, and to buy two lots of Christmas presents for all my nephews and nieces, just in case, which amazingly is the same number of orphans – fancy that!
I will leave my house just as if I was coming to you, but I have booked into an hotel in Holyhead, and instead of catching the ferry, I will turn back to London the very next day. I have come up with the cover story that my name is Edward Book, a Latin expert who is on his way to the British Museum to decipher some urgent relics.
Whilst the kids are at the chapel on Christmas morning, I will be busy back at the orphanage setting up the Christmas tree and organising the kitchen, and when they return they are in for a huge surprise. I have also managed to procure a piano, and I intend to give them a riot of a Christmas with enough Christmas pudding to sink the Cutty Sark.
I ask for your secrecy, as I have become known in London circles as something of a debonair cavalier adventurer type, and I feel some might think this sort of thing to be a bit soft. If the family ask, I am in Russia hunting bears.
I will not be alone over the rest of the period as my good friend, Hans, is coming over from Berlin – he has written a play about a young boy in an ancient Greek gymnasium which he wants to show me. I will be at Galba and his wife’s for Boxing Day (they are in on the plan, it was Galba’s idea re the swear box).
Lots of love
Tibs
PS. Please can you telegram my chum, Peter, to put him straight. He does not believe me when I told him that Aunt Ruth has had the same stew on the hob for thirty years.
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Tags: #fridayflash, 1900's, 1901, British Museum, Christmas, Claudius, Drusilla, Galba, Hans, Kings Cross, London, Mammy, Orphans, Seamus, Tiberius, Titus
Another sprinkle of Gentlemen’s Spice
All Rise…
Well, your ‘onour, I arrived on the corner of Brick Lane and Whitechapel ‘igh street at approximately 3am on the morning of November 6th 1927. Across the road, lying on the ground face-down, was a body which I presumed to be that of a reveller who was slightly worse for wear. I called out twice before going over and giving ‘im a slight tap on the ‘ead with me truncheon, to which there was no response. Turning the body over, I identified it to be that of a very pretty young women in ‘er twenties in some sort of Arabian attire, and that she was still breathing. ‘Aving earlier on that evening dealt with a drunken reveller from Lord Brownes’ party, who ‘ad been dressed as a pirate, I plopped her on me bicycle and cycled the six miles to where the party was ‘appening. When I knocked on the door, I was met by Lord Browne ‘imself, who greeted me with the following:
“I say, Merk’s come as a policeman. How superb!”
After a lot of what can only be described as young man’s joviality, which involved having me ‘elmet knocked off and tossed all over the room, I established I was not the gentleman known by the name Merk, but a constable appointed by ‘is Majesty of the realm. ‘E did not recognize the young lady, and neither had any of the other guests remembered seeing ‘er that evening. ‘E did, ‘owever, point out that the jewellery she was wearing was of extremely ‘igh quality and that was no doubt a real diamond in ‘er tiara. I then repeated my attempts to awake the young lady with another tap from me truncheon, with no success. Plopping ‘er back on me bicycle, I cycled three miles to the ‘ouse of Richard Neumann, who I knew to be an expert on jewellery, and who would be up at this early ‘our.
‘E explained to me that what she was wearing was most definitely antique, and that ‘e ‘ad a friend over in Battersea, which was two miles away, who would be able to tell me more. ‘E was also most kind in serving me some kippers. I plopped the lady back on me bicycle, but not before giving ‘er another tap on the ‘ead.
This friend turned out to indeed be most knowledgeable in the field of antiquities, and informed me that the jewellery was of Persian origin and at least three thousand years old – but could offer no more than that.
With all leads exhausted, I plopped her back on me bicycle and began to ‘ead back to Scotland Yard. As I crossed over Battersea Bridge the sun began to come up. I noticed the young lady begin to stir. ‘Er eyes opened to reveal the most beautiful green eyes I ‘ave ever seen. She smiled… oh… a smile that would light a thousand candles… – sorry, your ‘onour, what did I do next? Well, I gave ‘er one with me truncheon.
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Tags: #fridayflash, 1920's, 1927, Battersea, Brick Lane, Constable, Court, East End, England, London, Lord Browne, Queen of Sheba, Richard Neumann, Scotland Yard, Whitechapel
His tales are taller than the Eiffel Tower
I say, what a marvellous club you have here. I wonder, how does one become a member?
Oh I see. No, quite understand, a school tie is a school tie after all. What a pity, I do like the way you only have to sign for your drinks. But rules are rules, I suppose, and it has never been said that Tiberius O’Donnell is one to go against conformity. Which reminds me of a little hooyah I had back in October. Did I ever tell you about the foreign-looking fellow?
Well, I will begin – as soon as one of you chaps has been a pal and signed us a scotch.
I had travelled down to a small village called Brixham in Torquay for their annual harvest festival. Why such a long way? I hear you ask. I am not ashamed to admit, it’s for the Reverend Edmund-Davis’ most delicious homemade cider. I always buy two barrels of the stuff every year. One for my household staff – for they deserve it, after all – and I keep one barrel shamelessly all to myself.
I had travelled down by train – roll on the day when one can catch a Zeppelin – and arrived at 7pm. I had booked into a most charming inn called the Bull and Bullock. It was here on my first night that my tale begins, for it was then that I became aware that something was afoot…
I was playing the piano and leading the bar in a good old sing-song of Two Lovely Black Eyes. I noticed this fellow sitting at the bar, all alone, who was not joining in. There was also something not quite right about the cut of his jib…
There were others who were not singing as well, but by the time I broke into Where Did You Get That Hat?, everyone in the pub had joined in, even if it was a simple tap of the glass. But not him.
The next morning I went to the village fête, ready to purchase my cider from the vicar. When I got to his stall, however, I noticed he was not as cheery as he had been in previous years. On enquiring, I found out that his sales were quite low this year, which was a bother as the church roof needed repairing.
I decided that as a good gesture I would double my order this year – I would have ordered more but I don’t think my man could have carried it. I spent the rest of the morning walking round the fête looking for a coconut to toss, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw the foreign-looking fellow loitering with a couple of ragamuffins. You know the sort, the type who doesn’t polish his shoes and never has a flower in his button.
Later that day, whilst enjoying a fine cream tea, I overheard two ladies behind me discussing the price of gin. Something bothered me about their conversation which I could not quite put my finger on.
I went for an afternoon walk along the cliffs, my head filled with thoughts of the man who did not know the words to Where Did You Get That Hat?, and hangs around with undesirables; of the reverend’s cider sales being down; and the two women talking about the price of gin. It then struck me why their conversation lingered in my cranial matter. My Mammy always told me that I should make it my business to always be aware of the price of things. A bottle of gin is normally a florin, two shillings and sixpence. I have heard that one can procure it for as little as two shillings, but the quality is questionable. The ladies in the tea room were talking about one shilling a bottle. It suddenly all began to make sense – smugglers.
That night back at the inn, after leading the patrons in another hearty sing-a-long, I noticed the foreign-looking fellow there again at the bar. At about ten o’ clock he slipped out the side door. Making my excuses, I too slipped out and followed him. Annoyingly, it was halfway through a chorus of The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo.
Keeping my distance, I followed him to the bay of St Mary’s, where I observed him flashing a light out to sea – a signal that I had to do something, and quick. Last summer I had read the Art of War, and I remembered reading that all warfare was based on deception. I ran back to the Bull and Bullock and asked for a lamp and the village constable. This was met with the reply: “We don’t know that one, but if you start singing it, we’ll join in.” Pro di immortales!
I raced back to the cliffs. I stood near a spot where I knew there to be the most frightful rocks in the water, and began flashing. Out at sea I watched a lone light begin to zig-zag as the captain of the ship throwed between the two lights. From my vantage point I could see the foreign-looking fellow looking most bemused. He could not see me. It wasn’t long before there was an almighty crash as the boat ran aground.
By now the local constable had arrived, and the people from the pub had come to see what all the noise was about.
As we all congregated on the beach I said:
“Reverend, I have solved the mystery of your low sales, for it was smugglers. Constable, I believe if you look over there, you will find a foreign-looking fellow hiding. Oh, and people of Brixham, you should be ashamed of yourselves. You would rather save a shilling, than support your local community. Well bully for you, for the vicar’s juices are most pleasant.”
As the constable arrested the foreign fellow, I said, “And you, you scallywag, from what land do you come?”
“The Isle of Wight,” he replied. I knew it!
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Tags: 1900's, 1901, Brixham, Cider, Harvest Festival, Isle of Wight, Reverand Edmund-Davis, Scotch, Smugglers, The Man Who Broke The Bank at Monte Carlo, Tiberius, Torquay, Two Lovely Black Eyes, Village Fete, Where Did You Get That Hat
Part IV
I could have continued traversing, hoping that the overhang would get less, or even break, but there was the danger of getting stuck on the ice in the dark, or of the weather turning in.
I could also surrender one of my three ropes to use as a safety line, which would be of use if the lip was tall. But if it was thin I was in danger of it breaking under my weight and being pulled down. I also hated the idea of getting near the top and not being able to attain it due to lack of rope.
I looked at my axes. The one that was currently in the overhang I had had since the start of this season, purchased from a fine outfitters in Alberta. The other in my right had been with me on several successful first ascents, as well as many other climbs. This would be the one I needed to get in with one strike. This would be the one to hold my weight as my body hung with nothing but air below it, as I freed my left axe to bring it up and over the chin. I paused, ran my fingers down its spine, and then placed it back into the loop in my belt.
I then untied and recovered my rope and went to remove the left axe. My fingers curled around its handle, and in a flash my right hand unconsciously reached back down to my right axe and swung it hard and upwards.
It was almost as if the whole mountain held its breath as the axe sliced its way into the overhang. In less than a second I freed my left and began to swing out and over. The swing did not quite make it to the crest, landing six inches short and cracking the ice. Adrenalin kicked in and I windmilled my arms, my heart stopping for a moment when both axes were out of the ice and I was held by nothing but air. My body whipped violently as my right once again took hold in the ice, followed quickly by my left.
Success! With my feet dangling I looked up to see I was once again on a vertical face.
By about seven pm I was at a height of just over nine thousand feet. Whilst the mountain had not let Peyto’s team go any further, it had decided to offer me a secluded ridge to rest on.
I devoured my rations, my muscles craving food to replenish the energy I had spent. Corned beef, cheese, Scotch broth and tinned apricots had never tasted so good. I ached all over. I lay awake in my bivouac, like a child looking forward to a Christmas morning. A hundred and one exciting possibilities of what awaited me ran through my head.
Before the first rays of sun were up, I was with my gear and back on the face. Unlike yesterday I was able to proceed with great speed, and by midday I had already done a thousand feet. It was at this altitude that a most wonderful silence filled the air; there was no wind, nor could I hear the sounds of my axes. I looked up. What was once pure white was turning into the black outline of the final aréte that would lead me to the top.
Eleven thousand feet. I roped myself off and leaned out with both arms back. I could see clearly “The Hour Glass” below. My mind projected the events of the late Christian Bowen’s fall onto the screen of grey rock. It was like the mountain was letting me know, and on devil’s scales, it showed me a clear path for descent that would be my way down, just a short distance to the west, visible from my high vantage point.
As the ice began to give way to more and more rock, the gradient changed to a point where I could stand and walk. I was able to make good distance here, and for a while I could have been one of the many at leisure in the national parks, enjoying a trail laid out by what’s-his-name in what’s-his-book.
With two hundred and fifty feet to go, I saw the final climb to the peak, shaped like a soldier and standing proud. I scouted the base to the right and was saddened to see that from this angle, the veteran peak looked like an old man, hunched over and doubled in pain.
I felt it wrong to take advantage of this easier climb, and moved back to where it stood illustrious and grand. Back on the ropes I placed each piton with respect, paying attention to the details to make sure it would stand up to the scrutiny of parade. I let my ropes glide freely across the face, never arguing or pulling them with haste.
With sixty foot to go this soldier gave one last demonstration of its fight. For from its very crest a deluge of small rocks came flying down. Thirty foot I slipped before my rope pulled tight, my lip split and a gash across my eye.
I wiped the blood away, and with hands, spit and grit, I continued upwards. More rocks fell but this time I held tight. By the time I was near the top another gash was across my face, just above the brow, and my left hand was scraped and skinned of its glove. I paused before that final pull, and then swung my axe high into the air and hard down!
I pulled myself over, eyes down, and caught my breath. Slowly I lifted my head to reveal a sight no man had ever seen. Hidden by the vast mountain guards that protect it in all directions are three hundred miles of ranges, yet to be entered and explored. The sky was crystal clear, with no cloud or fog in sight, and I reached out my finger to trace the many contours of this virgin land. It was both celestial and Olympian, and I now know why the mountain protects it so.
I pulled the Kodak from my rucksack and fulfilled my unspoken duty, making good use of my upturned ice pick as a tripod. I put the camera back and made sure that the place into which I had driven my pick was the very highest point. I am not one for ceremony and flags; scratching my initials into the rock would do. I did, however, have my own personal ritual from my first ascent made six years ago.
I sat down and reached into my bag. From right at the bottom I produced a tin wrapped in paraffin paper and wax. Using the heat of my body to break the seal, I then proceeded to unwrap it, taking great care to keep it dry at all times. Inside it was my Vienna-made briar pipe, and a blend of tobacco I have specially mixed by G. Smiths & Sons of Charing Cross Road, London. The pipe would not stay alight long in this environment, but it was enough.
Enough for me to enjoy this moment, for having made this climb I now knew a bit about those who would follow. I pictured what their reactions would be upon emerging from the ravine. Some would rest in the meadow where I had; others would march on. I gave these future climbers names, and for those I placed in groups I added words to their lips. I could see their faces as they came onto the peak and were mesmerized by the vista, as I had been. I also knew that having completed the climb, they would come to know me. We would be well-acquainted friends, only separated by time.
* * *
But alas, you don’t care do you?
You seemed to care more two days ago, but only about the contents of my rucksack which lays near where I first fell.
When you came back yesterday you were both frightened and amazed by the sparks from my axes as I tried to get a grip on the quartz- and iron-rich walls which now entomb me.
When I cried last night that I would never again see my wife, you at least sat there and bowed your head.
But as I tell you today of my last story, you just sit and stare into space!
It seems the smell of the gangrene in my leg this morning interested you more.
But I don’t care.
This is my story and I have told it.
Even if it was only to you, my black, grizzly and last friend.
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Tags: 1890's, 1896, Banff, Canada, Climbing, Dead Adventurer, Englishmen, explorer, gentlemen, Ice, ice climbing, Mount Norfolk (13016ft), Mountain, National Park, Rockies