Shorts

Acknowledgements

The author would like to thank the following for their help in preparing these stories:

Julie Bozza, Morgan Cheshire, Charlie Cochrane,

Lou Faulkner, Jay Northcote, Chris Quinton.

PREFACE

Welcome to my first – and very likely only – collection of short stories. These appeared in various Manifold Press anthologies between 2015 and 2018, when that Press was at its zenith, and the rights formally reverted to me when the Press closed.  There are still some remaindered copies of the paperbacks available online, however, if anyone is intrigued enough to enquire further.

One of the reasons I tend not to write short stories is that I get very involved with the characters and would really prefer to develop them more fully.  I end up doing too much research, and most of that inevitably finds its way to written media’s equivalent of the cutting-room floor – i.e. some digital wastebin somewhere.  My ‘pruning’ process is ruthless, and as a result - when I re-read these stories now - I see them as ghosts of what they might have been had they been allowed to expand.  Sad as that is, it could reasonably be argued that all art attempts to capture a fleeting moment – and as such is therefore all equally doomed to disaster!

‘A Rooted Sorrow’ is one egregious example.  I had worked out everything about the village, the dead father’s profession and his journey to and from work, as well as a thousand other things peripheral to the story, before I ever committed a word to paper.  Most of it was utterly irrelevant, but I needed to know it before I could say anything at all about the characters.  These were wholly invented, by the way, although the village itself owes a great deal to Candleford - possibly by way of Ambridge, St. Mary Mead, and other idyllic fictional locations.

In ‘One Half of the World’, I was working with someone else’s characters - and had always intended to write about a burgeoning relationship between Emma Woodhouse and Harriet Smith.  It occurred to me that they might have heard of the famous Ladies of Llangollen, and be inclined to emulate them, and when I realised that the Ladies knew a Mrs Goddard I couldn’t resist conflating her with the Austen character of that name.  ‘Emma’, by the way, is my favourite Austen novel, resulting from the 1972 BBC adaptation in which John Carson played Mr Knightley.  While Austen heroes may come and go, his is the example by which I judge them all.  Of Firths and Rickmans, I saw enough – but, for me personally, there will only ever be one John Carson, bless him (corset and all)!

As for ‘The Town of Titipu’, it’s one of those stories that could easily have been a fully-fledged novel and had been in the back of my mind since completing ‘Make Do And Mend’.  For those not familiar with the latter, it’s a WWII saga centring upon Harry Lyon and his brothers – Jack, Thomas and Freddie. Freddie is absent on military service throughout and is later reported as a prisoner-of-war.  Since I knew where he was being held, and among what company, it wasn’t difficult to examine the circumstances of his captivity.  I wrote a goodly part of this story in the wonderful Reading Room at Gladstone’s Library, Hawarden, Deeside.  It’s possible to stay there overnight, and they also have a restaurant, open to non-residents, which I cannot recommend highly enough.

‘See’ is less easy to explain except as one of those stories that Will Not Leave You Alone Until You Do Something About It.  The notion of two men having an idyllic moment without ever introducing themselves or bringing any baggage to the encounter was such a strong one that I felt it had to be expressed somehow, and ‘See’ was the eventual result of that.

In both ‘The Town of Titipu’ and ‘See’ there are characters who can loosely be described as ‘Good Germans’.  This has caused some discomfort among readers, for which I’m deeply sorry.  I hope it will be understood that this was never an attempt to ignore or minimise events of the Second World War – of which I am, of course, as aware as anybody else – or, worse, to glorify the actions of the Nazi regime.  The ‘vague inspirations’ for all three characters were real German officers; two died during the war specifically as a result of their actions against Hitler, and the third was a humane and compassionate man who spent ten years in a Russian prison camp after the war ended.  I see them all as ordinary men doing their best to play the cards they were dealt, making impossibly difficult choices in a hellish situation.  If this is not completely clear in these two stories then that’s my fault entirely and I admit my error.

On a different note I feel like apologising for ‘Under The Veil of Wildness’, too, except that it was so much fun to write.  There is at least one account of a mediaeval transvestite who plied her trade in London, no doubt to the satisfaction of her clients.  Where there is one, of course, there may be many – and there may, too, be young men of privilege only too happy to dress in feminine silks and brocades and disport themselves in taverns as an antidote to military service and a culture of obedience.  Shakespeare is not short on either rogues or transvestites, so in a way it was just far too easy to fasten on one and let him loose in the dressing-up box of history.  Shame and eternal shame, nothing but shame!

‘Now You See Him, Now You Don’t’ grew out of a conversation with a friend many years ago.  An actor, whom we had enjoyed when he played a police officer, did a season as Banquo in The Scottish Play, and the seeds of ‘Banquo-investigates-the-murder-of-Duncan’ were sown as a result.  Just as I have a favourite Austen, naturally I also have a favourite Shakespeare – and I relished the opportunity to get in there and subvert the play, moving it to a modern setting and throwing in a ‘Shetland’-like mystery into the bargain.

Finally, I would like to add this: if you think you’ve spotted a ‘lollipop’ – a sneaky little reference to something else – anywhere in this preface, my short stories, or my longer work, the chances are you probably have.  There are several themes which always seem to creep in no matter how hard I may have tried to keep them out, and several actors who have been cast and re-cast in different roles.  Roger Allam turned up twice in one book, for example - and he’s also here, too, although perhaps not where you’d expect to find him, nor with the person you might expect to find him with.  This possibly demonstrates that I have a limited imagination, although I prefer to think of it in terms of a large and settled repertory company endlessly revolving in my head; they have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts.

In short, it’s all been rather lovely – and I hope you’ll enjoy this exceptionally varied selection of short stories as much as I enjoyed producing it.

So now, what are you waiting for?  Vesti la giubba; let the games begin!

*

M A Fitzroy

A Rooted Sorrow

These days, when Mrs Mercer’s nerves were strained to breaking-point, Miss Woakes was often the only company she could bear. When Miss Woakes came to the cottage they would drink tea and talk about their gardens, their knitting, Church – in short, any subject but the one uppermost in both their minds.

Mrs Jessup looks tired, said Miss Woakes, one Thursday in August. They were in Mrs Mercer's tiny, faded parlour; outside the window, past the towering hollyhocks, the pale brick village slept in the sunshine like a basking cat. It’s such a long way there and back every weekend – and it’s not as if she didn’t have her hands full the rest of the time. I believe her sister should send over one of those daughters of hers to help out, but I expect she’d say she needs them all at home with Alfred to look after – and of course their maid's taken herself off to London to work in munitions, silly creature.

Mrs Mercer’s eyebrows lifted only a fraction. Mrs Jessup’s absence from Church had been commented on in the village, and she had been disconcerted by the vicar’s reluctance to do anything about it.

At least, he had said emolliently, she hasn’t gone over to the opposition. I’ve no doubt she’ll return in due course, Mrs Mercer, and meanwhile we must make allowances. And, since the vicar was a man of whom Leonard had approved, Mrs Mercer supposed him to be right.

He must need a great deal of nursing, she said now, although it was not a matter to which she had given much thought before; Alfred was, if not in the bosom of his family, at least within reach – rather than in some grave on a battlefield, like Gifford Peverell, or languishing in hospital like her own dear boy. Alfred had been grievously wounded, which was a shame, but he had returned to the village; therefore, Mrs Jessup could have little cause for complaint.

So I understand. Miss Woakes stirred her tea. He can’t do much for himself with his hands so badly injured – and his eyes are completely gone, of course. The Baxters do everything for him – wash and dress him, feed him with a spoon, lead him everywhere; it's a truly Christian endeavour, to my mind.

No doubt. Yet, however dependent Alfred might be and however onerous her other duties, Mrs Jessup had the privilege of visiting her son occasionally – a privilege Lady Peverell had not been granted, and neither had she. One might almost, she thought, be disposed to envy her.

I understand he sometimes mentions Simon, continued Miss Woakes. They were such friends, of course. I remember seeing them together, riding that pony of Simon's – Japheth: he was quite a favourite in the village, wasn't he?

Japheth had gone when Simon was fifteen and away at school. Leonard had objected to housing and feeding a beast of no practical use, and Simon had returned to an empty paddock and the pronouncement that Daddy thought it was better that way. Whether he had cried about it afterwards, Mrs Mercer had never been permitted to learn.

They used to go looking for owls and things, she said. Simon had filled notebook after notebook with observations of rabbits, roe deer, badgers, kestrels. He had made casts of foxes' footprints and drawn the shapes of clouds. Leonard had been pleased with this focus on the natural world, although he'd chosen to view it as a preliminary to the real work of Simon's life – which was, of course, to be medicine. Simon, however, had had ideas of his own.

How is Alfred getting along, do you know? Is he ... feeling a little better? How difficult even to frame the question! There was no hope of recovery for Alfred and it would be foolish to ask – no man 'recovers' from having the eyes blasted out of his face, or from losing the use of his hands. Is he settled, now that he's at home? Although to be accurate he wasn't at home. Caring for him as well as helping to run a busy public house would have been beyond Mrs Jessup, and village life had been thought too distressing for Alfred, so he lived with his aunt and uncle, the Baxters; their farm was close enough for Mrs Jessup to walk to every Sunday, yet far enough not to be troubled by visitors. There, surely, Alfred could be comfortable and quiet and devote himself to his convalescence.

I believe so. According to Mrs Jessup they try not to talk about the war in case it sets his nerves off, but he does sometimes ask about the vicar's boys. Otherwise, he seems to want to forget the whole business.

Mrs Mercer could sympathise with that. What was there to discuss, after all, about Gifford Peverell, killed leading his men 'over the top'? Or Simon Mercer, his spine crushed when his horse rolled on top of him? That they were young, and that their lives were over? It hardly needed putting into words.

His main concern at the moment, went on Miss Woakes, seems to be a badger sett he and Simon found in the corner of Four Acre Wood. He's keen to know whether it's still there or not, and of course nobody can tell him. Mr and Mrs Baxter are run off their feet, and what would Mrs Jessup know about badger setts even if she had time to look for it? But apparently it means a lot to him, so his cousin Madeleine says she'll go when she has an afternoon free. She's very fond of Alfred, Miss Woakes concluded, wistfully. I wonder if there isn't something romantic in the air?

Mrs Mercer considered this at length. Madeleine was the free-spirited one of the Baxter girls: Celia was always helping with baking and laundry, while Lucy had scarcely left school when the war began and seemed to have been busy sewing ever since. There were few men available to work the farm now, and no doubt all three had to do their share of labouring; it was hardly a promising backdrop for romance, but no doubt where there was affection love would flourish. Like a flower, she thought, thriving despite the poverty of the soil.

I believe ... Miss Woakes began again, delicately, Alfred's injuries were above the waist. Mrs Jessup hasn't given up all hope of grandchildren. And there must be some work he can do, Mrs Mercer, only nobody can think what. It would be awful, though, wouldn't it, to have to live on charity for the rest of his life?

Mrs Mercer could think of worse