#amwriting #notes Blood Moon

Caught in the last autumnal sunlight, another pomaded girl, her veil now hanging at her nape, larked with her family and newly forged relations on the seaside bound platform. Her stout husband, so broad his sailor’s uniform could barely contain his shovel-built frame, gulped beer from a bottle. Around them swirled the laughter and chatter of the wedding party in vignette. Though Celia could not hear the conversation, sat as she was in the train on the opposite platform, she could guess the smutty quips that set the ample breasts a-rolling beneath the dresses of mauve and yellow and ochre. A boy of perhaps ten, his hair greased down and parted sharply, gnawed at a hunk of pork pie. Another child of maybe seven squirmed beneath the peppermint spittle of an aunt lick fingered wiping coal smut from her cheek. Those of rectitude mixed with the reckless, and the feckless, to wish the happy couple well and each other ill when later gossiping at the poor behaviour of this person or that.

At first Ceclia hadn’t noticed such wedding scenes, but as she journeyed inland and northward, she became increasingly aware of them; and increasingly fascinated to see, and note, the similarities and the differences. Some, like the present scene, were open demonstrations for all the world to see, whilst others were more sedate affairs: the families waiting like Russian dolls in neat line with the father beside the bridle couple, and the mother’s clutching, twisted, handkerchiefs. And, yet others were entirely furtive, the couple waiting patiently on a bench with a bottle of tea and packet of sandwiches, to slip way to the consummation of a boarding house, with a sea view. And then there were still others, that fitted somewhere into this broad device though all shared a common thread, for the groom was uniformed and the bridal dress was at most her hurriedly altered Sunday best.

The oily scent of steam which signalled imminent departure was rising when the compartment door flung open and in rushed a Jack. Celia turned from her musing on the wedding scene instinctively to see the nature of the new arrival: perhaps she would be required to move the hat box from the seat beside her, or perhaps the new passenger might be pleasant or objectionable, but principally because it is natural for a human being to see and assess their circumstance. Having dashed for the train Jack was breathless. He dropped into the seat by the door, dropping his suitcase between his feet and puffing out his cheeks before releasing a overly dramatic sigh.

Before Celia could react with anything other than alarm, the stationmaster’s moustachioed face appeared at the window as he secured the door, then he raised a red flag, and let out a shrill blast on his whistle.

She looked back to the opposite platform as an arriving train broke wedding scene into a Zoetrope of goodbyes. Celia glanced back at Jack, adjusting the brim of her hat. The flash of panic within her had subsided though thoughts still raced through her mind of how she might escape the situation. However the taut lurch of the train taking traction dispelled these hopes. The feeling of being trapped was compounded by a child on the other train racing to the window directly oppose her and rudely staring at her.

The train slid past the grime blackened stone cottages, past a flash of hawthorn, before breaking once more into the sheep stripped moorland. Everything, as far as the eye could see, was devoted to farming of wool. The treeless landscape was as industrial as any mill or factory. The chequered fields marked out by the grey stone walls had a monotonous regularity that matched the beating of the wheels of the rail. And, always there was the backdrop of the higher moorland, rusting against the skittering clouds.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” asked Jack. And receiving no response, he asked again, “madam, do you mind if I smoke.” Celia shook he head, and found herself grasping at the brooch at her neck like a spinster, all the while trying not to show her face fully. Jack reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve his cigarette case but as he retrieved it he caught his rank insignia on the on the inside button stud, tearing it from his cuff and leaving it hanging by a weft of thread. “Blast!” he exclaimed, before quickly saying in an apologetic tone, “Oh, please excuse my language.” He held his cuff towards Celia as if in some form of explanation, though she was still turned away from him, the brim of her hat shading her face, and he hand still clutching at the brooch at her throat. He thought the lady’s behaviour odd in the extreme. Whilst it were true they were unchaperoned, her reaction to his presence was more of the type one expected in second rate novels. That is until he noticed the monogram on her travelling bag, which caused him to look at the woman more closely. “Celia, is that you?” he asked, guessing full well that it was from what little he could see of her profile.

Knowing she could not hide any longer, Celia turned to face him, “hello John,” she said.

At this Jack almost laughed. “Good Lord, this is a surprise.”

“Don’t mock me John,” chided Celia.

“I wasn’t mocking you. I am genuinely surprised to see you. I was under the impression that you were a fixture on the London social circuit. It is rather a surprise to see you here, in Yorkshire.”

“I might very well say the same for you Mr Jackson,” replied Celia, somewhat climbing from her high horse, though only somewhat, “aren’t you supposed to be teaching at a minor public school in Sussex, or Surrey, or some such place?”

Jack held up the ragged cuff, from with daggled his mark of rank, “I’m second lieutenant Jackson these days. Or I will be if I can ever find the company I am supposed to be commanding. I was supposed to meet them in Leeds, but when I got there I was informed they had gone to Bradford, and when I got there I was told to find them at a place called Wenn Ghyl.” He tapped a cigarette on the silver case and was about to light it when he suddenly remembered “doesn’t your cousin Bunny live at a place called Wenn Ghyl?” Celia nodded. “I shouldn’t worry Celia, if things carry on how they have been going I shall get to Wenn Ghyl, only to find that I will have to go to Manchester, or Plymouth or Glasgow: and you shall never see me again. Not that I mind really. So how are you? You’re certainly looking well. You got married didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, of course, I saw it in Tatler, or some such scandal mag. One of the maids at the school was most keen and keeping up with the affairs of the rich and famous, I can’t say  it much interests me but she happens to leave old copies lying around and I happened to take a peak and there you were. Oh wait,” said Jack, suddenly realising the situation, “I see. You married a German chap didn’t you.”

“Not that it is any concern of yours.”

“No, no, of course not, you’re free to marry who you like, as and when you like.”

Celia turned her gaze again to the barren landscape flashing past the window. This chance meeting with Jack was yet another confirmation to her that fate’s fickle finger had picked her out for torment. A point emphasised by his apparent good humoured callousness at seeing her again. For he looked no different from the man she had known two years before, the man whose heart she imagined she had broken, and yet there he sat calmly puffing at a cigarette with seeming disregard: a point proven by his grin when he caught her slyly looking at him, which immediately forced her to turn back to the passed landscape and the fleeting sky.

“I didn’t suspect you would enlist,” said Celia, cautiously, afraid that conversation might inflame Jack to lead it in directions she did not wish. “Of all the people I know, you were the least likely to run to the colours.”

Novel

I went to the Beehive last night.

It was a decent session.

The new guy, who I think is called Kev, was apparently talking about my stillbirth poem all of last week to anyone who would listen... which was nice. I read Dusk, which seemed to go down well.

I scribbled a few bits and pieces on the train...

behind the square lit windows
the evening settles in
kids in bed telle on
cups of tea lemonade and gin

and

how melancholy sit the leafless trees
as grey ducky sky descends

and

in the half dark ventian blinded light
she sits down at the computer to write
an email to explain put right last night

and

spartan sky lingers on the moor

Though in truth the sketching I did on the train was more on the Nazi police thing.

It's somewhat of an oddity of the internet that although it offers a world of knowledge - in theory - in practice unless you are hyper careful in your search terms, it gives you the sort of information that can be gleaned in your average pub.

For instance I wanted to find out about the structure of the German legal system. I got some information and ideas from watching a film about the trial of Adolf Hitler. The actual information required was titles, offices, and responsibilities - i.e facts.

Instead I got pages of search results offering useless information telling me the Nazis were unpleasant types, endless stuff about the racial laws, Jews and Crytsal Nacht, bits and pieces on that ranting judge, and not much that was of any use to anyone not looking to cut and paste stuff into a GCSE essay. Not that I am dismissing any of this. But it is rather like asking what the weather is like in Nebraska and being told about the massacre of the Indians, the US prison population and how unpleasant US foreign policy is. It's lacks relevance.

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The Blue Book

Nazi

I went to the first meeting of the #Ilkley Writers group a couple of weeks ago.

The 'homework' for the next meeting was to write a piece about finding something in a person's pocket.

No sniggering at the back.

I've been mulling over what I should write since. The obvious thing would be to write a poem. But, I have been working on various prose pieces, and thought it might be a useful incentive to write a fiction piece.

Like many creative things the story came about by a circuitous route. Regular readers will know I am currently reading Hitler's Children: The Story of the Baader-Meinhof Terrorist Gang by Jillian Becker. In fact I have been reading a number of things about Germany in WWII. And, I find my preconceptions being rather challenged. For instance, one of the books I have been reading was about the Hitlerjugend in Normandy. All, or most, of whom were in the Hitler Youth, which conjures up images of swinging Indian Clubs and marching about. However according to this first hand account, far from the Hitler Youth being like the Scouts, it was more akin tot he Woodland Folk. And indeed Becker makes the same comparison.

Here is the poem that came out of my reflections on this....

Sabina finds me reading Rilke,
in the lower meadow by the stream.
Again and again I have come here
to paint the little Luthern chapel
but I cannot catch the light.

She brings her mother's regards
and a small cake, which she cuts
with my pocket knife. Stabbing
the crumbs with our finger tips
we read Autumn Day, on the rug,

our bodies almost touching.
The paper curls in the breeze
pinned by the smudged and bloodied
watercolours, in their wooden box.
The water jar sits safe in my shoe.

Angels in the churchyard
turn their backs, as naked
we splash and prance in the stream.
The sunlight runs like spring rain
upon our bodies. But we are not children.

No one is young. For high above,
silver geese fly in formation,
heading south; their reflection
obscured by the brilliance
of our glistening laughter.

So anyway, here is the 300 word story...
 

“Ah the poet,” exclaimed Inspector Meyer, “we meet again and again.”

“And again and again you make the same joke,” replied Vesper dryly. He checked the oak lined corridor before closing the door. “It’s about the Schaub case. There’s something you need to know.”

Meyer pushed the rape file, he was working on, to one side. He indicated Vesper to sit. The young sergeant did so, peering at his superior through the thick lenses of his glasses. “Schaub?” began Meyer, recapping the case from memory,  “Schaub, male, 42, found floating the river last week. The doctor says he was in the water for approximately ten days. The neighbours report he had been drinking heavily following the death of his son at… uh?... did we ever establish were the son was killed?”

“No sir.”

“The wife and daughter killed by a stray bomb. He was heard expressing defeatist opinions on the night he died. A witness reports that he may have been  fighting with two men on the Fliesch bridge. The case remains open, but we are not actively investigating. Have I missed anything?”

“This,” said Vesper, pushing a crumpled identity card across the desk.

Meyer took it, opened it, and pouted at the insignificance. “It’s Herr Schaub’s identity card, what of it?”

“It’s the stamp sir.” Meyer looked more closely. “The stamp was only issued two days ago, which makes me wonder how it could be found in Herr Schaub’s jacket pocket.”

Meyer laid the identity card on the desk before him, gently running his figures across the smudged and blistered cardboard. “Herr Schaub was a farmer? Was he not? And a farmer must be able to predict the weather if he is to make money.”

“I don’t think it was suicide sir. In fact I know it wasn’t. There’s something else.”

Which has got me thinking of ways in which this might be expanded.

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The Blue Book