R is for Rose

Tags

flash_fiction, flowers, roses, Tess of the d'Urbervilles

Inspired by Rose ‘Tess of the d’Urbervilles’

A Perfect Gentleman

“A rose for my rose from The Rose.” That was what he would say. Every time. And then hand her a daisy. It was both dull and infuriating. And he would say it as if it were a witty remark. A bon mot.

Tess was heartily tired of it. She had been a barmaid at the Rose Inn for half a year, and during that time had heeded her mother’s careful advice to beware the advances of the young men. Mr Moss had been different, and she had warmed to him. He had been polite, courtly even, and taken very little in the way of liberties.

They met on Wednesdays, when he delivered the malt. Regular as clockwork, was Mr Moss, walking quietly into the kitchen with his proffered flower. It was a shame, Tess thought, that such a good-looking young fellow should be so deadly dull.

How exciting it would be to have a pirate for a lover! Or a highwayman! Just imagine… a young man who would bring her jewels, or shells from the South Seas, orchids, peacock feathers, exotic things. A man whose flashing eyes and unpredictable arrivals would be nothing but thrilling. Anything but someone who turned up every Wednesday with a daisy.

Even Tess’s mother approved of Mr Moss. Now there you have a good, steady young fellow. Reliable. Doesn’t get drunk, doesn’t ogle the other barmaids. Get him to the altar, if you can, my girl, and keep him. He’s a diamond in the rough. As she waited for him to turn up, Tess still thought he would be improved for being a little more piratical.

Half a mile down the road, Mr Moss himself was trundling along with the malt cart, his usual predictable self, encouraging his usual piebald horse with a touch of the whip in his usual way.

As the cart ran down into a secluded hollow, a man stepped out of the woodland and grasped the horse’s bridle. Mr Moss nodded imperceptibly, said nothing, and chose to look the other way while a second man came out of the woods and unloaded half a dozen brandy kegs concealed under sacking at the back of the cart. A purse was silently handed over, the bridle released, and Mr Moss flicked the whip and drove on. He weighed the purse in his hand, and tucked it away. Very profitable, this smuggling lark. And delivering the malt was a perfect cover.

On arrival at the Rose Inn he paused to pick a daisy for that dozy barmaid, as usual.

 

This story was first published in my short fiction collection Mr Muggington’s Discovery and Other Stories. Paperback copies are available from Amazon at £4.95, but the e-book is free. If you’d like one, leave me a message on the Contact page of this site and I’ll email a copy to you.

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Q is for Quince

Tags

flowers

Inspired by the flowering quince, Chaenomeles ‘Crimson and Gold’

Marriage and Mr Quince

The wedding night had been something of a surprise. Mr Quince had been greatly looking forward to seeing his bride all prepared for bed. That tiny waist, those pretty ringlets, those delightful ankles – she had naughtily lifted her skirts just enough to let him see, once or twice – had turned his knees to jelly. And now it was all his to command! The enchantment was swiftly broken when she appeared in a voluminous nightgown utterly hiding any figure she had, her hair in hideous curling papers, and the bare feet below the pretty ankles showing unmistakable nascent bunions. All this took him somewhat aback, but before he could consider it further the new Mrs Quince had an announcement to make. She knew what was what, apparently, and she had no intention of spoiling her figure with a brood of brats. He could sleep very comfortably upon the chaise longue for the foreseeable future, she said. Such a collection of unpalatable surprises rendered him speechless. He had got as far as “But, my darling…” when she hustled him into the adjoining room, sat him on the chaise longue, and retreated to the bedroom. He heard the key turn in the lock.

“Well, of course,” he reasoned to himself, “she is shy. Modest. It’s only natural. She will be more affectionate tomorrow.”

But the next morning he found a note attached to the bedroom door stating that she would not be bothering herself with tedious household matters, or with him, and that she was writing a novel. She hadn’t actually added ‘disturb at your peril’, but Mr Quince grasped the inference directly.

After a fortnight of further disagreeable surprises he said to her, “My darling, I am in need of a tonic. There is a spa in Switzerland, very luxurious, very healthful, very fashionable. I intend to visit it. You need not come along if you’d sooner stay here.”

The light of greed came into her eyes directly. “My place is by your side,” she said. “I’ll need new clothes.”

Mr Quince smiled and nodded. He knew the place well. There were many convenient precipices – sheer drops, that sort of thing, in the vicinity. At long last, he thought, I might just have a surprise for her.

 

For plant and garden fans I’ve started a new blog, The Garden Visitor. Pop in and join me as I visit some gorgeous gardens. https://gardenvisitor106455000.wordpress.com

P is for Poppy

Tags

flash_fiction, flowers

In Plain Sight

 It had been the much talked-about theft of a much talked-about object. Those glamorous and unmistakable diamonds had last been seen, famously, about the neck of a princess. The necklace was quite a haul for Mr East, society burglar, and one he’d had his eye on for a while, but it did present a problem. How could such a well-known article be hidden?

Even unstrung, the diamonds were all too recognisable. This would, Mr East thought, be something of a long-term operation.

He had, over many years, set up the perfect cover for his illegal activities: funeral director to all the best people. It meant, of course, that he was able to visit the bereaved in their sumptuous homes, and, unsuspected, case the joint. His premises were discreet, respectful and decorated in perfect good taste. Everything about Mr East was understated. He was more or less invisible, as a funeral director should be. It was pretty good cover for a burglar, too.

It was Mr East’s usual practice to farm out easily-recognised objects to his small and exclusive circle of felonious friends for hiding until the heat died down, but this case was different. He wanted to enjoy the diamonds, keep them close. Not upon his person, of course, but somewhere he could pass by, day to day, and feel the pleasure of ownership. So he had made a large bunch of silk flowers – dark red poppies, almost black, and very suitable décor for a funeral parlour. The diamonds, in threes and fours, were concealed within the capsules at the heart of the flowers.

And there they stayed, year upon year, hidden in plain sight. Mr East would amuse himself by giving the flowers a little shake as he passed, to hear the jingle of priceless stones within. He could never resist a discreet chuckle.

After ten years – Mr East was nothing if not patient – he decided the time was right to put the diamonds on the market, a few at a time. He would begin the very next day.

But the very next day Mr East was fatally run down by a hansom cab, and found himself occupying a berth in his own funeral parlour. Tragic. The business was discreetly sold.

“Just look at all this old-fashioned stuff,” said the new owner. “We will clear it all out – redecorate in the modern style.”

The silk poppies, with a final jingle, were tossed out with the rubbish, and buried deep. Just like Mr East himself.

 

 

This story was first published in my short fiction collection Mr Muggington’s Discovery and Other Stories. Paperback copies are available from Amazon at £4.95, but the e-book is free. If you’d like one, leave me a message on the Contact page of this site and I’ll email a copy to you.

O is for Orchid

Tags

flash_fiction, flowers, orchids

False Colours

Inspired by the beautiful Bee Orchid (Ophrys apifera)

“It is a special gift on the occasion of your birthday, my dear Gertrude,” said the vicar. “Something thought-provoking. Something intellectual. Something improving.”

Sounds something frightful, thought Gertie, accepting her father’s gift and attempting to look grateful. “I shall treasure it, Father,” she said, without looking closely.

“I trust you will read it thoroughly, and consider the lessons it offers with great care.”

Gertie looked down. In her hand was a very old, beautifully bound edition of Mr John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress. She thought it about as welcome as a bunion, all things considered, but she managed a smile.

The vicar was well-pleased, and tottered off to his hot-house to attend to his prize-winning collection of orchids.

Gertie tossed the book aside. Drat him. And drat his orchids, too.

Later, when her father was busy writing his sermon, she slouched into the hot-house with the vague intention of pinching off the unopened flower buds in revenge for the unwanted birthday gift. She paused over the first plant, finger and thumb at the ready. But no. Wait. She looked at the orchid. The open flower resembled a spider. And the next one along resembled a bee. Or perhaps a wasp.

“These flowers are not what they seem,” she murmured thoughtfully, and then strode off, leaving the buds unmolested.

That evening the vicar was delighted to find his wayward daughter deeply engrossed in her copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress.

“I hope you are finding food for thought in that excellent volume, Gertrude.”

She looked up. “I am, indeed, Father. It is most… stimulating.” And she returned to her reading. If only he knew, she thought. Oh, if only he knew. And it was his own orchid collection that had given her the idea, too. If an orchid flower can pretend to be a spider or a wasp, then why cannot a book pretend to be a Bunyan?

It had not been too difficult to detach the pages from their binding and replace them with those of a particularly racy romantic novel.

The beauty of it was that it was a deception that could continue indefinitely. Her father would be pleased at her constant re-reading of The Pilgrim’s Progress, and she could be improving her knowledge in a quite different and far more enjoyable direction.

“Perhaps, Father,” she said, “you might consider giving me another improving book – of your choice – for Christmas? I should like to begin a library of my own.”

The vicar smiled fondly at the news of this very acceptable ambition.

 

For plant and garden fans I’ve started a new blog, The Garden Visitor. Pop in and join me as I visit some gorgeous gardens this summer https://gardenvisitor106455000.wordpress.com

From the Heart?

Tags

genres, romance, writing

One of the joys of the writerly life is the excuse to do a great deal of reading. A few years back I became a reader for the Romantic Novelists’ Association (RNA) for their romantic novel of the year awards. This means that each summer I receive a consignment of books which I read and assess for the awards. It’s fun to do, and since romantic novels are not my usual choice of reading it has the added bonus of taking me into an unfamiliar genre. There is much to learn from reading something you wouldn’t choose for yourself. As a writer I can’t help analysing the plots and characterisation as I go along, and it gives me a much broader appreciation of the kinds of books that people actually buy.

I am not the first to observe that there is whole sub-genre of romantic novels which you could call ‘cosy café’ books – and I’ve read quite a few of them on behalf of the RNA. They are (usually) light-hearted romances, featuring some sort of café, often in an attractive setting – the beach, a village green – mostly set in summertime, or perhaps Christmas. I’m also not the first to observe that if you produced a book entitled Christmas at the Cosy Café on the Village Green by the Sea it’d be a sure-fire bestseller.

This is not to disparage the cosy-café type of book. They’re usually well-written and entertaining, if a little formulaic. And many of them sell very well and build up a considerable following for their authors.

So here’s a question: could any reasonably competent writer, working to a formula containing all the right ingredients, produce one of these stories? If it were published as an e-book with the sort of colourful, flat illustration that the genre usually have on the cover, with the sort of friendly script-style font that goes with it, and if the title were carefully chosen to contain a selection of suitable keywords (such as sea, summer, and of course café ) could the book virtually sell itself, purely because of the number of keen readers looking for another book of that type? I don’t know the answer – but it would certainly be an interesting experiment. Could it be done? Would lack of experience in the genre cause certain failure? In short, is producing the type of book people actually want to buy more important than writing from the heart? What do you think?

 

My other blog, (definitely written from the heart) for garden lovers, is called The Garden Visitor, and can be found here

N is for Nigella

Tags

flash_fiction, flowers

Inspired by Nigella damascena (Love-in-a-Mist)

Love in a Mist

“It’s a nasty injury. Bordering on the fatal, I’d say.”

George took off his hat and held it before him, in a gesture of respect.

Nigel stared, expression glum. “I’d like a second opinion, of course. She’s very precious to me, you know.”

“You could sue for damages,” said George helpfully. “It was carelessness, if you want my opinion.”

Nigel looked as if he didn’t want anyone’s opinion at that moment. “Carelessness! It was negligence of the highest order! Tantamount to…” He trailed off. Tantamount to murder, was what he meant.

“Steady on, old boy,” said George, shocked at this unseemly display of naked emotion. “I should go and get myself a large brandy if I were you.”

Nigel nodded and set off, shoulders hunched, in search of a bracing shot of alcohol.

When George got to the bar, half an hour later, there was no sign of Nigel.

“Gone home,” said the bartender. “What exactly happened, Mr Battersthwaite?”

“Bad business,” said George. “Very bad. The Love-in-a-Mist was his pride and joy. Beautiful little boat.”

“Was?”

“Was. In short: crane lifting the mast in – mast not securely attached to crane – mast falls from great height – most unfortunate – straight through the bottom of the boat – boat skewered to sea bed.”

“Good heavens,” said the bartender, suppressing a smile with difficulty. “So more stuck-in-a-mast than Love-in-a-Mist, then.”

 

For plant and garden fans I’ve started a new blog, The Garden Visitor. Pop in and join me as I visit some gorgeous gardens. https://gardenvisitor106455000.wordpress.com