Good morning darling! Did the horses behave themselves round the Arndells? Gorgeous view, you can see all the way to the back of your own collar when the weather clears, ha-ha; how was the weather though? Good? Warm enough? You might not have heard, but two summers back a ghastly wind came through and blew a carriage right off the side of the cliff, horrible thing to happen when you think about it, I must say, but unfortunate things do always seem to be happening whenever the Wendels are involved–put your coat anywhere, we don’t like to judge here.
Now this cart, It was such a lovely cart that our dear Esley had built some autumns ago when the price of nails wasn’t so high and the valley had a bit more birch; four wheels it had, two at the front, the very same at the back, and it was all emblazoned with the finest lacquer that ever was brushed against wood; oh, and how it shone! George once said that the wagon used to catch such a sheen in the midday that most people would have to pull off to the side of the road as the wagon passed, complaining of sudden blindness or an onset of bedazzlement; you’ve never seen something so resplendent in its own brilliance.
But yes, it’s gone now, dashed upon the rocks of misfortune and bludgeoned to smithereens along with its occupants. I often wonder what a Horse thinks about when it’s falling. Does it imagine that it can fly? Does it just enjoy the rush as the wind blows untamed through the poor beast’s mane while it plummets downward like a pegasus of singular descent. I’ve never seen a horse that has struck me with the knowledge of these things though, their quiet faces masking their thoughts, their movements drawn slow by consideration… You could never trust a horse, they’re all hiding something, vile creatures.
But I do try not to dwell on these things as the arrow of time passes me.
Oh and speaking of arrows, how is Norman? I heard he was the envy of every pincushion this side of the steppes, poor dear, I always have said that war was a truly barbaric business. When he left I’m sure George had said to him, watch your back as much as you watch your front but I guess he was missing the try not to get hit part. But I do hope that he’s ok, he was such a lovely man. Gwendlyn–you know the one–had always said that Norman was such a nice lad who would never let anything bring his mood down, like a sieve, she said: I guess that’s even more accurate now then ever. Gwen is still in the flower shop of course, she’s like a little daisy herself you know: always needing a drink, open to anyone that looks… I joke of course, such gossip is simply scandalous and I’ll undo the entire village over a cup of tea if you let me.
-tra la la~
I did always think that Gwen and Norman would make such a perfect couple, they’re so similar in so many respects, and still just so opposed that the fires of hatred would ever-broil and the ringing bells of marriage would be all the more sonorous. He’s a headstrong boy, your Norman. Arthur, the reverend, you might not have met him, once said that no man is an island, when we were having a little chinwag about Norman’s love-live, and while I do agree…It seems that some people are just particularly good at being peninsulas. He’ll find love though one day though I’m sure: cupid’s arrow shall strike him too–if you’ll forgive that little joke. Do tell me when he’s out of hospital won’t you?
So,
You have to tell me all about that famous scone recipe of yours that I’ve just heard so much about. Stephanie said the other day that it’s somewhat dry but she’s a woman of acquired taste–as in she’s often acquired a full bottle of gin before 9 O’clock. I do tease her, but she means well. Have you met Stephanie’s husband? Ooh he’s a brute of a man: tall as a pole and just about as smart as a hole in the ground. We, aligned to the modern civilised way of greeting a person, would usually say how do you do with a delicate peck upon each cheek, but this man, ghastly as he is, is a forrid to forrid kind of gentleman, where a meeting of minds will only end with a major concussion. George said that he even drinks stouts down at the tavern, disgusting! But you simply must give me the recipe, I don’t usually cook simple things and I bow to your wisdom
Anyway, we’ve talked for so long and I simply must be off; my George has probably gotten trapped in the hayloft again and fallen asleep. Terrible problem for dear George, he has no object permanence, put a towel or flour sack over his head and he’s straight to sleep just like a bird; I usually send one of the stableboys out with a pitchfork to look for him but they’re off today and I shall have to heft that haft myself; one of the burdens of provincial living I’m sure you’ll agree, but we don’t like to complain here, it upsets the goats. Thanks for stopping by, don’t forget your coat, give my love to Cooky, and ta-ta! Oh and don’t mind the hound on your way out, we’ve been feeding him on those rum soaked biscuits again so he’s been picking fights with anything that moves, step lively, you’ll be fine.
J.McCray 2021
Sunday Short Stories 