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rainbowfic2020-01-13 08:59 pm
thisbluespirit) wrote in rainbowfic2020-01-13 08:59 pm
Entry tags:
Acanthus #17 [Divide & Fall/Heroes of the Revolution]
Name: Across the Wires
Story: Divide & Rule/Heroes of the Revolution
Colors: Acanthus #17 (wire)
Supplies and Styles:
Word Count: 1141
Rating: PG
Warnings: Hints of dystopia etc.
Notes: 1944, 1959; Charles Terrell, Edward Iveson, Ron Whittaker, Liz Cardew.
Summary: There are wires that run right through the centre of Charles’s life, linking things together across the years.
***
1944
“Mrs Terrell?” says the young man at the door. Mother pulls the door back for him, as he removes his cap and bends his head to step inside. Charles looks at the badge – he and his friends have been collecting them – and spots that his uniform is the same as John’s, not regular army. He doesn’t really know what that means; nobody wants to explain, not to him. He’s too young, they tell him.
Mother turns back and sees Charles behind her in the kitchen, and orders him out of the way, back into the living room to do his school work. Charles turns in the doorway, watching her lead their visitor along the low hall of the cottage – the young soldier is hunched over again – to see Father in the study.
He stands there long enough to hear their murmured, indistinct voices, but they’ve gone quiet even before he shuts the living room door behind him. It’s still quiet after he hears the doors and footsteps that announce the exit of their visitor. Neither Father nor Mother come in to speak to him. He risks going back into the kitchen on hearing the door open, but only finds his sister Maria there, sneaking in.
“Don’t tell,” she says, seeing Charles.
He shakes his head. He won’t, but no one’s paying attention to Maria’s escapades this evening anyway.
“What is it?” she says, after a moment of frowning in the stillness.
Charles turns and stares back down the hall to the closed study door. “Something’s wrong. I think it must be John.”
Maria and John are close in age, much older than he is. Maria tightens her hand around the back of a nearby wooden chair. “No,” she says. “Don’t say that.”
“The man who came had the same uniform,” says Charles. “Like John’s. And Mother and Father haven’t said anything since he left. It must be bad.”
Maria shakes her head. “They send a wire, not people.”
Charles heads back on into the living room. He shoves aside his French and Maths and pulls out the jigsaw puzzle in progress on a board, tiny pieces scattered around the beginnings of a coloured picture.
Maria sits down beside him on the rug and picks up pieces and puts them down again, while Charles tries to finish off the edges. They sit there, together, waiting for the wire, waiting for the bell from the study to ring and summon them in and hear what they already know must be true.
1959
Charles is pretty new to all this; he didn’t expect to actually be elected so quickly. Suddenly he’s the Member for Leyton, and he feels he’s walking the high wire in front of everybody.
“I knew you could do it,” Whittaker says yet again, clapping an arm around his shoulders and leading him across to the bar to buy him a drink.
Charles grins and accepts the glass. Whittaker lets go of his own, turning as someone else approaches. The colour has gone out of his voice as he greets the newcomer: “Oh, Iveson. Hello.”
Charles starts and puts his drink down too sharply on the bar, spilling beer over the side. Other things he hasn’t prepared for definitely include being accosted by the Foreign Secretary.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” Iveson says, extending a hand to Charles. His height, like Charles, is accentuated by a narrow frame, and his hair’s prematurely grey. There’s something about him that strikes a faint, familiar chord, but no doubt it’s from photos and the radio and news reels. “Terrell, isn’t it? Is that –?” he begins, and then stops, with a small shake. “Never mind. I see you’re in good hands here.” He gives Whittaker a smile and a nod; the smile far more genuine than the one Whittaker manages in return.
Terrell leans forward after Iveson has gone. “What’s up with you?” he says in an undertone. “Don’t you like him?”
Whittaker shrugs off the question, leaning against the bar and staring out at the room. “It isn’t my business to like or dislike the Foreign Secretary. I’m just not particularly keen on the company he keeps these days.”
Charles raises his eyebrows. “Well,” he says, taking a drink, “it was nice of him to bother coming over.”
“Oh, yes,” says Whittaker, picking up his own glass again. “It was. Damn him.”
1986
“Charles,” says Liz, “stop shifting about like that. We’ll both be arrested again if you look so bloody guilty.”
Charles lifts his head in mild surprise. “Oh, “ he says. “Sorry. Only thinking.”
“I thought you were checking for wires. And this is my office. I do that regularly, believe me.”
He laughs. “Miles away, Liz, that’s all. Besides, who’s watching?”
“You never know,” says Liz, nodding to the window. “Why did you want to see me, anyway?”
Charles stares down at the acorn coffee and leans back into the chair, stretching out his legs. He can trust Liz, he knows – it’s not everybody who’s helped him dispose of a body – but his reason seems frivolous now that he’s here. She looks so much more official in her white doctor’s coat.
“I was trying to find someone,” he says. “Thought maybe you could help.”
Liz folds away her notes. “How ironic. You don’t know how long I’ve been searching for people myself. It’s never worked yet.”
“I just thought that if someone on our side had been injured there was a good chance someone might have brought her to you. I’d like to know. A woman. Middle-aged. Irish. Auburn hair. Dark eyes. Kind smile.”
Liz replaces the cap on her fountain pen and gives him a hard look. “Oh, God, Charles,” says Liz. “You’re not getting involved, are you?”
He shrugs. “Chance would be a fine thing. I just want to know she’s all right. She’s not one of ours, you see. She’s one of the others, you know. Arran and that lot. You see them, too.”
“But nobody matching that description,” says Liz. “Not under those circumstances, at any rate. Now, how about we talk about the weather instead?”
Charles nods, but finds the answer comforting. It makes it at least a little more likely that Alice’s disappearance isn’t down to her being dead or injured. He’ll take a bit of hope over despair any day. Then he lifts his head, and frowns. “So, who are you looking for?”
“Not precisely looking for. I know they’re dead,” she says, with a wry little smile. “And it’s my parents I’m after. I don’t suppose it really matters any more.”
Charles leans back again, with a brief, “Oh.” He can’t help her. She’s the only Cardew he’s come across. He glances across at the window, and then smiles at her. “Looks like it might brighten up later.”
***
Story: Divide & Rule/Heroes of the Revolution
Colors: Acanthus #17 (wire)
Supplies and Styles:
Word Count: 1141
Rating: PG
Warnings: Hints of dystopia etc.
Notes: 1944, 1959; Charles Terrell, Edward Iveson, Ron Whittaker, Liz Cardew.
Summary: There are wires that run right through the centre of Charles’s life, linking things together across the years.
***
1944
“Mrs Terrell?” says the young man at the door. Mother pulls the door back for him, as he removes his cap and bends his head to step inside. Charles looks at the badge – he and his friends have been collecting them – and spots that his uniform is the same as John’s, not regular army. He doesn’t really know what that means; nobody wants to explain, not to him. He’s too young, they tell him.
Mother turns back and sees Charles behind her in the kitchen, and orders him out of the way, back into the living room to do his school work. Charles turns in the doorway, watching her lead their visitor along the low hall of the cottage – the young soldier is hunched over again – to see Father in the study.
He stands there long enough to hear their murmured, indistinct voices, but they’ve gone quiet even before he shuts the living room door behind him. It’s still quiet after he hears the doors and footsteps that announce the exit of their visitor. Neither Father nor Mother come in to speak to him. He risks going back into the kitchen on hearing the door open, but only finds his sister Maria there, sneaking in.
“Don’t tell,” she says, seeing Charles.
He shakes his head. He won’t, but no one’s paying attention to Maria’s escapades this evening anyway.
“What is it?” she says, after a moment of frowning in the stillness.
Charles turns and stares back down the hall to the closed study door. “Something’s wrong. I think it must be John.”
Maria and John are close in age, much older than he is. Maria tightens her hand around the back of a nearby wooden chair. “No,” she says. “Don’t say that.”
“The man who came had the same uniform,” says Charles. “Like John’s. And Mother and Father haven’t said anything since he left. It must be bad.”
Maria shakes her head. “They send a wire, not people.”
Charles heads back on into the living room. He shoves aside his French and Maths and pulls out the jigsaw puzzle in progress on a board, tiny pieces scattered around the beginnings of a coloured picture.
Maria sits down beside him on the rug and picks up pieces and puts them down again, while Charles tries to finish off the edges. They sit there, together, waiting for the wire, waiting for the bell from the study to ring and summon them in and hear what they already know must be true.
1959
Charles is pretty new to all this; he didn’t expect to actually be elected so quickly. Suddenly he’s the Member for Leyton, and he feels he’s walking the high wire in front of everybody.
“I knew you could do it,” Whittaker says yet again, clapping an arm around his shoulders and leading him across to the bar to buy him a drink.
Charles grins and accepts the glass. Whittaker lets go of his own, turning as someone else approaches. The colour has gone out of his voice as he greets the newcomer: “Oh, Iveson. Hello.”
Charles starts and puts his drink down too sharply on the bar, spilling beer over the side. Other things he hasn’t prepared for definitely include being accosted by the Foreign Secretary.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” Iveson says, extending a hand to Charles. His height, like Charles, is accentuated by a narrow frame, and his hair’s prematurely grey. There’s something about him that strikes a faint, familiar chord, but no doubt it’s from photos and the radio and news reels. “Terrell, isn’t it? Is that –?” he begins, and then stops, with a small shake. “Never mind. I see you’re in good hands here.” He gives Whittaker a smile and a nod; the smile far more genuine than the one Whittaker manages in return.
Terrell leans forward after Iveson has gone. “What’s up with you?” he says in an undertone. “Don’t you like him?”
Whittaker shrugs off the question, leaning against the bar and staring out at the room. “It isn’t my business to like or dislike the Foreign Secretary. I’m just not particularly keen on the company he keeps these days.”
Charles raises his eyebrows. “Well,” he says, taking a drink, “it was nice of him to bother coming over.”
“Oh, yes,” says Whittaker, picking up his own glass again. “It was. Damn him.”
1986
“Charles,” says Liz, “stop shifting about like that. We’ll both be arrested again if you look so bloody guilty.”
Charles lifts his head in mild surprise. “Oh, “ he says. “Sorry. Only thinking.”
“I thought you were checking for wires. And this is my office. I do that regularly, believe me.”
He laughs. “Miles away, Liz, that’s all. Besides, who’s watching?”
“You never know,” says Liz, nodding to the window. “Why did you want to see me, anyway?”
Charles stares down at the acorn coffee and leans back into the chair, stretching out his legs. He can trust Liz, he knows – it’s not everybody who’s helped him dispose of a body – but his reason seems frivolous now that he’s here. She looks so much more official in her white doctor’s coat.
“I was trying to find someone,” he says. “Thought maybe you could help.”
Liz folds away her notes. “How ironic. You don’t know how long I’ve been searching for people myself. It’s never worked yet.”
“I just thought that if someone on our side had been injured there was a good chance someone might have brought her to you. I’d like to know. A woman. Middle-aged. Irish. Auburn hair. Dark eyes. Kind smile.”
Liz replaces the cap on her fountain pen and gives him a hard look. “Oh, God, Charles,” says Liz. “You’re not getting involved, are you?”
He shrugs. “Chance would be a fine thing. I just want to know she’s all right. She’s not one of ours, you see. She’s one of the others, you know. Arran and that lot. You see them, too.”
“But nobody matching that description,” says Liz. “Not under those circumstances, at any rate. Now, how about we talk about the weather instead?”
Charles nods, but finds the answer comforting. It makes it at least a little more likely that Alice’s disappearance isn’t down to her being dead or injured. He’ll take a bit of hope over despair any day. Then he lifts his head, and frowns. “So, who are you looking for?”
“Not precisely looking for. I know they’re dead,” she says, with a wry little smile. “And it’s my parents I’m after. I don’t suppose it really matters any more.”
Charles leans back again, with a brief, “Oh.” He can’t help her. She’s the only Cardew he’s come across. He glances across at the window, and then smiles at her. “Looks like it might brighten up later.”
***
no subject
I need this story desperately.
That said, I really like this! It's kind of happy at the end. Well done!
no subject
I need this story desperately.
:-D It's definitely one of the HotR-side stories I've still got a fondness for. Here - Bury Your Sins (But Not in the Back Garden)
no subject
no subject
Although I do note that you only say that when I bring in the dead bodies. :-D