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rainbowfic2021-02-17 09:22 pm
thisbluespirit) wrote in rainbowfic2021-02-17 09:22 pm
Acanthus #16 [Divide & Rule]
Name: Up and Over
Story: Divide & Rule/Heroes of the Revolution
Colors: Acanthus #16 (belt)
Supplies and Styles: Seed Beads
Word Count: 1100
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Mentions of WWII; implied character death.
Notes: Christy Graves, Edward Iveson, Harold Graves. 1923, 1935, 1942.
Summary: Christy Graves is an incurable optimist, unfortunately.
***
1923
Christy’s approach to cricket is to swing the bat as hard as he can and hope it hits something, preferably the ball.
“If you did that in a real match, you’d be out,” says Ned Iveson, who’s been told to play with him. “If there’d been a wicket there, you’d have knocked the whole thing to pieces. Try again, and this time look at the ball.”
Honestly, Christy doesn’t see why Ned isn’t more grateful. He’s saved him from being stuck inside with some book he’s got to read for prep. Still, he quite likes Ned anyway, so he tries: he fixes the ball hard with a stare, swings the bat in an even mightier arc – Ned screws up his face in what must be admiration – and gets it this time. The ball flies up and away, right across the long garden and up onto the roof of the conservatory.
“Yes! I did it!” Christy leaps up. “Look at that!” He grabs Ned’s arm. “I bet you couldn’t have hit a belter like that.”
Ned follows his gaze upwards. “You did it all right. That’s the last ball gone. You are the most awful nuisance sometimes.”
Christy ignores unimportant remarks like that. Ned doesn’t really mean them. “Don’t be silly. You can get it back from there. I bet I could. Do you think if I shinned up the drainpipe –?”
“No!” says Ned and then heaves a sigh. “All right. Wait there and don’t go trying to shin up anything. You wouldn’t be able to reach the ball from the drainpipe, even if it didn’t break, which it probably would.”
Christy opens his mouth to argue, but Ned draws himself up, taking full advantage of his extra inches and years.
“I mean it, Christy. Stay there!”
Christy nods, but Ned’s gone for ages, and it seems silly just to stand there, when he’s sure he could make it up the drainpipe. It’s a Victorian thing, all painted iron and gothic bits at the top. It’s got to be pretty solid, surely?
It turns out that, tempting as it looked as a climbing pole, the drainpipe isn’t very sturdy at all, and next thing, he’s lying on the patio stones with a ragged section of drain pipe in his hands and Ned is standing over him while holding a step ladder.
“Oh, good-oh,” says Christy. “That’s an even better idea.”
“I told you not to!” Ned drops the ladder and crouches down. “You menace. Are you all right?”
Of course he’s all right. It isn’t as if he’d fallen from very far up. “Yes. The drainpipe is a bit old, I think.”
Ned doesn’t get a chance to respond, because that’s when Mother, Mrs Iveson, Miss Long, and the Ivesons’ gardener all come running over and start scolding Ned at once. It’s very unfair, but he’s older than Christy and grown-ups are like that.
“Next time,” says Christy to Ned, once they’ve all finished shouting, “I’m going to see if I can hit it all the way onto the roof. I bet I could!”
“I bet you could, too, you horror,” says Ned. “I suppose it’d be a complete waste of breath asking you not to try?”
Christy grins.
1935
Newly printed sheets of a professional journal go rolling past on the conveyer belt. Christy grimaces as he watches the wheels of the factory turn. Why is it he can’t fit in here, the way Father wishes he would? He and Father are always rowing these days. Christy can’t really blame him. It’s not as if he’s got some other passion or ambition. So, why not follow Father into the print works? Why not let his life run by on factory wheels, on endless engraved metal pieces? Doesn’t ink run in his veins?
All the clattering of the machines fade away as he dreams instead of doing something much more exciting. He could run away to America – he’d make his fortune there, make everything right. It’d be easy over there, wouldn’t it?
“Christopher,” says Father, emerging from his office. He’s wiping ink or oil off his fingers onto a cloth. “Forgive me. I had forgotten our lunch time arrangement.”
Christy shrugs. “I can wait.” He stretches out a hand and steals a passing page from the conveyer belt and then wonders why Father’s glaring again.
“Christopher,” he says again, but in entirely different tone. “Must you?” He bites back irritation, his moustache bristling. “Stop the line,” he says to the nearest workman. “Give me that, or we’ll have one edition with four pages missing.”
Christy stares down at the paper in surprise and then hands it back, his own fingers stained with ink how. “Oh, yes, sorry.” But that’s the thing, isn’t it? He’s never going to understand what the fuss is about four pages in one edition. It’d save some poor chap the work of reading it. The article looks deadly dry and scientific to him.
“Go and wait in the office,” says Father, in the careful tone that means he doesn’t want to argue with him today.
“Right-oh,” says Christy. Such a shame Julia’s not the eldest, or a boy. She’s probably not much more interested in printing than he is, but she already likes organising everything and everyone. That’s what it takes to be a manager, and that’s what Christy hasn’t got.
1942
People say it’s not even worth trying to escape the internees’ camp. After all, they’re citizens of another country. The Germans’ll probably repatriate them all sooner or later. It’s not as if they’re even prisoners of war in the usual sense.
Some of the fellows discuss it seriously, though, and even though it’s a risk – it’s a long way across a Europe that’s now seemingly all belonging to the enemy – Christy assumes the best. He assumes that he’ll make it somehow, and even if not, he might not have a head for business or be the most sensible sort of chap, it’s his duty. It’s his duty as a British citizen, and he owes it to his family that if he can’t get back to Mother and Rudy in Berlin, then he has to make it to Julia in London.
He follows the plan, gets over the wire – three of them do – and dons the borrowed uniform. He fastens the belt and straightens up and then he’s gone, off into the forest, out of sight.
He’s really quite cheerful, because whatever happens now, and even if it’s all on the late side, this is one time he won’t be disappointing Father.
***
Story: Divide & Rule/Heroes of the Revolution
Colors: Acanthus #16 (belt)
Supplies and Styles: Seed Beads
Word Count: 1100
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Mentions of WWII; implied character death.
Notes: Christy Graves, Edward Iveson, Harold Graves. 1923, 1935, 1942.
Summary: Christy Graves is an incurable optimist, unfortunately.
***
1923
Christy’s approach to cricket is to swing the bat as hard as he can and hope it hits something, preferably the ball.
“If you did that in a real match, you’d be out,” says Ned Iveson, who’s been told to play with him. “If there’d been a wicket there, you’d have knocked the whole thing to pieces. Try again, and this time look at the ball.”
Honestly, Christy doesn’t see why Ned isn’t more grateful. He’s saved him from being stuck inside with some book he’s got to read for prep. Still, he quite likes Ned anyway, so he tries: he fixes the ball hard with a stare, swings the bat in an even mightier arc – Ned screws up his face in what must be admiration – and gets it this time. The ball flies up and away, right across the long garden and up onto the roof of the conservatory.
“Yes! I did it!” Christy leaps up. “Look at that!” He grabs Ned’s arm. “I bet you couldn’t have hit a belter like that.”
Ned follows his gaze upwards. “You did it all right. That’s the last ball gone. You are the most awful nuisance sometimes.”
Christy ignores unimportant remarks like that. Ned doesn’t really mean them. “Don’t be silly. You can get it back from there. I bet I could. Do you think if I shinned up the drainpipe –?”
“No!” says Ned and then heaves a sigh. “All right. Wait there and don’t go trying to shin up anything. You wouldn’t be able to reach the ball from the drainpipe, even if it didn’t break, which it probably would.”
Christy opens his mouth to argue, but Ned draws himself up, taking full advantage of his extra inches and years.
“I mean it, Christy. Stay there!”
Christy nods, but Ned’s gone for ages, and it seems silly just to stand there, when he’s sure he could make it up the drainpipe. It’s a Victorian thing, all painted iron and gothic bits at the top. It’s got to be pretty solid, surely?
It turns out that, tempting as it looked as a climbing pole, the drainpipe isn’t very sturdy at all, and next thing, he’s lying on the patio stones with a ragged section of drain pipe in his hands and Ned is standing over him while holding a step ladder.
“Oh, good-oh,” says Christy. “That’s an even better idea.”
“I told you not to!” Ned drops the ladder and crouches down. “You menace. Are you all right?”
Of course he’s all right. It isn’t as if he’d fallen from very far up. “Yes. The drainpipe is a bit old, I think.”
Ned doesn’t get a chance to respond, because that’s when Mother, Mrs Iveson, Miss Long, and the Ivesons’ gardener all come running over and start scolding Ned at once. It’s very unfair, but he’s older than Christy and grown-ups are like that.
“Next time,” says Christy to Ned, once they’ve all finished shouting, “I’m going to see if I can hit it all the way onto the roof. I bet I could!”
“I bet you could, too, you horror,” says Ned. “I suppose it’d be a complete waste of breath asking you not to try?”
Christy grins.
1935
Newly printed sheets of a professional journal go rolling past on the conveyer belt. Christy grimaces as he watches the wheels of the factory turn. Why is it he can’t fit in here, the way Father wishes he would? He and Father are always rowing these days. Christy can’t really blame him. It’s not as if he’s got some other passion or ambition. So, why not follow Father into the print works? Why not let his life run by on factory wheels, on endless engraved metal pieces? Doesn’t ink run in his veins?
All the clattering of the machines fade away as he dreams instead of doing something much more exciting. He could run away to America – he’d make his fortune there, make everything right. It’d be easy over there, wouldn’t it?
“Christopher,” says Father, emerging from his office. He’s wiping ink or oil off his fingers onto a cloth. “Forgive me. I had forgotten our lunch time arrangement.”
Christy shrugs. “I can wait.” He stretches out a hand and steals a passing page from the conveyer belt and then wonders why Father’s glaring again.
“Christopher,” he says again, but in entirely different tone. “Must you?” He bites back irritation, his moustache bristling. “Stop the line,” he says to the nearest workman. “Give me that, or we’ll have one edition with four pages missing.”
Christy stares down at the paper in surprise and then hands it back, his own fingers stained with ink how. “Oh, yes, sorry.” But that’s the thing, isn’t it? He’s never going to understand what the fuss is about four pages in one edition. It’d save some poor chap the work of reading it. The article looks deadly dry and scientific to him.
“Go and wait in the office,” says Father, in the careful tone that means he doesn’t want to argue with him today.
“Right-oh,” says Christy. Such a shame Julia’s not the eldest, or a boy. She’s probably not much more interested in printing than he is, but she already likes organising everything and everyone. That’s what it takes to be a manager, and that’s what Christy hasn’t got.
1942
People say it’s not even worth trying to escape the internees’ camp. After all, they’re citizens of another country. The Germans’ll probably repatriate them all sooner or later. It’s not as if they’re even prisoners of war in the usual sense.
Some of the fellows discuss it seriously, though, and even though it’s a risk – it’s a long way across a Europe that’s now seemingly all belonging to the enemy – Christy assumes the best. He assumes that he’ll make it somehow, and even if not, he might not have a head for business or be the most sensible sort of chap, it’s his duty. It’s his duty as a British citizen, and he owes it to his family that if he can’t get back to Mother and Rudy in Berlin, then he has to make it to Julia in London.
He follows the plan, gets over the wire – three of them do – and dons the borrowed uniform. He fastens the belt and straightens up and then he’s gone, off into the forest, out of sight.
He’s really quite cheerful, because whatever happens now, and even if it’s all on the late side, this is one time he won’t be disappointing Father.
***
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