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rainbowfic2022-09-29 09:29 pm
thisbluespirit) wrote in rainbowfic2022-09-29 09:29 pm
Tourmaline #10; Twilight #7 [Divide & Rule]
Name: Deeds Not Words
Story: Divide & Rule/Heroes of the Revolution
Colors: Tourmaline #10 (hand/fist); Twilight #7 (Evenfall)
Supplies and Styles: Seed Beads + Charcoal + Paint-by-Numbers frombookblather ("The lamps are going out all over Europe, we shall not see them lit again in our life-time.")
Word Count: 807
Rating: PG
Warnings: Smoking.
Notes: 1956; Thomas Hallam/Sylvia Howe, Jane Howe, Afzal Syed, Jack Brayfield. (I’ve been meaning to write something actually involving Sylvia as well as this little group ever since I started this… better late than never?)
Summary: Tom's not even sure why he came here tonight.
Tom knew he was present only as a prize exhibit – another walking soap box whose opinions were to be heard and then dissected after for entertainment. It was all hypothetical to these sorts. His hands clenched.
“Afzal!” Jane said, cutting into Tom’s thoughts. “Stop it – honestly, you sound as if you’d be happy for us all to worship at the shrine of the blessed Ideal Home Exhibition!”
Tom watched their resident poet spread his hands in response and then grin. “Perhaps it is a step towards art – and beauty. Somewhere down the line.”
“He’s drunk,” put in Jack helpfully. He was a junior journalist for one of the big dailies, Tom knew. Too good-looking, had it far too easy – but not another poet at least. “Plastered.”
Afzal sat up. “Calumny!” Then he caught Tom looking at him. “Well, Mr Hallam? They told us you hold ideas that make the PM tremble in his shoes, but you’ve barely opened your mouth all evening.”
“I’m only in favour of common sense,” said Tom. He remained where he was, back against the wall, fingers pressing into the anaglypta. “Things aren’t getting any better. It’s no good pretending it’s all fine when it isn’t. Someone’s got to do something. Someone with the nerve to be unpopular – bring back rationing, organise the country till we’ve got a chance of making it through this.”
Jack rolled his eyes at Jane – Tom saw him – and then said, “Unpopular? If the PM tried that, he’d be lynched, I should say.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” Tom shrugged. “If they don’t do it, we’ll all live to regret it.”
“We must ask for better than that,” Afzal protested. “No – demand better!”
“No good demanding if there isn’t anything better to have.”
Jack shot a quick glance at Afzal, before turning in his chair to frown at Tom. “You’re saying that because you assume there’s going to be more hostilities – war – worse. You can’t do that. You’re the politician. You’re the one who gets the chance to make treaties and agreements and make sure that isn’t the case.”
“Easier said than done,” Tom said.
Afzal stood on his chair. “Bring me pen! Bring me paper! I need to write something down.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jack to Tom, but he didn’t sound very apologetic. “I said he was plastered.”
“Inspired!” Afzal corrected him, hopping back down onto the ground without too much trouble. Tom assumed he couldn’t be all that drunk.
A chorus of groans greeted that pronouncement and the discussion petered out into Jane throwing pencils at Afzal, while Jack tried to sit on him.
Tom muttered his excuses and went out to smoke his pipe. That was a luxury, too, but he allowed it as a small concession to the madness of the times and everybody else’s refusal to understand. He fiddled with clearing it, finding the tobacco pouch, then a match, and by the time he’d done, he was calmer already.
“Mr Hallam.”
He turned to see Sylvia approaching, slight and dark-eyed in a white dress. She was the middle of the three Howe sisters, the only one in the group who had barely spoken all evening.
“Do you mind awfully if I join you?” she said, gesturing at her cigarette. “I’d like to hear more about what you were saying earlier.”
Tom grunted assent, which she understood, joining him against the wall of the house. The stars and the night sky seemed to be mirrored in her eyes.
“They always think I’m not interested,” she said. She put her free hand on his arm, lightly. “It’s just that their talk is all nonsense, really, no matter how radical Jane thinks she’s being. That’s all it is – talk. Even Afzal, who’s the only one who ever even halfway does anything. Well. I suppose Jane does sometimes.”
Tom studied his pipe carefully. “Oh?”
“You’re different, though, aren’t you? You really mean it. I liked hearing you say that – being practical. Are you speaking properly anywhere soon? You must be, mustn’t you – if you’re a politician.”
Tom leant his head back against the wall. “Oh, yes. I’m interesting, all right. And you want to come and gawk at the spectacle, like I’m the monkey in the zoo. Just like the rest of them.”
“No. I want to understand how I can help,” Sylvia said. “I expect I could, too. How about a column in Daddy’s paper? I don’t usually ask him for things like that, so he’d listen. Wouldn’t that be something?”
He gave a short smile. “Might be.” He peeled himself off the wall and looked at her properly. “More words, though.”
“Of course, I’d like to know what else I can do – properly – if I agree with you,” Sylvia added. Her hand fell on his, clenched unconsciously into a fist again. “Would you tell me now?”
Story: Divide & Rule/Heroes of the Revolution
Colors: Tourmaline #10 (hand/fist); Twilight #7 (Evenfall)
Supplies and Styles: Seed Beads + Charcoal + Paint-by-Numbers from
bookblather ("The lamps are going out all over Europe, we shall not see them lit again in our life-time.")Word Count: 807
Rating: PG
Warnings: Smoking.
Notes: 1956; Thomas Hallam/Sylvia Howe, Jane Howe, Afzal Syed, Jack Brayfield. (I’ve been meaning to write something actually involving Sylvia as well as this little group ever since I started this… better late than never?)
Summary: Tom's not even sure why he came here tonight.
Tom knew he was present only as a prize exhibit – another walking soap box whose opinions were to be heard and then dissected after for entertainment. It was all hypothetical to these sorts. His hands clenched.
“Afzal!” Jane said, cutting into Tom’s thoughts. “Stop it – honestly, you sound as if you’d be happy for us all to worship at the shrine of the blessed Ideal Home Exhibition!”
Tom watched their resident poet spread his hands in response and then grin. “Perhaps it is a step towards art – and beauty. Somewhere down the line.”
“He’s drunk,” put in Jack helpfully. He was a junior journalist for one of the big dailies, Tom knew. Too good-looking, had it far too easy – but not another poet at least. “Plastered.”
Afzal sat up. “Calumny!” Then he caught Tom looking at him. “Well, Mr Hallam? They told us you hold ideas that make the PM tremble in his shoes, but you’ve barely opened your mouth all evening.”
“I’m only in favour of common sense,” said Tom. He remained where he was, back against the wall, fingers pressing into the anaglypta. “Things aren’t getting any better. It’s no good pretending it’s all fine when it isn’t. Someone’s got to do something. Someone with the nerve to be unpopular – bring back rationing, organise the country till we’ve got a chance of making it through this.”
Jack rolled his eyes at Jane – Tom saw him – and then said, “Unpopular? If the PM tried that, he’d be lynched, I should say.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” Tom shrugged. “If they don’t do it, we’ll all live to regret it.”
“We must ask for better than that,” Afzal protested. “No – demand better!”
“No good demanding if there isn’t anything better to have.”
Jack shot a quick glance at Afzal, before turning in his chair to frown at Tom. “You’re saying that because you assume there’s going to be more hostilities – war – worse. You can’t do that. You’re the politician. You’re the one who gets the chance to make treaties and agreements and make sure that isn’t the case.”
“Easier said than done,” Tom said.
Afzal stood on his chair. “Bring me pen! Bring me paper! I need to write something down.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jack to Tom, but he didn’t sound very apologetic. “I said he was plastered.”
“Inspired!” Afzal corrected him, hopping back down onto the ground without too much trouble. Tom assumed he couldn’t be all that drunk.
A chorus of groans greeted that pronouncement and the discussion petered out into Jane throwing pencils at Afzal, while Jack tried to sit on him.
Tom muttered his excuses and went out to smoke his pipe. That was a luxury, too, but he allowed it as a small concession to the madness of the times and everybody else’s refusal to understand. He fiddled with clearing it, finding the tobacco pouch, then a match, and by the time he’d done, he was calmer already.
“Mr Hallam.”
He turned to see Sylvia approaching, slight and dark-eyed in a white dress. She was the middle of the three Howe sisters, the only one in the group who had barely spoken all evening.
“Do you mind awfully if I join you?” she said, gesturing at her cigarette. “I’d like to hear more about what you were saying earlier.”
Tom grunted assent, which she understood, joining him against the wall of the house. The stars and the night sky seemed to be mirrored in her eyes.
“They always think I’m not interested,” she said. She put her free hand on his arm, lightly. “It’s just that their talk is all nonsense, really, no matter how radical Jane thinks she’s being. That’s all it is – talk. Even Afzal, who’s the only one who ever even halfway does anything. Well. I suppose Jane does sometimes.”
Tom studied his pipe carefully. “Oh?”
“You’re different, though, aren’t you? You really mean it. I liked hearing you say that – being practical. Are you speaking properly anywhere soon? You must be, mustn’t you – if you’re a politician.”
Tom leant his head back against the wall. “Oh, yes. I’m interesting, all right. And you want to come and gawk at the spectacle, like I’m the monkey in the zoo. Just like the rest of them.”
“No. I want to understand how I can help,” Sylvia said. “I expect I could, too. How about a column in Daddy’s paper? I don’t usually ask him for things like that, so he’d listen. Wouldn’t that be something?”
He gave a short smile. “Might be.” He peeled himself off the wall and looked at her properly. “More words, though.”
“Of course, I’d like to know what else I can do – properly – if I agree with you,” Sylvia added. Her hand fell on his, clenched unconsciously into a fist again. “Would you tell me now?”
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