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tamingthemuse. *is scared*
I wanted to write a BtVS story, but it was more important to write something and this is what came. I'll try and write in fandom next time.
Title: Molly's Pitch
Fandom: Original Fiction
Prompt: #8 - Pitch
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
Summary: Musing
Sitting on the balcony, rheumy eyes looking out, straining, blinking in the breeze as it gusted in over the waves, across the sand, over the cliff. She gloried in the last warm sun of summer, as the winds of autumn closed in upon the town. White sails in the distance - a tall ship. Even from here it was easy to see the rocking motion of the masts - must be stronger out there. So many years since she'd seen that. Years ago, sitting on this very balcony waiting for Jack. Beautiful Jack. Jack of the promises. "I'll make you a princess, my bonnie. Will you wait from me, my pretty? Just wait a little longer, love. When the boat comes in."
But when the boat came in, it came without him. Although she waited, he never came. How old had she been? Hard to remember, now. So young. So full of hope. Before the world changed. Before that glorious summer of Nineteen fourteen.
Young men in white, with bat and ball. Mother and Great Aunt Sophia sitting at white wrought iron tables, delicately sipping tea. Cousin Charlotte of the plain face and exuberant laugh, mooning over young Frederick Cherton as he walked out onto the field, casually tossing the ball and catching it, ready to prove to the world he was unbeatable - a young Greek god with a mop of fair hair. And she, who had just succeeded in repairing her heart, after Jack absconded with it, was caught up again in the whirlwind of youth and hope and optimism and the beauty of Paul Chapman's eyes - almost ready to throw herself back into the adventure of life and love. They thought it would never end.
They said it would be over by Christmas. The young men from the cricket field, marched off together - all pals together. The younger ones left behind, impatient, for fear of missing it. The following year, how many were left? And she, impatient in her own way, had followed them. Great Aunt Sophia had disapproved - a nursing home, even if was for officers - was hardly genteel. No fit place for a young lady. But mother had understood. Because by then Alan was gone and she had almost worn out her needles, knitting socks.
And the young men who came back, coughing or shaking, on stretchers and on crutches. Some wept in their sleep, some screamed, some never made a sound. And so she followed them again, out into France. Watched them erect the tent with the Red Cross blazoned across the peak of its steep sloping roof. Did her best to help put up the smaller tents in which they lived. And then the first stretchers arrived. A mile behind the lines she saw them come, those who could be pulled out. Each night brave men, who for whatever reason chose not to carry a gun, crept forwards through the wire into No Mans Land, following the sounds of moaning and cries for water, dragging stretchers behind them, which eventually ended up with the doctors and with her.
For days and weeks and months two armies faced each other across that stretch of muddy ground, entrenched, seemingly immovable: brute force and blood and mud and stubbornness. The noise was deafening, so close as they were. It raged all day long, and only in the darkness of the night was it ever truly silent. Although even then, if the moon was out, there would be the occasional crack of single rifle shots. She came to be grateful for the nights when it was too dark to see, when the moon was new and clouds rolled in to cover the stars, when navigating between the tents became a dangerous game in the all-encompassing dark and any faint glow of lamp through canvas seemed to illuminate the ground around as clear as day.
The other nurses looked down on her as a middle-class do-gooder. They had the education that she lacked, because where they came from a girl got a job until she married, and they had trained for this work. But Bernadette, beautiful, earthy Bernadette - she took her in. Fifteen years at Guy's Hospital, no husband and never likely to have one. She took her in. Shared a tent. Shared her knowledge and skills. Taught her to bandage and clean, and to judge which were worth bandaging and cleaning - which were likely to survive. And that first mad Christmas when the fighting stopped and they had two days leave, twenty miles back in a pretty village which hardly seemed to have been touched if you only ignored the crowds in khaki walking the streets, where they got drunk to celebrate and shared a bed. Just once. Comfort. Bernadette knew it wasn't in her and she never held a grudge.
And six months later, she met Robert. Rob the poet, who had somehow survived since from the very start of it all. There was something tough in him, despite his poet's heart. He never screamed or moaned, although occasionally he wept. After four years in that hell he'd copped a blighty, and when he eventually went home, she went with him.
Another six months recovery and they married in the spring. A quiet ceremony at a London registry office, because she was already carrying Bobby and coming home a married woman was perfectly acceptable in those trouble times. Who was to know the actual date of the wedding? The photograph now stood in its heavy silver frame on the nightstand next to the big jug and bowl.
He burned with a need to right the injustices of the world. She was just glad to rest. But when he stood for Parliament she was at his side. At public meetings in draughty church halls where he refuted the claims of the other candidates, point by point, she sat in the front row, Bobby in her arms. When he stood up in the Market Square, speaking out to the crowd, she went round the stalls, handing out leaflets. And when he was duly elected, she followed him to London to act the part of the political hostess.
Throughout the mad days of the Twenties, when the champagne flowed and the music and the dancing followed new rhythms and tones, and through the dark days of the Thirties, when the music stopped and Rob spend long hours in the office followed by longer ones assisting at a soup kitchen, she played her part, working at his side. Once she got the vote, she used it assiduously. And Bobby was followed by Margaret and Johnny and Anne and little Bernadette, who she lost just one week old. Good days and bad, and Rob the poet, a constant source of wonder and love and reassurance. He worked so hard and never lost his belief that a better world was possible, even as the shadows gathered over Europe. And looking back at the world they made out of the ruins of 1945, she thought he was probably right.
The loss of the sun pulled her out of her musings and she shivered, noticing the darkening on the horizon as the storm clouds rolled forward towards the shore -- heavy like tar or black paint, pouring across the horizon.
Behind her the door clicked open and there was a rattle of silver against china, before footsteps hurried across the floor. Two warm hands reached down and gripped her shoulders lightly, warm breath whispered across her neck when he spoke. "Hey there, what are you still doing, out? Come on, let me help you in. You'll catch your death. I brought your tea and Helen has almost got supper done. The kids are out tonight."
He lifted the blanket from her lap and helped her stand, holding her firm when she tottered slightly. She smiled up into his face. "Thank you, Bobby dear." And she went with him back into the house.
End
Word count - 1,340
Pitch
Pitching - the movement of the boat when it rocks along the length of the Keel
A pitch - a place set apart for a game to be played
To pitch - to fling or throw.
To pitch - as in 'pitch in'
To pitch - to set up(the tent)
Pitch - the slope of a roof.
To pitch - to encamp
Pitched battle -- a deliberate battle on chosen ground between duly arranged sides.
Pitch dark, black as pitch
Pitcher -- a vessel usually earthenware, a large jug
To pitch - to pit in opposition to
To pitch - to lay out (e.g. for sale).
Pitch - the position taken by a street trader.
Pitch - as in musical pitch
Pitch - the black residue of the distillation of tar.
tamingthemuse. *is scared* I wanted to write a BtVS story, but it was more important to write something and this is what came. I'll try and write in fandom next time.
Title: Molly's Pitch
Fandom: Original Fiction
Prompt: #8 - Pitch
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
Summary: Musing
Sitting on the balcony, rheumy eyes looking out, straining, blinking in the breeze as it gusted in over the waves, across the sand, over the cliff. She gloried in the last warm sun of summer, as the winds of autumn closed in upon the town. White sails in the distance - a tall ship. Even from here it was easy to see the rocking motion of the masts - must be stronger out there. So many years since she'd seen that. Years ago, sitting on this very balcony waiting for Jack. Beautiful Jack. Jack of the promises. "I'll make you a princess, my bonnie. Will you wait from me, my pretty? Just wait a little longer, love. When the boat comes in."
But when the boat came in, it came without him. Although she waited, he never came. How old had she been? Hard to remember, now. So young. So full of hope. Before the world changed. Before that glorious summer of Nineteen fourteen.
Young men in white, with bat and ball. Mother and Great Aunt Sophia sitting at white wrought iron tables, delicately sipping tea. Cousin Charlotte of the plain face and exuberant laugh, mooning over young Frederick Cherton as he walked out onto the field, casually tossing the ball and catching it, ready to prove to the world he was unbeatable - a young Greek god with a mop of fair hair. And she, who had just succeeded in repairing her heart, after Jack absconded with it, was caught up again in the whirlwind of youth and hope and optimism and the beauty of Paul Chapman's eyes - almost ready to throw herself back into the adventure of life and love. They thought it would never end.
They said it would be over by Christmas. The young men from the cricket field, marched off together - all pals together. The younger ones left behind, impatient, for fear of missing it. The following year, how many were left? And she, impatient in her own way, had followed them. Great Aunt Sophia had disapproved - a nursing home, even if was for officers - was hardly genteel. No fit place for a young lady. But mother had understood. Because by then Alan was gone and she had almost worn out her needles, knitting socks.
And the young men who came back, coughing or shaking, on stretchers and on crutches. Some wept in their sleep, some screamed, some never made a sound. And so she followed them again, out into France. Watched them erect the tent with the Red Cross blazoned across the peak of its steep sloping roof. Did her best to help put up the smaller tents in which they lived. And then the first stretchers arrived. A mile behind the lines she saw them come, those who could be pulled out. Each night brave men, who for whatever reason chose not to carry a gun, crept forwards through the wire into No Mans Land, following the sounds of moaning and cries for water, dragging stretchers behind them, which eventually ended up with the doctors and with her.
For days and weeks and months two armies faced each other across that stretch of muddy ground, entrenched, seemingly immovable: brute force and blood and mud and stubbornness. The noise was deafening, so close as they were. It raged all day long, and only in the darkness of the night was it ever truly silent. Although even then, if the moon was out, there would be the occasional crack of single rifle shots. She came to be grateful for the nights when it was too dark to see, when the moon was new and clouds rolled in to cover the stars, when navigating between the tents became a dangerous game in the all-encompassing dark and any faint glow of lamp through canvas seemed to illuminate the ground around as clear as day.
The other nurses looked down on her as a middle-class do-gooder. They had the education that she lacked, because where they came from a girl got a job until she married, and they had trained for this work. But Bernadette, beautiful, earthy Bernadette - she took her in. Fifteen years at Guy's Hospital, no husband and never likely to have one. She took her in. Shared a tent. Shared her knowledge and skills. Taught her to bandage and clean, and to judge which were worth bandaging and cleaning - which were likely to survive. And that first mad Christmas when the fighting stopped and they had two days leave, twenty miles back in a pretty village which hardly seemed to have been touched if you only ignored the crowds in khaki walking the streets, where they got drunk to celebrate and shared a bed. Just once. Comfort. Bernadette knew it wasn't in her and she never held a grudge.
And six months later, she met Robert. Rob the poet, who had somehow survived since from the very start of it all. There was something tough in him, despite his poet's heart. He never screamed or moaned, although occasionally he wept. After four years in that hell he'd copped a blighty, and when he eventually went home, she went with him.
Another six months recovery and they married in the spring. A quiet ceremony at a London registry office, because she was already carrying Bobby and coming home a married woman was perfectly acceptable in those trouble times. Who was to know the actual date of the wedding? The photograph now stood in its heavy silver frame on the nightstand next to the big jug and bowl.
He burned with a need to right the injustices of the world. She was just glad to rest. But when he stood for Parliament she was at his side. At public meetings in draughty church halls where he refuted the claims of the other candidates, point by point, she sat in the front row, Bobby in her arms. When he stood up in the Market Square, speaking out to the crowd, she went round the stalls, handing out leaflets. And when he was duly elected, she followed him to London to act the part of the political hostess.
Throughout the mad days of the Twenties, when the champagne flowed and the music and the dancing followed new rhythms and tones, and through the dark days of the Thirties, when the music stopped and Rob spend long hours in the office followed by longer ones assisting at a soup kitchen, she played her part, working at his side. Once she got the vote, she used it assiduously. And Bobby was followed by Margaret and Johnny and Anne and little Bernadette, who she lost just one week old. Good days and bad, and Rob the poet, a constant source of wonder and love and reassurance. He worked so hard and never lost his belief that a better world was possible, even as the shadows gathered over Europe. And looking back at the world they made out of the ruins of 1945, she thought he was probably right.
The loss of the sun pulled her out of her musings and she shivered, noticing the darkening on the horizon as the storm clouds rolled forward towards the shore -- heavy like tar or black paint, pouring across the horizon.
Behind her the door clicked open and there was a rattle of silver against china, before footsteps hurried across the floor. Two warm hands reached down and gripped her shoulders lightly, warm breath whispered across her neck when he spoke. "Hey there, what are you still doing, out? Come on, let me help you in. You'll catch your death. I brought your tea and Helen has almost got supper done. The kids are out tonight."
He lifted the blanket from her lap and helped her stand, holding her firm when she tottered slightly. She smiled up into his face. "Thank you, Bobby dear." And she went with him back into the house.
End
Word count - 1,340
Pitch
Pitching - the movement of the boat when it rocks along the length of the Keel
A pitch - a place set apart for a game to be played
To pitch - to fling or throw.
To pitch - as in 'pitch in'
To pitch - to set up(the tent)
Pitch - the slope of a roof.
To pitch - to encamp
Pitched battle -- a deliberate battle on chosen ground between duly arranged sides.
Pitch dark, black as pitch
Pitcher -- a vessel usually earthenware, a large jug
To pitch - to pit in opposition to
To pitch - to lay out (e.g. for sale).
Pitch - the position taken by a street trader.
Pitch - as in musical pitch
Pitch - the black residue of the distillation of tar.
