A Dark Imagined Bristol

A Dark Imagined Bristol

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An Anthology of Stories

by

The Bristol Fiction Writers’ Group

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY

The Bristol Fiction Writers’ Group

on Smashwords

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A Dark Imagined Bristol

Copyright © 2013

The Bristol Fiction Writers’ Group

Smashwords Edition

License Notes

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Contents

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The Grey Glove – D A Allen

Old Mother Hemlock – Liz Ascott

First Blood – Helen Blenkinsop

Restoration – Judy Darley

The Bag – Tim Kindberg

Devil’s Game – Nigel Lapworth

Book Club – Marc Mcilhone

William’s Inn – Suzanna Stanbury

Out of the Depths – Ruth Stanton

Knife – D A Allen

Fleabite – Liz Ascott

Clifton Wives – Helen Blenkinsop

Untrue Blue – Judy Darley

The Runner – Tim Kindberg

Game Show – Nigel Lapworth

Come Dine With Me – Marc Mcilhone

Freemantle Coven – Suzanna Stanbury

Losing Karen – D A Allen

The White Deer – Liz Ascott

Old Mr Jarvis – Nigel Lapworth

Rattus, Rattus – Suzanna Stanbury

The Grey Glove

D A Allen

I see the worry on Ma’s face when Pa doesn’t come home for his supper. Every meal is a miracle worthy of Jesus, for he’s been out of work for a year this Michaelmas. Ma is worrying that he’ll be in a tavern somewhere with the sort of friends he doesn’t need. And there’s a strange feeling in the city. Pa took me to a meeting last Wednesday – I’ve never seen so many people in the Square in my life. Talking about the vote, how unfair it was, how to change it.

Will that help us get food and jobs, Pa? I said.

It might, our Will, he said. For now we must vote as the Tories want or get thrown out of work.

I don’t see how voting for a Whig will get us meat pies for supper, but when I’m grown I’ll understand more. The people in the Square all cheered the speeches, so that must be right.

Dinner is miserable, with Ma silent and tense and listening for Pa’s foot on the stair. I offer to go look for Pa, and Ma’s face brightens.

Out in the street, I head towards the Velindra first. He used to go there when he was head mason on the bridge, so it reminds him of happier times. But when I get to the tavern it’s shut tight as an oyster, so I carry along by the water to see what I can see.

The loading sheds stand empty and many taverns are shuttered. There are bits of wood scattered on the ground. I see young Harry from our street – he carries a wooden stave and has a glitter in his eye I never saw before.

This way, he says. He’s nearly running. I follow him, curious. As we go into Queens Square I’m amazed to see a great crowd of people in front of the Mansion House. They sway and move like grass in a breeze. Someone’s put one of those French red, white and blue bonnets atop the statue of old King William in the middle, I can just see it above the people hanging off his horse to get a good view. People seem excited, like they’re expecting some great entertainment.

The Mansion House looks very fine, the gold paint on the coat of arms sparkles. We see the servants light the candelabras in the great banqueting hall inside. My belly rumbles at the thought of roast meat and all the trimmings they’ll be eating. The crowd surges forward towards the lights and shouts go up. A man hanging from the horse tells us that two men at the front have been pulled from the crowd and cudgelled to the ground. The constables are no better than thugs, he says.

Looking round, I see Harry grinning at me from King William’s statue. With his help and a shove from a man in the crowd I clamber up to join him. Excited, we stand right above everyone’s heads, with a view right across that big space. Apart from the Mansion House, all the big merchants’ houses are shuttered up tight. Then we see such a fine sight! The Cavalry, on their glossy horses, in their red jackets, come into the Square. Their sabres clatter, the horses’ hooves drum hollowly on the cobblestones. The whole crowd seems to hold its breath. They rein in and the captain leans down and shakes a man’s hand. Such a big cheer goes up. They’re on our side, these proud soldiers! The crowd moves back for them and the men move slowly out of the square, receiving greetings from people as they go.

I tell Harry that I have to find Pa, and we both scramble back down to the ground. It takes us an age to worm our way through the mass of people to the edge of the Square. The mood of the crowd has changed again. As the smell of the food being prepared for the banquet wafts towards them, a groan goes up. Once more they press forward, and I hear the crack and crash of breaking windows. Harry and I run for it.

We call at taverns and ask neighbours we see, but no one has seen Pa. Darkness is falling and I’d like to get back home, but Harry wants to carry on. It feels dangerous on the street. As we come out of the Shakespeare, we see a fire starting up against the dark sky. It looks to be just the other side of the Square. We hear the crowd give a roar and some women scream; figures come running towards us, men carrying sticks, women struggling to run carrying babies and holding the hands of children. Then, the beat of horses’ hooves as a company of blue-jacketed Dragoons appears, bearing down on the running figures. I see a woman snatch her child from out of the way and nearly get cut by a flashing sabre. It catches her cloak as she draws back against the railing.

I crouch down, shaking, in the shadow of the steps as the horsemen pursue the running figures. Then they turn towards the river and gallop past us, as if they would chase their quarry right into the cold waters of the harbour.

I tell Harry I want to get home, but that makes him angry.

And what will you find there? Good food to eat? Warm clothes to wear? Fine pictures to look at? His face glows red in the light of a second fire starting up, nearer this time. Did you see the fine furniture and silverware in the Mansion House? You could eat for a week for the price of one piece of that silver.

I stand, confused by his words, not knowing what to do, not wanting to be on the street alone on such a night.

But Ma will be worried, is all I can think to say. Harry grabs my hand and pulls me forward.

Take home something for her, something that will help feed the whole family.

Harry still has a firm hold on me as we make our way against the tide of people leaving the Square. Some carry burning torches. Nipping at their heels are boys my age and younger – I recognise a couple from our street. Everyone is excited, you can feel it.

A neighbour, young Toby, stops in front of me. We’re going to fire the gaols. Come on!

I shake my head, stepping back.

A man raises his torch high, shouting, ‘Free the prisoners.

Others echo him, "Free them, free them!’ and Toby is swept on by the crowd.

Harry grabs me and yanks me back, into the shadow of an alley running behind the merchants’ houses. We run into the darkness until we can see nothing at all, then stop and wait for our eyes to get used to the dark. As the noise of the crowd fades, I hear the soft crackle of fire, the crack of hot breaking glass. And then an even softer noise – movement. I see them; two figures creep slowly in the blackness up to the back door of the nearest house and huddle there. The sharp impact of metal on wood and a splintering sound, and the door swings open. The two disappear inside as if they have melted.

Saying nothing, Harry pushes me towards the door. I’m fearful, but I’m curious too. I’ve never been inside a great house: this is my only chance.

We stand by the door, leaning forward and listening to the quiet sounds of the two men as they move deep into the house. We hear the creak of a stair. I take a breath and we step in. I feel something hard under my foot. I reach down to pick it up. A heavy old iron key, which has fallen out of the door. I’ve never had a key; we have nothing worth locking up. I try to imagine what it would be like to need keys to safeguard your belongings, but can’t. It’s a heavy reassuring weight in my hand; I can see why rich people like them. I slip the key inside my jacket.

Harry has moved off but stands waiting for me. Perhaps he’s as scared as I am, it’s difficult to hear anything above the thudding of my heart. We move across the flagstones into a tiled hallway, then see a glimmer of light coming from a doorway. We stop and listen, listen as if our lives depend on it. And they do, I realise, for what will happen if we’re caught here? Arrest, gaol, deportation or – and I remember the Dragoons riding down people in the street. We hear a muffled bump and some laughter from the men upstairs. Harry breathes easier and peeps round the door.

Empty, he whispers. Come on.

I move forward and stumble on something soft and crouch down to touch what it is. Thick, soft, wool carpet, and I can see the pattern of it, oddly beautiful, like nothing I’ve seen before.

Turkey carpet, announces Harry as if he sees one every day, and I look up as he moves into the room. By the light of a guttering oil lamp I see a fantastic sight. The room is full of books, shelf on shelf, reaching up to the high ceiling. So high, that there is a little wooden ladder resting against them. The abandoned oil lamp stands on a big oak desk with a pale, carved inkstand in the middle, glimmering in the lamplight.

Harry’s not impressed. No food here, he says, and begins to move towards the door.

I feel a sort of panic at leaving all these books here. There’s not one at home, Ma even had to pawn the family bible. Surely I could take back something? On a low chair – it must be specially made for a child – I see a book thrown down, its cover torn. I pick it up, and it falls open at a coloured picture of Tom, the piper’s son, in full flight from a crowd with a small, struggling pig tucked under his arm. It makes me stifle a laugh, I can imagine Lizzie’s face when she sees it, and I tuck it into my jacket with the key.

Beyond the shuttered windows we hear shouts and galloping hooves, as if a battle is raging in the Square. Something hits the front of the house with a crash and we make a rush back to the hallway.

Let’s get out of here, I say. I’m suddenly terrified and shaking again.

We haven’t found any food, or silver we could sell. A teaspoon at least.

He turns into a small back parlour, and I follow. On a little table stand a plain teapot, a sugar bowl, and cup and saucer. Harry snatches up the sugar tongs and a teaspoon and pulls open the drawer of a dresser, looking for more. By the tea set I see a little scrap of grey and I pick it up. A lady’s glove, finely worked and as soft as a ghost. Surely Ma would like that? I suddenly want to be back home, so much that it hurts. I tuck the glove into my jacket, right by my heart.

A shout goes up at the front of the house and there’s a great thud that echoes against the shutters. Harry abandons his search. We head for the back door, and get out of the house.

We turn into the alley and run. Harry is just in front of me as we reach the pavement. There’s too much light from the fires here. As we turn right, away from the Square, I hear a sharp crack. My legs slow, Harry speeds away from me, I can’t keep up.

I hear a loud bang and my body is knocked downward. A scream – is that me or Harry? It sounds like a fox. Warmth spreads across my back. I don’t feel hungry any more.

They bring my boy to me. His poor thin little body, limp and bloody – lifeless. Tucked inside his jacket we find a book of nursery rhymes with a torn cover, an old key, and one grey glove. His father never comes home.

Old Mother Hemlock

Liz Ascott

She awoke – and it was happening again. Paralysis gripped her; she could sense evil in the room. Head and shoulders exposed, every fibre of her being experienced the malevolent presence. She knew she must lie there and wait for the feeling of dread to pass. At last, sleep came.

In the morning, Hope went down stairs to make coffee in the kitchen of her newly rented house.

Yes, houses do have different personalities, the agent had said, glancing round the dingy dining room with its coal-effect fire. Built in the 1880s, these were. It’s the high ceilings makes ‘em seem bigger. Some got tunnels underneath. Not this one, mind.

Reminding him she planned to rent, not buy, Hope signed the lease that day. She needed to move in immediately. She’d abandoned her botanical fieldwork in the upland valleys of northwest Scotland, to go to ground in a miner’s terraced cottage in Bristol.

Go, for heaven’s sake, while Jack’s drying out, her friends had urged. You won’t leave once he’s back from detox. She’d fled, leaving two people: good Jack and bad Jack. Away from Jack’s dark influence, his alcoholic rages, she’d hoped the night terrors would stop. But the terrors had sought her out, moved in with her that first night in the rented house.

Hope scanned her list. A locksmith to check doors and windows. No problem there. Decide on a room of ‘final retreat’, and reinforce the door. Buy curtains for the front windows, bright, cheap and thick. There must be no give-away signs on the sills, like botany books, collected flora, found treasures from the natural world. One wrong note in a street