North + South - Short Stories, Poems & More: Volume 2

The Inspector's Drabble: "Questions"

He stood in the middle of street, perplexed, unsure of what to do next. The letter had come as a shock to him and the lady’s reaction to it was suspiciously confusing the more he thought on it. Was she surprised? Why was she surprised? What led Mr Thornton to believe that the victim was undoubtedly not murdered? And what of this man seen with the lady at the station? Who and where is he now? And how is he linked to Ms Hale of Crampton, he pondered, as he put his hat back on before he set off again.

I Have Seen Hell

Traversing the short passageway while she approached the sliding doors felt like forever. The workers' stares burnt into her back, the dust in the air was choking her. And the noise! Getting louder by the step.

She pushed open the entrance; the perpetual clatter became a solid wall of sound. How could people stand it? She stared, disoriented by glaring lights and machinery in motion. And fluff, swirling like snow.

And amidst it all, or rather, raised above the whirr... a dark vigilant presence. Like a puppet player directing the show. Master or demon--who knew?

The Inspector's Drabble: "Surveillance"

Hidden from view, standing by the corner of the building, the inspector stood watching the front porch of the Crampton house observing the going ins and outs for a few minutes. There wasn't a lot of activity but just now Mr Thornton had emerged from the door and stood a moment with his head down and eyes closed. He had in his right hand a stack of books tied together which he readjusted as he climbed down the steps turning townward. Common knowledge was that Mr Hale was his friend who was reading the classics with him now; oddly enough.

Suddenly

Marlborough Mills. The loading bay at the yard. Like thieves caught in the act both spinner girls looked down at the ground in mute dismay. Did he hear?

Know what they say about Thorntons? They can smell when you're not working.

Obviously, they can also hear what you are thinking. Take right now. A little innocent airing of grievances, a naïve question by an outsider about... well, never mind! That's all union business and none of our concern just yet... and wham! there he is, right behind you. Out of nowhere.

Talk of the Devil, and see his horns.



(Looks like this man has an image problem)

7.50 pm

"Now's the time. We will all stop our machines at the end of the day, Friday, ten minutes before time. And no-one, no-one will start them up!"

The first indication was the sound; the high-pitched whine was gradually turning into a deeper drone. Then the speed of the transmission belts slackened and the frantic movement of the power looms slowed down, and eventually petered out. The workers abandoned their machines and left the mill in single file. No-one looked up.

And, at last, the gearwheel took its final turn and came to a halt.


Notch... by... notch.



Silence.

This actually started out as a couple of drabbles, but it seemed better together as a flash fiction. My first time at dialogue too...

~


"The Orange Crush"

She took the orange, rolled it and gave it a slight squeeze between her fingers before bringing it to her nose for a good whiff. When she handed it to the grocer's assistant, he moved towards the counter to add to the pile of items collected there. Swiftly, she slipped another orange into her pocket hidden from his view. Purchases in hand, she walked out of the store and quickly moved down the street.

"I could charge you with theft, Mary Higgins," said a voice behind her.

Stopped in her tracks she stood quiet as a mouse, stunned to breathe.


*


He moved surefootedly covering the space between them in two big steps until he was right in front of her. Unmistakable were the uniformed clothes and shoes that her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach.

It was the inspector.

Crikey; I'm done for.

Laden with guilt, she lowered her head, her eyes beginning to sting as they filled with tears. Her lower lip quivered.

"There's no need for a show now. I'll not take you to the station if...if you promise to answer the truth; plain and simple."

Tears rolled down her cheeks as Mary hesitatingly nodded.


*


"Who was the man seen at the Hale house in Crampton a fortnight ago?" asked the inspector.

Fear now replaced her guilt. Mary felt like a bird trapped in the mouth of her prey as she struggled to form her thoughts, the voices and images from days past on silent play in her head. Her parched throat unable to swallow past the lump, burned.

"Come on; out with it. Quickly now. I've not got all day. Speak up!"

Shivers shot down her spine. Mary breathed after what seemed like the first time since she was stopped on this side street.


*


Abandoned by choice she whispered, "I...Mr...'twas Mr Hale's son...Master Frederick."

"Why was he here? Speak up now!"

"He'd come to see him mum...before she died...sir," she choked on the words, unable to focus on her dirt-covered tattered shoes.

"Where is he now?"

"Sp...Spain," she begrudgingly confessed.

"In Spain? What's he doing there? Well?"

"Dunno sir," she cried. "Him that were over...please, sir...'twas only an orange...for 'em Boucher little ones mouths," she sobbed.

"If I catch you stealing again, Mary Higgins, straight to the station it'll be; you understand now?"

"Yes sir."


*


Mary wiped her reddened, tear-streaked cheeks onto her dirty sleeve. She waited until the inspector's steps were swallowed by the distance before she could find her feet again. She flew out of town as fast as she could, her betrayed heart thundering as she climbed up the hill. Overwhelmed once again, she fell beside her sister's grave and heaved through the freely flowing tears. How could he be so cruel to get it out of her? How could she have done this to Ms Hale who had been nothing but kind to her family? Would her confession ever be forgivable?

This must be the chilliest and wettest beginning of August in ages--let's heat the atmosphere with a round of haiku. Here comes...


August heat. A mob
groups. Tempers rise, boil over.
Grab a stone and--strike!

Part 1 | Red Cravat


Thunder rolled. Lady Luck rolling her dice, his father had called it, and then he had laughed. His carefree, frivolous father. Before everything had changed.

Having entered his bedroom in a rush Thornton stopped dead for a moment, suddenly tripped up by this unbidden memory. Then, with an irritated jerk of his head, he shrugged it off. Not now. He was late as it was.

He impatiently tugged at his plain black cravat. His waistcoat, already unbuttoned on his way up, came next; he shrugged out of it and pulled off his shirt. Just before hurrying upstairs, upon coming in from the yard, he had handed over his coat to Jane and briskly ordered her to brush it at once, to get rid of the lint clinging to it after a day at the mill. He would be ready to go out again in an instant.

He was about to grab a fresh shirt when he saw his reflection in the mirror. It was late in the day... He needed a shave. His hand pressed against the side of the ewer on the washstand. Still warm. It would do.

While he lathered his face with soap and carefully navigated the plains of his face with a cut-throat razor, his thoughts wandered to the evening ahead of him. Tea at the Hales' place in Crampton.

Earlier that day he had told his mother that he would need to come in and change before going to visit them, and she had scoffed at the idea. He had smiled at her vehemence and had pointed out that the Hales were gentlefolk, and due some consideration. Whereupon his mother had just looked at him with her eyebrows raised.

"Don't worry, Mother," had been his sarcastic reply, "I'm in no danger from Miss Hale. She's very unlikely to consider me a catch. She's from the South. She doesn't care for our Northern ways."

Now he wondered what had made him say such a thing. Both his previous interactions with Miss Hale had been quite unfortunate, or rather... disastrous. He still winced at the thought of her witnessing his loss of temper that day at the mill. Yes, she must have thought him a barbarian. And the second time he met her, at her father's study, hadn't been that much better; striving for aloofness he felt he had only achieved to be defensive and uncouth. Other than that they had only seen each other in passing since then, and never exchanged more than a nod.

Not a gentleman, her eyes had said, every single time.

Forcefully he rinsed off the last traces of soap, splashing some water on the floor. It vexed him that he gave her so much thought. What was it his mother had called Margaret Hale? A renegade clergyman's daughter... What would a girl like her, with her sheltered upbringing, know about his life? And what right had she to judge him, indeed?

He donned his shirt, and then his hand hovered over one of his plain black cravats, hesitating. No! He might not be a gentleman in Miss Hale's eyes but he could at least dress as one, he thought defiantly. Anyway, he wouldn't visit to see her but go there at her father's invitation, for a pleasant evening of animated conversation amongst educated men.

Thornton took one final look in the mirror before he left the room. Silk waistcoat, Sunday-best frockcoat, and... burgundy cravat. Too much of a red rag? he wondered briefly. No matter, he would fly his colours.

🎩




Coming soon: Part 2 | White Cravat (... or any other cravat that comes to mind)