A Little Fall Of Rain...

Augusta "Rose" Meddley

[rose-meddley]

dickiebird-weatherstaff​:

“Of course, of course.” There was an eagerness to assure her that yes, he considered her the Queen of her domain, but not so much that he hadn’t caught the playfulness in the jab. “Lord help anyone who tries to intervene with you and your stove.”

Weatherstaff considered her question solemnly. Though the dream was small, it was made all the more valuable by just how out of reach it was. He did not think it was silly, so long for something like a lie in. Eventually, he shook his head. “If I’d been born to it, I would have done the best I could. But I think the duties of a King can keep you up far later and wake you up far earlier if you mind them as seriously as you should.” He heard some of the young ones harp on and on about the luxurious lives they’d live ‘as soon as they’d made their fortune, or gotten their lucky break. He wouldn’t stomp those dreams out, but he could not possess them himself. He had accepted his lot a long time ago. “To sleep in might be nice from time to time, but I think I’d miss the sunrises.”

He allowed a little chuckle, a certain pride, at correctly guessing the flavours in the tea, then he ducked his head bashfully. “Ah yes, blueberry too, I can pick it out now you’ve said it.” He took another sip to properly find it. He couldn’t help but nod fondly at the memory she unearthed. “They were sticky all summer long. I spoiled them really.” He quite missed having a gaggle of children at his heels, it had been too long since someone had breathed new life into these houses.

Weatherstaff sat with the observation, digesting it. Yes, you protected things that had been damaged, you made them hard and hid them away. “You have a lot of experience with broken hearts, Mrs Meddley?” He asked, also busying himself with the food and not meeting her eye.

“Off with their heads,” Rose nodded sagely. She took a bite off a pickle.

“I suppose you’re right, Mr Weatherstaff.” A King should work harder than a laundry girl, and yet... The hierarchy in a house was good example of that. You worked your fingers and feet off when you were young, all for a few pence, then you rose to maid or cook assistant, or footman and earn a little more. And eventually, if you played your cards right, you could be housekeeper or butler and almost earn yourself the occasional holiday. As housekeeper and butler you physically worked less hard, but the responsibility was great, the stress of needing the whole house to function lay heavily on you, at least when you were a good housekeeper. Rose supposed that was how Kings felt. It was an easy life, but only if you did not truly care.  The comment about the sunrise had her look up from her plate and thoughts, and her gaze rested on the old gardener for a long while. It was quite a romantic notion, what he had just said there. She felt warm thinking about it. But what she said was: “The sunrise would not miss you, though.” Cynical, almost, because that was what the life of a not-King made you.

“It certainly did not build character,” she agreed, chuckling into her potato-bite. As she chewed, the smile disappeared and she sighed. “Ah, how they’ve all grown. It really is quite true what they say, isn’t it, Mr Weatherstaff? It’s only through children growing up, that one notices oneself growing old.” 

“Oh, you,” she waved the question off, a little indignant (though not really), “we’re too old and too earnest for those sort of things.” But she could not brush the thought off right away, and eventually it settled and grew, and she thought of her past. “I suppose there was a man once. He promised me a ring but-... Ah. That was so long ago now.” The happy fat of her belly that had grown over the years even hid the scar sometimes. 

[rose-meddley]

dickiebird-weatherstaff​:

He nodded, cheekily, like he did not believe a word she said, though his expression was just as serious as hers. “Oh no no no. I’ll eat at his table, but I’d refuse his crown,” he said decisively, as he eyed up the carefully placed cutlery like unfamiliar friends. “The kind of kingdom I keep does not need me as a figurehead.” He respected the Earl, and part of that respect came from never wanting to be in his shoes. Besides, crowns were a delusion in his eyes. He’d be a fool if he thought he were more powerful than the sun or the tides, the wind or the sweeping of a sickness. He had seen first-hand how powerless a king and all his armies could be. And still. “And you? Do you ever wish for a throne, Mrs Meddley?” He grunted, with good nature, at her response, and took a tentative sip at the tea. Once he’d learnt the tea was perfect drinking temperature, he took a braver sip. He let it sit on his tongue for a moment, discerning its flavours before he allowed it to slip down and warm his soul. “A fine blend as always,“ he complimented. It was sweet, but not with sugar or honey. “Blackcurrants?” he asked simply. He hummed, concerned and thoughtful. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Though he had no particular love for any of the Forester family, it was a genuine unease. “It has been much the same here. After the young master’s death, they hold each other at arm’s length. If I were a more foolish man, I might suppose this distrust were spreading.”

Rose reckoned that those were wise words. Yet she found herself wanting more. “Are you saying I am not the Queen of my own kitchen, Mr Weatherstaff?” she joked instead, scolding him just as before, a fondness in her voice only someone who knew her very very well could detect. Someone like Mr Weatherstaff, possibly. That someone would also hear the difference as she spoke again, more earnestly: “But if you had been born one? Do you not sometimes long for a day where you could ... sleep in?” It wasn’t a grand dream. Yet it felt like she was asking for a crown. 

Blackcurrent was exactly right. Of course he would taste it right away! Her eyes glistened and if you looked very very carefully, you could see that there was a blush hiding beneath her cheeks. “Syrup. And blueberry,” she answered, as not to show how flattered she was, finding something to correct instead. “I used to make this very blend for my Little Ebenezer one Summer, do you remember? He shared it with his friends and  they dared to pester you through the whole season demanding you give them more blackcurrent and blueberries to make syrup with.” They had been almost young then.

She looked down into her plate. “Once a heart breaks, the hardened scar it leaves behind makes it so difficult to let love in again, doesn’t it?” She glanced at Mr Weatherstaff, then busied herself to carefully unfold the potato.

[rose-meddley]

dickiebird-weatherstaff​:

“Now, now Mrs Meddley, no need to get cheeky with *me*,” he responded, trying to hide some embarrassment. For all the years he’d known her, he’d never heard a mean word from her mouth, so even if she was unimpressed by the pickles, he never would have known it. In that way he supposed it didn’t matter either way, if she liked them or no, she cared enough to be kind. That was enough for him.

He did not want to sit idle whilst she laid their makeshift table, so he got to his feet and stoked the fire, feeding it a few more branches from the pile. When he returned to his seat he admired her handy work. “Fit for a king,” he said with all earnestness.

He bowed his head to hide the faint blush at her compliments and made a mumbled noise of acknowledgement, then he busied himself. He used the newly procured cutlery to pry the potatoes from the last of their foil and placed one neatly on her plate, then the other on his, next to his pickle. There was much joy in these simple things, he thought.

“Quite right, quite right,” he agreed. He was a hardy man, but he feared the flu as much as any wise man should, so the tea was much appreciated. Though Rose’s tea was a treat even when there wasn’t a flu doing the rounds. “The fire will help keep the chill away, but it’s always good to have something warming you from the inside. What mixture is this one?” He asked, the aroma from the flask just hitting his nose. “Are all well at Fairford?” He then inquired, more out of politeness, for he was convinced any who drank Rose’s tea regularly would be healthy, body and soul, all year round.

“I am never cheeky, Mister Weatherstaff. I am sensible, respectable and perfectly earnest woman,” she said, cheekily. It was neither readable in her expression, nor the tone of her voice, but very much in the mouse-like glisten in her eyes. The glisten remained as she made sure not to watch Mister Weatherstaff restock the fire from the corner of her eyes, and as she, at last, settled down as well. “Your Majesty,” she then said and handed him a plate with a pickle on it. 

The thought of royalty lingered on as she took her plate back, now heavy with the weight of the potato. “Would you have enjoyed being a King, Mister Weatherstaff?” 

“None wiser than the one who discovers the world for himself,” Rose replied to what she might have put into her tea, which was mostly black tea with some blackcurrent and blueberry syrup she had made over the Summer. “I might will it so, if I said that yes, everyone is well at Fairford. But in the name of current truth, I must admit, Mister Weatherstaff, I must admit, a strange mood has befallen the family. It is as though they are all suspicious of each other. Even their laughs sound wary.” 

[rose-meddley]

dickiebird-weatherstaff​:

Weatherstaff let out a flustered huff and a string of defensive noises that trailed off as he feigned interest in peeling the foil off his potato. Knowing now that Rose had plates, he took hers back and began to diligently defoil that one as well.

At the voicing of her worries he grunted, which may have been an amused chuckle, or a sound of concession. “Don’t worry yourself Mrs Meddley, I know how to take care of myself.” He certainly wouldn’t ever starve, it was nearly impossible here. Even in winter you could find something to forage if you knew what to look for. “Though it’s true, I never eat as well as when you come to visit.” It was as close to a ‘thank you’ or an 'I’d miss you if you didn’t come’ as their unspoken pact would allow. 

The potatoes sat peeled and ready to be plated now. “I did think to bring some pickle,” he fumbled around in the low light until his hand found the jar of pickle he’d pulled from his cabinet. The handwritten label declared it had been made and sealed a few years previous.  He held it out to Rose for her inspection or perhaps approval. It seemed a little silly now. “Plain potatoes’d do just fine of course, but I thought, well…” he didn’t finish the explanation, just nodded to the jar again. He’d thought he might do a little better than plain potatoes if Rose would be joining him.

“Now, now, there’s no need to be cheeky with me, Mr Weatherstaff,” Rose scolded him, rejecting the almost-compliment in a way of hers that saved her face from becoming flustered, with sharply raised eyebrows following a smile that made the apples of her cheeks all round and plump.

“My, some whole pickles, yes? What a feast we shall have.” Once again, she sounded a bit cheeky herself, bu the truth was that she did love pickles. They reminded her of her childhood, especially the cold winters where they had nothing but the foods they had saved over the Summer. The memory of her mother and her huddled around the fire, chomping on hot pickles was such a fond one, that she was already sure it would be difficult to hide her contentment from Mr Weatherstaff from here on out. “A feast indeed.”

Setting down the heavy basket, she began plucking out a table cloth to place over a log, then procured, one by one: Plates, forks, napkins, a thermos with tea. Only the fruit salad she left inside. Perhaps to keep it as a surprise. Then she flapped her handkerchief at another log to dust it off, before sitting down. She was still in her livery, and although it was dirty -- and had been dirty for decades -- she did see a great difference between the dirt of a kitchen and the dirt of nature.

Only then she took the pickle jar and inspected it. “I think they will do very well, Mr Weatherstaff,” she said. “Rather thoughtful, rather thoughtful.” She plopped the lid open with a knife, then, after handing him a plate, set a pickle down into it. “I have also brought tea, for you know how quickly the night can get cold in Summer, and the Summer flu is going through St Maur Castle and I simply will not have it.”

[rose-meddley]

dickiebird-weatherstaff​:

Like a Moth to a Flame

Date: 15th July 1904 Place: The grounds of St Maur Castle Status: Open!

The last traces of daylight had disappeared beyond the horizon and Weatherstaff was picking the last bits of meat from the bones of the fish he’d just baked. Before him sat a crackling bonfire. Not too big, not too much for him to control, but big enough to produce a strong and steady heat. He imagined, from the right vantage point, the warm flickering light it cast would be seen for miles around. Which was what he assumed had drawn the approaching figure to his fire.

He turned around on the stump he was sitting on. He noted the features of the visitor’s face, now illuminated by the firelight, and tipped his cap in greeting. Then he got up and pulled another substantial stump from the pile of wood still left to burn and set it down as a seat for them.

He leant towards the fire and plucked out two large potatoes wrapped in foil which had been baking in the ashes. “Don’t have no plates, wasn’t expecting company.” Though no apology was actually given it was spoken as one. “But you can use this glove. It’ll cool down soon enough.” He had pulled off his thick leather gardening glove with the potato still nestled inside, then offered it to his guest like a plate.

He retook his seat on his stump.  

“Were you worried?” He asked. Fire often sparked an instant panic in people, for good reason too. Perhaps they had come to make sure all was safe. Yet Weatherstaff knew fire also kindled curiosity. He was sure Leone had many a tale of people being lured from the safe forest path by mysterious flickering lights off in the trees. Perhaps that was it. Or perhaps they were just cold.

“That’s what I thought,” Rose said as she bustled closer, plates and cutlery in a basket. “You’d tear into it with your teeth if I let you, wouldn’t you, Mr Weatherstaff?”

How long had this tradition been going? About her bringing a meal to Mr Weatherstaff once a week, all under the pretext that his good vegetables and roots needed a good cook to prepare them right? Quite some time. Years, perhaps. The first time still felt like it had happened yesterday. They never acknowledged the fact that it was a tradition. 

 “Worried?” She huffed out a mocking chuckle. “Yes, Mr Weatherstaff, I was worried.” She put the basket down before his feet. There was also a fruit salad inside. “Worried that you would simply live off raw roots and vegetables if I let you.”

[rose-meddley]

[rose-meddley]

cescapist​:

Benny was still in his Sunday Best, he was still without jodhpurs, still without boots, still smelling of church-dust – bibles and prayer cushions and broken communion wafers – and still smiling, smiling all over, from ear to ear and top to toe. He was still so very much in love.

Truthfully, he’d thought he might cobble together a picnic for he and Valentin on his own. It was Sunday! It was the day of rest! But upon descending into the servants’ corridor and meeting Mrs Meddley, and upon being offered firstly a lunch for himself, and then much better a lunch to take, to share, that thought fluttered away. Benny’s smile turned a mite bashful, a mite cheeky, like the child caught sneaking a flapjack off the cooling tray knowing he was going to get away with it.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he said, voice low and chin tucked in towards his chest – the picture of innocence. “I’ll help, of course!” Perhaps with less goop than the last time, though. And less tears, much less in the way of tears.

Before Mrs Meddley could say a word more, Benny was all but skipping into the kitchen with excitement, and shrugging off his black jacket to hang off the back of a chair. There was a spring in his step, a speed in his voice, an excitement which rolled off of him in waves. He was in love, oh! He was in love! And he was finally going to go riding with Valentin, and not upon a bicycle. “I was thinking sandwiches, and fruit with cream, and tea, and wine, and maybe- oh, do we have scones? I could take a sort of cream tea, I think Val would like that. But no matter if not, fruit and cream is still perfect,” he babbled, going to wash his hands in the basin like any good young man would, before pointing, still dripping, to the nearest long, green fruit or vegetable. “Cucumber?” Cucumber sandwiches would be lovely, with a bit of cheese. Not too heavy. Still light. Sundays were for light food, and for bathing in the sunshine, and for being kissed awake.

“My little Ebenezer helping me with preparing a luncheon, my, my, I am quite lucky today, aren’t I?” Mrs Meddley said in that voice of hers that was perfectly honest, even though it sounded as though she was addressing a tiny child, and not a grown man. She looked him over carefully. “You will want to change first, though. Or else you’ll get yourself terribly dirty.” Aprons would also do. It was more spoken as a warning, something to remind him that he was still dressed for church, in case he had forgotten in his eagerness. It was also, in a way, a very polite manner to ask: “Did you come here straight from Church?” Have you been to church at all?

She was about to ask what he wanted, but the suggestions rained it by themselves, eagerly, like the pitter patter of a quiet Spring morning. She was about to tie on her own apron and turn to bring out the scones, when she paused. Val. “Surely we will want to continue to respect Father Valentin and call him by his full name, yes?” A raised eyebrow towards him. “Or is he family now?” 

[rose-meddley]

Yarrow

Time: June 12th Place: Kitchen, Fairford House Status: Closed, for @cescapist

“A luncheon here after all, for just you?” 

As she’d been instructed not to, Rose had not prepared luncheon for Little Ebenezer and his friend the younger Talbot. After having her own early luncheon and finished cleaned up after herself, she stood a little aimlessly in her realm of copper ware and low ceilings. So when she heard, through the kitchen window, footsteps approaching the house, she was filled with perking curiosity at once. Part of her wanting to believe her Little Ebenezer had merely forgotten a thing, the other part feared that the friendship with the younger Talbot had once again broken and stolen his cheer away again. 

When he appeared in the servants’ corridor however, where she had stationed herself as though lying in wait, his face was as bright as his steps were light. 

She was ever the warmth but there was something of a knowing look to her as well. “Or a luncheon away, for perhaps two after all?” 

[rose-meddley]

cescapist​:

The bowl was taken, and Benny let it be, his hands immediately clawing into his sleep-shirt instead, fingers tangling in the fabric and snagging on the buttons. He wanted very much to go back to bed now, and threw a panicked look at the stove. He’d ruined the meal. He’d ruined the friendship. He’d ruined his own little stress-free happiness. He’d even probably ruined Mrs Meddley’s day, and the thought sent another peal of self-pitying and self-deprecating tears down Benny’s face.

Without a handkerchief, Benny was forced to wipe his face clean on the back of his sleeve, which also had a bit of stray egg white on it. He dragged his feet on the stone floor, and gave a great, snorting, snuffling sniffle, followed by a little cough and a nod.

“Ungh,” he said in way of a yes. Yes, Valentin had fallen out with him, too. “He said-” Benny started, his voice forced into a whisper again. He couldn’t say those words again, not without all sorts more pain and explanation and tears, so he ended with, “-some painful things,” still in his whisper, and then screwed his mouth closed and wiped away another fallen tear. To the next question, the hopeful question, the one that Benny wished he could say yes to, he only shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice going high and fraught again as a sob pushed against it from the back of his throat. “I don’t think he wants to be.” And that was another thing that hurt. If Benny could, he would have Valentin forget Benny’s confession. He would take the ache of his repressed desire over the pain of complete loss in a heartbeat. If Valentin came to him on the morrow and said that they could be friends again, but nothing more, Benny would throw himself to the man’s feet in gratitude, would promise to never speak of it again, and would cherish what he was given. Of course, really, Benny knew that his feelings would only continue; that the ache of one-sided love would be paralysing and painful, and would eat at him inside until, like an apple full of worms, he was just a mushy, petrid husk of what he once was. But as it was, crying in the kitchen in his pyjamas and slippers, covered in tears, snot, salt, and egg, Benny didn’t care for the truth of the matter. He just wanted Valentin, in any way he could.

“Oh, Poppy,” Rose said for the fifth time today, and this time in a tone of an endeared reprimand -- a response to Little Ebenezer wiping his little snot off with his little sleeve. She plucked out the kitchen towel instead and rubbed it with loving roughness over his face. It only came off when Little Ebenezer answered her question and she planted the back of her hand firmly on her hip. “Now that’s not nice.” She didn’t need to know what the friend had said, she sternly believed that whatever it was that would make her children cry was worth a fierce scolding. “How dare he? Doesn’t he know that you’re just the sweetest boy? Doesn’t he know how hard you worked to pluck me those herbs from my garden? Doesn’t he know how you once caught a terrible spider from the kitchen and brought it back out? How you searched the whole house once to find your sister’s little slipper, all before your mother could scold you? I tell you what. If he doesn’t know all that, then you better go run and tell him, so he can reconsider his words. But if he does know all that, and he still said those awful things to you? Then you are better off without him.”

As much as she believed that sometimes one had to build oneself a little boat and row through the ocean of misery to find land again, right now she saw no reason to give out advice. “I see,” was all she said, with a firm nod. “And what other things do you want? Very ‘other’. From life. Not from your friend. Not right now. What else do you want?” 

[rose-meddley]

cescapist​:

How stupid. How awfully, horrifically, mind-numbingly stupid. It was a metaphor! And a good one, too, and now Benny had gone and ruined it with his crying. He had ruined the omelette with his crying. For not only had he let himself cry at all, but he had let Mrs Meddley see that he was crying, and he knew, oh he simply knew, that her kindness meant that she would see his tears as anything but the stupid things they were.

She asked him, kindly, sweetly, what his tears were for, who had caused them, had caused his flood of misery, his anguish. For what reason had his tears sprung, and drowned out all the good along with the bad? Benny closed his eyes very tight, feeling more tears squeeze out and run down his face to his chin, where they formed together into a quickly chilling drop, and fell away. His throat worked to swallow, and he tried to breathe calmly, but his nose was already blocked with snot, forcing him to open his mouth and let out perhaps the thousandth pitiful sob he’d made since that horrible night. Oh, he thought foolishly as he did, his breath must smell. Could she smell his breath? Was she not disgusted by him?

Now that Benny’s mouth was open, it seemed all the little sobs he’s been trying to swallow down rose up again. All he could do when her kindly, calloused thumb slipped about in the wet tear-tracks upon his face, was shake his head.

He had not realised why he had come there. Not really. He’d not knowingly slipped down into the belly of the house with the intention of finding refuge. He’d thought he was seeking distraction. And yet in that moment it became visible to Benny that they were one and the same, and also that even with all the distraction in the world, he would still sting and hurt and ache, until finally one day it would only twinge, and then slowly, slowly, the pain would vanish (and yet the thought of that, the imagining that one day the rejection would not hurt, was panic-inducing. How could Benny still be himself if he did not ache for Valentin, if he did not love him so very much? How?).

With a sound annoyingly close to a whimper, Benny swallowed, and made that horrid little gasping sound one did when they swallowed whilst crying. His glasses were filthy with dried, salty speckles, and his eyes still flowed. In his hands, the bowl of goop felt heavy and silly and like it was only mess. Melted butter began to sizzle very lightly in the pan.

“I fell out with a friend,” he whispered, because he knew his voice would break if he tried to speak louder, and because he feared that she would hear his concealment of the larger, worse truth within that break, and he knew that if Mrs Meddley asked him about it, in her kind voice, with her round cheeks and round eyes and flyaway hair, he would tell her. And he didn’t know what would happen, then.

“Oh, Poppy,” Rose sighed, and there was not an ounce of pretence in the pain she felt for him. What a terrible, terrible thing it was to lose a friend, whether they were of wood, porcelain or flesh! With a swift motion, she took the eggs from Little Ebenezer and placed them on the counter top next to the stove, then turned him away from the fire a little. Why? Because they had all the time in the world. There was no need to rush through this. As long as those tears wanted to flow, she would wait and listen. 

“And has he fallen out with you, too?” she asked, because sometimes friendships were like that. Sometimes there was only one who had made a mistake, and refused  to apologise. Sometimes one was cross with the other but could not phrase it. Sometimes it was just unfair, how you couldn’t simply reach out to each other, no matter how much you wanted to. “Will you make up again, do you think, Poppy, love?” 

[rose-meddley]

cescapist​:

He might have been twenty five, but Benny still preened at the praise from Mrs Meddley, not even bothering to shake the salt crystals from his hair, only smiling with a mixture of pride and bashfulness – though the pride was stronger than his shyness, for she had given him permission to indulge in it. Strength which only grew when her praise was repeated and the stove was lit.

Bowl in hand, Benny leant close to Rose, following her advice quite literally. He could remember a time win which he had to crane his neck to look up at her, sometimes attaching himself to her leg, his head just about level with her hip and buttock, and she would have to raise her arm and peer down at him through her armpit to see his gap-toothed, boyish grin peering back up. Now, Benny was much taller, and thus in coming close he had to bend part-down, holding the bowl close to his stomach as if protecting it. And as she went on, spinning her advice into a metaphor he would any other time be greatly pleased to play along with, Benny’s grip became tighter and tighter on the bowl, and he pushed it harder and harder into his stomach.

He wasn’t listening to the butter. Instead, he was listening to the voice in his head, which was telling him very firmly to not listen to the other voices in his head, which gasped with pain and bit at his heart with sharp, merciless teeth. The problem with Benny was that he’d never been able to pay attention to one thing at a time, and thus even as he nodded along with the voice telling him to stay calm, he was also watching those sharp teeth as they sunk into him, and he was breathing in sharp, and he was biting along with them. ‘You should have listened!’ shouted one voice, and it sounded angry and anguished. ‘He doesn’t feel the same! You should not have acted!’ ‘Who do you think you are?’ another one muttered cruelly, ‘You don’t think this is normal, or okay, do you?’ Everything went very blurry, very quickly. ‘Please don’t cry again,’ begged the voice he was supposed to be listening to. But it was too late. Benny was very quiet, and very still, and his eyes were hot and wet, and his lips were trembling, and he was crying.

Rose had turned to pluck some thyme and rosemary from the wall and when she turned, she found her Little Ebenezer in tears. “Oh, Poppy, what is it? What is it?” she asked with motherly urgency that knew not to breach on panic or fear. Firmly without harshness, she pulled her little one towards her by his shoulders, searching his face which had not been at her eye-height in years now and searching it anyhow with the confidence of someone who believed that a kiss to the wound could heal all pain. 

“What are those for, Poppy? Who has you flooding the world?” This was an old allegory she’d used many times before: The story of Noah’s ark. Here was the world, flooded with misery, injustice, grief and harm, and there was a man, ready to save all that was good and deserved a second chance. She had taught her version of it to the Forester children when they had first learnt about it in Bible class, where the horrors of God’s will destroying and killing all that he had created had shaken them to their core. What she had said was that they all had the ability to build a boat for themselves. That if ever the world felt cruel and unfair, they did not have to listen to the mockings of others and stick with them, waiting for the inevitable flood. Instead, they had the right to retrieve and save themselves, come to the kitchens for a little biscuit and tea, and they’d be safe from the rain. 

And while Rose knew that the reasons conjuring tears today were no longer a matter of broken wooden swords or stained doll hands, she still believed in her own little ark. Perhaps because back then, the wood had never just been wood to the children, and the dolls just dolls, and Rose had never treated them as childish sorrows solvable with as little as distraction. She’d always taken them seriously, for a child’s chest was small and so even the smallest of sorrows felt quite great to them. 

Yes, Ebenezer’s sorrows might have grown, but so had his chest, and Rose had her thumb on his cheek and asked once more: “What are you seeking refuge from?” 

[rose-meddley]

cescapist​:

Absolutely delighted and absolutely disgusted, Benny let out a sound not too far off a squeal; the type a young toddler might make when introduced to a new, brilliant novelty and overwhelmed with laughter.

“No!” he squawked, mouth caught in a wide open grin, nose wrinkled with horror, and eyes squinted with laughter. He regarded Mrs Meddley with sheer, wonderful horror. “Did you really?” he asked, not sure whether he wanted to hear her deny it and banish the foul idea of wormy chicken soup, or if he would rather squirm and guffaw over a terrible truth. Worm soup! That certainly gave cow-pat-pie a run for its money!

Turning back to the bowl and its runny, goopy mixture, Benny peered into the mess for any slivers of shell, as directed. He had a feeling his father and Zachariah – and Samuel, too, actually – would deny that bits of shell could cause any harm other than dulling one’s appetite. He also had a feeling side-sickness wasn’t a real diagnosis. But Mrs Meddley said they should come out, and so they must. Benny could see a few fragments in the mixture, no doubt coming from his accident with the first egg. Deciding to fully embrace the atmosphere his dear cook was conjuring, Benny shoved his fingers into the slimy mess, fishing about and trying to pin the shell between his fingers or against the bowl. Of course, caught in the gelatinous, gloopy ooze, the bits of shell had a habit of shooting away each time he went to stab at them. He was still struggling to pull the last of the three out when Mrs Meddley returned with the fork, only then snagging it under his fingernail and slipping it free.

With the shell flicked over the bowl’s edge, Benny took the fork with some trepidation. Was whisking an individual affair? Did different people have different methods? Was one better than the other, or was it all up to taste? His slippery, eggy fingers slid on the fork handle, but egg, he had learned, dried very, very fast. It would not take long for the whites to dry and turn into a shiny, flaky layer. So, approaching his new task with all the focus of a surgeon performing a delicate incision, or an engineer soldering a wire to a specific spot, or even an army general moving his little men on his big map, Benny put the fork into the bowl.

And then stirred it with exactly the same vigour and joy as he had old cow-pats as a young boy. The type which had already been burrowed into by a half-dozen beetles, which then scurried around at the stirring, their iridescent casings glinting in the daylight.

“With supervision, I think so,” he answered her. Whilst Benny had never been one to bow to conformity and lock away the young lad who still lived inside of him, desperate to play and screech and run and stick out his tongue, there was something particularly freeing about being beside Mrs Meddley, who not only indulged that child but encouraged him. Benny felt – knew – that even when he was old and grey he could come to Mrs Meddley with a scraped knee and expect it to be kissed better, and to be given a sweetie for his bravery.

When he stirring had done a job that Benny thought was good enough (maybe not everything was yellow, but the majority of it was, with only little islands of transparent gloop floating around in a bubbly, golden ocean), he wiped the last of the stickiness off on his nightshirt and made his way to the stove. Lighting a long taper, he fiddled about with the gas valves until – whoosh! – blue flames ignited, flaring hot and burning high.

“Uh-” Benny let out a little panicked noise, but turned the valve down on his own, and, yes, perfect, they were low but still there. “Eyh?” the next noise was approval seeking, turning to Mrs Meddley with all the expectation of a dog presenting a stick to be thrown.

Rose rejoiced in Little Ebenezer’s strong reaction. She laughed heartily as well but because she wasn’t a mean-spirited woman and certainly not one who did not still see the child-like faith in all fairy tales in her children, she made sure to undo her prank: “Well, perhaps they were just leeks after all.” 

Without interference or unnecessary help, Rose watched Little Ebenezer work on the eggs, both freeing the mixture from the shells, as well as mixing it as best as he could. Any other cook might’ve lost her patience or given him detailed instructions, but she knew better. She knew her Little Ebenezer would succeed, and so it was all the sweeter to see him succeed, in all his own glory. “A perfect bowl of goop, you can be proud of yourself. Not long now and you’ll be a seasoned cook.” And because she had to salt the eggs now, she also sprinkled a couple of grains onto Little Ebenezer.

When it came to the stove, she watched him a little more carefully, and not just because he had asked her to. Mostly she was quite scared of him hurting himself, for she knew that was one thing she’d never be able to forgive herself. Often had the Forester children come to play in these kitchen, and almost always had she let them. The exception had soon become a known one: No one was to come here when a dinner was to be prepared. A breakfast, a lunch, all this was no problem. But dinners contained multiple courses, many people would haste through the kitchens, and the fire was always on. It was too dangerous for a child, even one who was already considered an adult by society. 

So she watched him carefully indeed, and all the more delighted she was when he figured it out all by himself -- once again with the enthusiasm of a mother, not the sarcasm of an actual teacher. “Brilliant, my dear! You are perfectly brilliant!” Quickly, she plucked a pan from the wall and added some butter, then handed Little Ebenezer the bowl. “Now you must listen very closely. Imagine you have met a new person but you wish for him to be your friend. You cannot simply declare your admiration, nor can you simply ask him to agree to a friendship. You must listen to the quiet beats of his heart to know if he feels the same. And then you can act. Here, listen closely. Listen for the sizzle of the butter.”

[rose-meddley]

zachariahforester​:

He glowed with pride as she praised him, momentarily forgetting that the task had been as easy as guessing the next steps in a silly little story meant for a child. But that was the kind of power Rose had, the ability to make you forget the arbitrary burdens of being a grown-up, if only for a little while.

He didn’t know when it started, perhaps around the time the little baby hedgehogs were introduced, but a tear began to roll down Zachariah’s cheek. It escaped like a little spring of water might from a crack in the hard stone face of a mountain. And yet he was moved to a teary little chuckle at the idea of Rose, a small female child, being a father. It wasn’t a cruel chuckle or a mocking one. Rose had never stirred those feelings in him. Just a little laugh at the unexpectedness of it.

When the story ended, he didn’t wipe the tear away, he didn’t want to draw attention to it, or acknowledge it was there. He did wiggle his nose though, just slightly, not as big a gesture as before, but more absentmindedly. “Is that a true story?” He asked, and then immediately wished he hadn’t. He didn’t want to know and it didn’t really matter. “Do you think it matters who our parents are?” He therefore asked, almost immediately after.

Bustling about preparing the tea, Rose very well noticed the little emotional predicament Zachariah had gotten himself into. She hardly acknowledged it, barely even smiled at it. Not because she disapproved of it, of course not, but because she knew her Big Zachra. Knew him well enough to know that he had always been so eager to follow the rules, to know that he would not appreciate her drawing attention to him, to know that he’d feel her love in the tea as much as he would in a hug. 

“Oh, tish tosh,” she replied in a playfully-reprimanding tone as she shook a tea bag ‘no’ at him, “did I not tell it? Did you not imagine it? Is it therefore not inevitably real?” She chuckled happily to herself and plopped the bags into their mugs. Before they hit the ground, Zachariah had asked another question.

It made her halt. Made her heart beat slow down, her thoughts drag. She knew what she wanted to say, what she’d waited to say for so long. But she couldn’t. She’d promised, all these years ago, to never say it. So, if her gaze down, she said: “Of course it does.” And gave the mugs a little nod. “They’re the first thing you see when you are born. They’re the first to nourish you, talk to you, smile at you, tell you what is and what isn’t allowed.” ‘Why? Why would we hire a Nanny?’. “The one you become at first? He is his parents’ love, and no one else’s.” The water whistled at once and she startled. “Oh my!” 

[rose-meddley]

cescapist​:

“Love?” he suggested, feeling he knew the answer already. There was love in the soup. Of course there was. And that was as wonderful as it was painful. Perhaps, if he had been a more introspective man, a man who knew himself beyond his own nose, he’d have understood why that hurt as deeply as it did. But Benny didn’t have the words to explore nor explain why the concept of love, beyond his current heartbreak, ached as it did. Nor why he had been so very worried that the toddling-Mrs-Meddley’s mother wouldn’t appreciate her soup. Nor why he had been so awfully relieved when she had.

Don’t forget how wonderful the world is. Oh, but he had, hadn’t he? Whilst lying in his bed, playing misery-guts and making his eyes sore and puffy from crying, he had forgotten the nice parts of the world. How there was so much to see and smell and hear and touch. More than just Valentin, Valentin, Valentin, Valentin. His eyes and nose and lips and hands, his soap and breath and hair and clothes, his laugh and voice and breathing and-

Goop.

Benny giggled, high and only a little fraught. There was egg white all over his hands, and sticky bits of shell, and the yolk was broken and spilling orange-red. Yuck. Yuck, yuck, yuck. How- how silly, yes? Yes. Silly. Benny did his best to push some shell off his index finger with his thumb, only for it to stick to the other, and force him to play a funny little game of flicking until he gave in and wiped it off upon the table. It would need cleaning anyway, what with being covered in egg. In goop.

This time, when Benny picked up the next egg, he was much more careful. A little too careful, actually, for he didn’t manage to fracture the shell at all. Not upon one tap, nor two, nor three, nor even four. Only when he frowned with frustration and tried a little harder did he manage it. There was a satisfying crack noise, and the shell crumpled against the hard porcelain. Just as shown, Benny shoved his thumbs into the fissure and pulled it apart with a wet peeling sound. More goop ran over his thumbs, chilly but not cold, and he delighted again in the disgust it brought from him.

“Wuh-hey,” he said, very softly, but still with some joy. Mission accomplished, egg cracked. The yolk wasn’t even broken, and slipped about in the whites and the broken splash of gold intact. “I did it,” he said, as if his little cry of success hadn’t made that clear. The shell-halves scraped together in his palm, hollow and empty but for a few long strings. “What do I do with these, then?” he asked, lifting them up as if to display them. Didn’t eggshells have use, like in gardening and such? Benny was sure he had seen ground up egg-shells in flower beds before.

Rose smiled, gently, because yes, that’s why the soup had cured her mother so well, so quickly, so warmly. Love. But after she brushed her hand through Little Ebenezer’s hair and regarded him for a moment, her grin turned somewhat more mischievous. “Wrong!” she said. “The secret ingredient was ... worms!” 

She watched him with the gentle delight of a proud mother. “And that’s us, half-way through our meal.” The eggshells she waved away. Put them back into the basket, Poppy, I shall tell Mina to take care of it later. It’s very important that we put them far, far away, because these sharp little piece can go deep into your stomach and get caught. And that’s how side-sickness can happen.” She tapped the bowl. “So check very carefully if all shell bits are out.”

Bustling away and back again, she handed him a fork. “Now I am very curious to see how you whisk. Fork in and then, turn, turn, turn, turn, turn, very quickly, until it is yellow, and only yellow. And then you must go and turn on the stove. What do you think? Can I trust you with turning on the stove?” The answer to that was always ‘Yes!’, but Rose had pinched and eye close and looked at Benny with a head sceptically leaned back. She had found, many years ago, that even the most bruised of egos recuperated easily when prompted to say something nice about themselves. And while Rose didn’t know what had bruised Little Ebenezer, she wanted him to believe himself, now and always.

[rose-meddley]

zachariahforester​:

Ah, a sad story, quite fitting really. He gave a small smile and nodded for her to continue, which she did.

He settled in as she began talking, letting the words wash over him and take him away. Only he was pulled out of it by the surprise participation. He should have remembered, that Rose’s stories were always slightly interactive. He hesitated for a moment, warring with the mature stoic part of himself that said this kind of thing was far too silly for a grown man to be doing. But eventually, with Rose’s urging, his inner child won out, and he did wiggle his nose, in a stiff hesitant way, no way near as effortless as Rose made it look.

He let out a little laugh, almost like a hiccup when she told him what it meant, and then a small blush, when he realised what he’d just said to her and what she was saying to him with their little wiggles. But he didn’t comment, didn’t inturrupt, because really it was far easier to wiggle than to form words right now.

He almost jumped at the ‘smoosh’ and although he had only known this hedgehog for a matter of seconds he felt a deep sadness creeping in. Rose had been right to warn him. He was relieved when it continued, drawn into the story as he was, he would have been very disappointed if it ended there.

Zachariah furrowed his eyebrows at her question. He didn’t know. He thought back over all the details that she’d given him but there was no obvious answer. “I-I don’t know. Did he have a brother? Or a child maybe?” He realised that a child would probably be much better at coming up with the next steps in a story, that he was too bogged down by the logic, by making it make sense.

“Yes, Poppy! Exactly!” Rose delighted, clasping her hands and smiling with bright, genuine warmth and no ounce of fakeness veiling or staining it. “What a marvellous guess. Well done.” Once again her words by themselves, spoken by about anyone, could’ve been arrogant or patronising, but because she meant them, meant them so earnestly with all her heart, the way a mother would delight over a toddler telling her he saw a caterpillar, it didn’t come across as mean. It was just an honest compliment from a proud mother.

“It was his wife. He must’ve told her about me, and now that he had not returned, she’d come to see me and ask where he was. At first I wanted to give her a bite of the meat I had prepared, but she didn’t care for it one bit. Eventually I realised, she wanted me to follow her. And when I did, do you know what I found inside a little burrow? Her whole little family. Dozens of tiny little hedgehogs, squeaking hungrily. Of course, naturally, I decided right then and there that I was going to be their father now, and not a day passed where I wouldn’t ensure that they were warm and safe and have a little meal.” Her smile was fond, then, at this very true memory of an almost easy childhood. Or perhaps, this very easy memory, of a rather hard childhood. 

She sighed. “And even when they were all grown up, they’d still come to visit me sometimes, now no longer in need of my help and meat, but just to say hello. Just to wiggle their noses at me for a bit.” 

[rose-meddley]

cescapist​:

“You made her soup?” Benny asked. There was a queer tenderness in his voice, something tremulous and fragile. Oh, he hoped so desperately little Mrs Meddley had been praised for her work. Not being very well acquainted with the sizing of children - neither being one himself any more nor having any relatives or friends yet with one - Ebenezer imagined the four-year-old cook as no bigger than a chicken herself, hidden from view behind the naked carcass as she lugged it home, with just two chubby little booted feet visible beneath it.

He was so taken with the image it took him a moment to realise that he was now being shown what to do. Benny had to remind himself of what he had just witnessed, blinking fiercely to remind himself of the action. Yes. Tap, tap, thumbs, pull. Goop. A little, doubting smile grew on his face, delighted with his own disgust. “Really?” he asked. The whole reason he’d thrown eggs in the past was because the goop was the worst part, wasn’t it?

Still, he did as instructed. Picking up the egg, he rapped it upon the bowl’s edge and- “Ah-!” -it collapsed in on itself. Too hard. Goop quickly spilled on both the table and into Benny’s fingers, all littered with bits of shell. For a moment, Benny was a frozen, wide-eyed fool. And the next, he let out a little honk of laughter at his own mistake. Oh, oh how nice it was to laugh again, and how nice it was to worry about little things like a smashed egg. “Oops.”

“Yes, Poppy, I made her soup,” she smiled, almost matching the tenderness in his voice in hers. “She ate it all, and three days later she was happy and back on her feet.” None of this was invention, it was all true. Nowadays, of course, Mrs Meddley knew that any flu might’ve passed in the span of three days regardless of the quantity of soup consumed, but back then it had meant the world to her. Not entirely without her mother’s gentle help: “My dearest mother said it was all thanks to me, and from that day on, I made sure to learn all of her recipes, all to make sure, she’d never have to grow hungry while sick again. But do you know, Poppy,” she added without giving the conclusion of her story the time to weigh with too much meaning, “do you know why I believe the soup really cured her?”

She laughed, loud but gently, and, standing behind him, she gave his shoulders a rub. “Of course, Poppy. Really. Don’t forget how wonderful the world is, and how, just as there’s a lot to see and smell and hear, there’s also a lot to touch. And so you must go and touch it all, to make sure you’ve lived life to its full extent.” She tapped the egg he hadn’t picked up. “Even the slimy, goopy, sticky stuff. Go on. Nothing can happen.” 

And nothing did. Because yes, the egg cracked too hard and too fast and spilled all over the table, but in Rose’s book, that was very much ‘nothing’. She chuckled with him. “My silly boy, do you need new glasses? That’s the table, not the bowl!” she scolded playfully, with no sign of actual scold in her voice, just humour. With a quick swipe, she pushed the escaped egg into the bowl, then instructed him to try again as she went to quickly wash her hands. 

[rose-meddley]

samuelforester​:

-

God he loved Mrs. Meddley. No questions asked, he sighed with relief that he did not have to give one of the many excuses he rehearsed. He returned Mrs. Meddley’s smile with one of his own, excited to learn. He did not realise how much he would enjoy the simple instructions of tea making, but then again, he always loved learning new things. He looked into the pot, in his head remembering the amount of water she filled. “Okay!” he was giddy, replying enthusiastically.

His eyes practically shone as Mrs. Meddley’s talked about the stove. He smirked at her, knowing full well she knew about his fascination with machines. He bent down, looking at the knobs on the stove, looking at the gas burners themselves, inspecting them. He tried turning one of them, a strong smell of gas hitting his nose, and he quickly turned it off before it can fill the room. It took him a few more seconds before he finally stood up stood up “Do you have a match, Mrs. Meddley?” a proud smiling face beaming at her. “The gas need to be released as we light it, only then a fire can be created” he said as if excitedly reciting an answer from a text book, looking to be praised by his teacher.

“Brilliant!” Rose exclaimed with genuine enthusiasm. “How did my little Poppy grow to be so smart so quickly!” She gave his shoulders a firm and loving rub. “I couldn’t be prouder of you, Poppy, do you know? I am so proud of you.” 

She fetched the matches from the shelf above the stove and handed it to him. “Now do be careful. And when you are done, go look at the cupboard over there, and tell me which one of these could be the tea we’re usually having.” The clay pots were all labelled with blue paint, but there were three types of tea. Simple black tea for the servants, and jasmine green tea and expensive earl grey for the family. “You’re allowed to open and smell them, and then, clever as you are, you will tell me which one might be the one we want to drink.” A pause. “Or do you think you might want to serve the tea to someone else?”