Some five thousand years ago, a 27-foot high granite standing stone was erected by the Neolithic people of future Dartmoor. In the 12th century, a monastery was built on the spot, incorporating the stone into its foundations. The monastery became a manor house in the 14th century, then an inn in the 15th, which it remains to this day as The Oxenham Arms.
The standing stone remains in its place, unceremoniously part of the sitting room wall next to the radiator.
And there is a word for it! It's called a palimpsest!
Originally it means a very old manuscript that has been written on and then scraped clean and written on again, but its also a theory used to describe the way an object can have multiple meanings and contexts from different times written on top of one another, like the layers of an onion. Its one of my favourite cultural history words!
out of curiosity. I would love to hear folks' most hated book that was NOT assigned reading. what's a book that you picked up of your own volition but were deeply frustrated with? bone to pick etc?
for @cabinpressurechallenge Carolyn Month of May 2022 because time is fake and nothing is real except my feelings about these characters ok <3
Also on AO3
“Do you promise?”
Carolyn looks up from her accounts book, having already assumed Arthur had left the car. “I’m sorry?”
“You said… that whatever happened…”
She rewinds the conversation in her head. Oh, goodness. “Whatever happens, Arthur, I will be proud of you. For trying.” He’s still waiting, so she adds, trying not to sigh with it, “I promise.”
He nods. “Okay. Thanks, Mum.”
He still isn’t moving. Carolyn gives a significant nod in the direction of the building they’ve parked outside. “Well, go on then.”
She is not usually the type to offer reassurance and he isn’t usually the type to need it so openly, so sorely. On special occasions, though:
“You’ll be fine, Arthur. It’s only an interview. You’ve prepared really well — you can do this.”
He leans over to give her as much of a hug as is possible, sideways, in the front of a car, with Carolyn not particularly turning to receive it. She just about manages to join in before he’s pulling back and saying, “Thanks, Mum,” again, and this time, mercifully, he does actually get out of the car.
Despite herself, and despite the paperwork on her lap, Carolyn watches him all the way to the door, and even stays looking when it closes.
She had gone back and forth on this birthday present. Gordon had told her it was a ridiculous idea and that had played more of a part in her decision than she would like to admit. She couldn’t bear to hear him sneer — not about Arthur. She was first to admit that their son’s strengths were not the usual ones prized in the aviation industry — or in any ‘industry’ she was aware of, to be fair — but Gordon’s refusal to even think that he could succeed in anything infuriated her. So, she had phoned up Oxford Aviation Academy and booked the interview, ready to tell Arthur the date of it on his seventeenth birthday. And Gordon would see.
What, precisely, Gordon will see, she isn’t quite sure. There’s every chance she’s just created a worse situation — in the (sadly, rather likely) event that the Academy don’t take Arthur on, Gordon will gloat about it forever, or at least until Carolyn finally strangles him with a pillow.
But ultimately it’s not about Gordon, of course. It’s about Arthur actually trying for something, letting it play out, not just assuming that he’s incapable of even the first steps just because he’s, as Gordon puts it on a good day, a flaming galah.
Arthur quite likes the name, to be fair. He’s got a book on Australian birds and he was delighted to find that the galah is so pleasantly coloured and “fun-looking”. There’s even a little fact box that says, “Despite its name being used as an insult, the galah is a very intelligent bird!”, for which Carolyn could kiss writer Steve Parish, whose name she only remembers for this reason.
In any case. What happens inside the interview room is out of her hands now. They’ve done loads of practice runs, and one or two times — including this morning’s — she actually thinks he distinguished himself. A handful more were acceptable; some would have depended on a very kindly interview panel filling in the gaps, but would probably have been alright if they were having a dry year for intake, and the rest were… not hopeless, exactly, just… a little too ‘Arthur’ for the world outside their house.
Still. It’s not a foregone conclusion, by any means. She may yet have a pilot for a son.
Which she would value because it’s valuable to Arthur, not because it’s an easier thing to say to acquaintances than “Arthur… is still thinking about what he wants to do.”
Hmmm.
In any case. Back to the accounts book. Gordon’s expenses are curious this month. A three-digit sum she can’t seem to account for. He must have forgotten to give her a receipt or two. Well, the argument they’ll have about that sounds like it will be a lovely distraction from discussing Arthur’s interview this evening.
Arthur’s interview — how long has he been in there? She checks her watch. Barely five minutes. Goodness, she’s as bad as him.
By force of will, she keeps her mind on the accounts until they’re as balanced as they can be, without Gordon there to explain himself. Then she brings out her calendar and cross-checks the next fortnight’s worth of bookings. Nothing particularly interesting. If Arthur does end up taking his CPL, they might have a bit more leeway with longer flights, and not always rely on Gordon’s pal Tommo, who’s exactly as irritating as his name advertises. That’s a long way off, of course, but interesting to think about. She dares to imagine her husband and son actually bonding in the flight deck, Gordon finally seeing Arthur as an asset, a protogé, anything other than an accident of fate that happened to carry half his genes.
She congratulates herself on having taken almost twenty minutes to return to the subject of Arthur’s interview. He mightn’t be long now. She takes out her crossword puzzle book from her bag and flips to one she’s nearly finished.
11 across. Give one’s word, pledge. 7 letters.
Promise, she writes in the boxes, and rolls her eyes upon realising she’s now going to think about the last time she heard that word. Arthur, twenty-five minutes ago. Making her promise to be proud whatever happened.
It’s funny, because a lot of the time he can be quite perceptive, for all his bumbling, but he’s never really understood this simple fact about his mother: she is proud every time he breathes. Not because he lives up to all expectations but because he doesn’t.
Living with Gordon Shappey is trial enough. The idea of living with Gordon Shappey and a Gordon Shappey in training is unthinkable.
She returns to the crossword. By the time she turns the page to finish another almost-completed puzzle, it’s been thirty-one minutes and there is a figure standing in the open doorway of the Aviation Academy. All dressed up in his blazer and tie and… for some reason, not walking to the car.
She waves. He waves back. Then all of a sudden he’s hurtling towards her. She feels the vehicle shake a little as he all but leaps inside.
“Well then? How did it go?” she asks, unsure what the hesitance followed by the speed is supposed to be leading her to.
“It was — alright,” says Arthur, uncharacteristically careful with his words. “Although I don’t think I realised there would be loads of other people there.”
“Well, they took you into a room for your own interview, didn’t they?”
“That’s — yes, that’s what they were doing. We were all sitting in the hall and then the lady would come out and call someone’s name.”
“I see. And so what happened when she called your name?”
A silence. Carolyn feels a twinge of dread. Arthur is a terrible liar, always has been — and she’s not ungrateful for it. It does, however, mean she needs to put him out of his misery.
“Arthur,” she says. “You remember our conversation before? Whatever happens, I’m just proud that you went to the interview.”
To her horror, he buries his face in his hands.
“Arthur—oh, Arthur, don’t. Look, it doesn’t matter. Whatever they said in there — or didn’t say — there are plenty of other things you can do, other than being a pilot. Plenty. You could… you could help me with the passengers. Properly, not just on school holidays. We’ll train you up as a steward. You can have a uniform. A hat, even.”
She sighs.
“Arthur. Light of my life. I did mean it, you know. I am proud, still.”
His voice is small and quiet and full of shame.
“I didn’t go in to do the interview.”
“What?”
“So you can’t be proud. I didn’t go in.”
“But I— I saw you go inside.”
“Yes.” Finally he takes his hands away from his face, becomes easier to understand, if more difficult to look at, eyes rimmed red. “I went into the hall. But I… all the other people there… they looked like pilots already, Mum. Or… going-to-be-pilots. They looked like… like they knew what they were doing. And I realised that I just didn’t know at all what I was doing there. I can’t be a pilot. I can’t do it.”
“Oh, Arthur.”
“I’m sorry, Mum. I wasted your money. And my birthday present. Next year I don’t need anything.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Arthur. For one thing, your next birthday is eighteen, which is the important one. But never mind about that. You can’t really think I mind about the money? Not with you… being like this.”
“Money’s important, though.”
Not nearly as important as you, Carolyn thinks. Then, though it isn’t easy, says it out loud.
He drops his head onto her shoulder in response. Then:
“I should have just… gone in. Had a go. Now I’ll never know how it would have gone.”
“There’s no upper age limit, dear heart. I can book another.”
“No, don’t, Mum. I don’t think… I don’t think I can. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Do you know, Arthur, in a way this makes me prouder than ever.”
“You don’t have to fib to make me stop crying. I’ve stopped. It’s fine.”
“I’m not fibbing, so kindly don’t accuse me of such a thing. I am proud. Sometimes just walking out of a situation is the bravest thing of all.”
She deliberately does not look at her wedding ring. For good measure, she hides the hand that bears it on the other side of Arthur, so it’s truly out of sight. As a happy side effect, her arm is now around him. What a paragon of motherhood she is.
“Do we have to tell Dad?”
“No. I shouldn’t think he’s even remembered it’s today.” This morning, she’d been furious that he left without so much as a word of encouragement. Now, she’s rather pleased that Gordon’s self-absorption plays into their hands. “And if he does, we can honestly say the interview didn’t take place today.”
“What if he asks — when it is?”
“I’ll handle your father, Arthur. Don’t worry about it.”
“Okay.”
“Now — home, or… I couldn’t help but notice that we passed a crazy golf course on our way here…”
“Oh! Can we go to it?”
“I think that might be acceptable.”
“Brilliant!”
There he is. She can finally breathe properly again.
basically, i think the general rule of thumb is: if someone REALLY wants the blood that’s inside of your body, and they’re like… a vampire, or a dracula, or some sort of mansquito, then that’s probably okay. a dracula and a mansquito are made for removing things like blood and swords from inside your body. that’s basically fine.
if something wants to get at your blood, and they’re, say, some kind of murdersaurus, or maybe a really big frog, that’s where the problems start to arise. a really frog is not made for removing blood, and your blood knows this, which is why it is so vehement about wanting to stay IN your body instead of coming out.
unfortunately this will not deter a really big frog, because a really big frog is full of things like prizes, and value, and quite a lot of hatred, and it would REALLY rather like to replace any and all of those things with your blood, and basically by any means possible.
Speaking of books it's been a while since I've seen one of these posts going around & I'm curious so everyone could you tell me what you are reading rn in the tags please
turnnoffyourmind
areudirty
blakekathryn
theartofmadeline
prguitarman
annaxmalina
2087
