Flower of my Childhood, Part 1

My second post. This post is simply the first couple pages of a novel I started a while back. I hope you enjoy it!


(Note to my readers: I apologize in advance if the customs, clothes, culture, etc. don't match up with the era I'm writing about. This post (ummm...actually, most of them) are simply a result of my imagination and instrumental music...which means I don't do a lot of research.)

The flowers were falling. They crowded the streets with fragrance and color and crowned the bonnets of the young girls who drifted by. The streets were wet with the last rain. The dark earth, the bright flowers....the blue sky faded into the green mountains and weaved into pale darkness.

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            Mabel stooped to pick up a faded flower from the street. The young girl's hair precariously teetered from its meticulous position on top of her head. A small wisp of hair had escaped, and her governess reached an ungracious hand and swiped it back into her bonnet. Mabel disliked the hard knot under the tight bonnet, but did not see the need to disagree with Miss Pratt.

“Mabel. Put the flower down.”

Mabel pretended to throw it down, but secretly slipped it into her large dress pocket while keeping her mouth shut. Miss Pratt was not to be fooled. She drew the flower out of her pocket and threw it to the ground. Mabel walked on. Miss Pratt saw an acquaintance and waved. Her sour face twisted into a large sort of smile, half grimace, half grin, the result of unpracticed happiness. She hauled Mabel along and caught up to her friend, Miss Mart, a pretty, middle-aged woman who was known for her gossiping tongue.

“Indeed, I saw him myself. And says I to myself, 'What can a young man like him want?' But indeed, I have found that indeed he can want much. See, my dear Miss Pratt...” 

           Miss Mart did not wait for any introductions, and her speech was carefully loaded with “indeeds” which she did not seem to mind in the least. Apparently Miss Pratt did not object to the word either, as evidenced by the fact that she let go of her charge's hand and laughed a rusty laugh at Miss Mart's harmless information and conjectures.

         Mabel made sure Miss Pratt was completely oblivious of her by taking a step or two away. A movement to her left made her turn. A boy, nine or ten years old, was held tightly by the hand by a middle-aged man, neat in appearance. They had stopped at the post office.

“Any letters for me, miss?”

The “miss” was evidently familiar with the gentleman, for she giggled nervously and shifted some papers on her desk. She handed out a thin envelope and looked at it a little jealously. Obviously she did not favor the idea that young widower Andrew Bradrick might possibly have another admirer. Mr. Bradrick, however, tipped his hat pleasantly, tossed a goodbye her way, and left the post office, leaving Marie to wonder why on earth she could not find a husband. She turned away, disappointed, to her newest romance.

           Mr. Bradrick swung his son to the back of a wagon and opened the letter eagerly. It was, in all truth, a letter from his sister. The young boy swung his feet and waited for his father to open it. His father read it slowly, from time to time reading a little out loud. He smiled every so often, and Mabel felt the love in the way his face was turned to his son. Mabel felt the tears rush to her eyes. No, she would not dwell on this. She wrestled with the thoughts of her father for a few seconds, and when she turned to look at them again, they were again walking hand in hand.

Miss Pratt turned and walked the few steps to where Mabel stood.

“You ungrateful wretch. Can't e'en have a harmless gossip with an old friend without you running off.”

Mabel sighed and turned towards her governess. Miss Pratt was continuously unnerved by Mabel, but she did her best to stay in charge. Though only seven, Mabel seemed to understand every shallow part of Miss Pratt. Probably it was the effect of her large hazel eyes, quick brain, and a gentle voice that rarely spoke.

“T'aint natural,” Miss Pratt was liable to say to Miss Mart. “The child just looks, and her look is enough to unnerve a blessed saint. It's like her eyes understand. And she never speaks of what she is thinking. Enough to unnerve a blessed saint, I tell you.”

“Indeed,” would then voice Miss Mart.

“Come along, Mabel.”

             The way she said “Mabel” seemed to indicate that Mabel was an ugly creature. It came out of her mouth “Mibble” and drowned before it could reach any gentleness. Miss Pratt dragged the little girl along quickly. Mabel looked around carefully. She did want to see that man and his son again. There was stability there, and it attracted her. Fortunately, the quickness of Miss Pratt was not limited to her tongue, and Mabel soon saw the two directly in front of her. They were strolling along slowly, and the boy was talking eagerly to the man. Though they were walking slowly, there was a firmness in the man's step that could also be identified in the boy's.

“MISS PRATT!!!” a shrill voice was heard behind them. Miss Pratt turned, her nervous smile again making her face grotesque. Miss Mart scurried toward them. Meanwhile, at the sound of the near scream narrowly identified as Miss Pratt's name, the man and boy turned. The man turned back around quickly, hoping neither of the spinsters had seen him. As a matter of fact, both had as pointedly pursued him as poor Marie of the post office.

          But the boy's eyes had found Mabel's. There was something there, something flowing between their minds, a sort of communication that worked outside of time and space. He seemed to intuitively understand her hunger for a friend. He stepped forward, then reached down gracefully and picked up a flower off the street. A few steps, and he was standing close enough to touch her hand, if he had wished to do so. Mabel's childish face was half fear, half happiness. He held his hand out. The flower. She reached shyly forward, and took it from him. The young boy smiled companionably.

“What is your name?”

“Mabel.”

“Ah. Mabel.” The way he said it made it sound beautiful. For the first time in her life since her father's death, Mabel felt comforted.

The boy stuck out his hand. “I'm Ernest.”

Miss Pratt turned away at Miss Mart's last “indeed,” and caught Mabel's hand. Mabel quickly put the flower in her large dress pocket. The little boy watched her thoughtfully as she walked away.

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             The large two story of Miss Pratt and Mabel's residence was made of brick, and covered with ivy. Eventually, the house and its grounds would belong to Mabel, but until her eighteenth birthday, Miss Pratt was going to take advantage of the fact that Mabel needed a guardian. Mabel's father had not wanted things this way. But Mr. Nabor's last wishes had been misinterpreted by Miss Pratt, and so, as the master had had few friends and less legal knowledge, Miss Pratt, in addition to all the rest of the servants, virtually ruled the house.

            Mabel's consolations and comforts were few. There was the library, though she was too young to read many books, and there was her father's chair, and now, there was a little purple flower.

Miss Pratt peeled Mabel's bonnet off and threw it on a chair.

“Needs to be washed,” she said crossly to Mabel's questioning look. Mabel stood uncertainly, not knowing if she was still wanted. Miss Pratt pushed her away rudely.

“Go find something to do. And don't get dirty.” Miss Pratt knew perfectly well that Mabel never got dirty. Nevertheless, the child had the form of a child, and so Miss Pratt somehow convinced herself that without her advice, Mabel would inevitably turn a street urchin.

                Mabel did not need a second prodding. With relief, she walked primly out a side door into the garden. She stood indecisively, then pulled out the flower. She looked at it, the only evidence she had of goodness in the world. She had to hold onto it. She must keep it forever. Without it, the world was darker and without hope. It represented sympathy, understanding, and above all, love.

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