Lexington Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 40-41

 

Chapter 40

Argeles-sur-Mer, France

May

 

 

My husband didn’t come to bed until four in the morning. He’d been on a zoom meeting of the hickory golf board of directors. The meetings start at 8pm EST, which is 2am our time in Central Europe, and the meetings generally run two hours or more.

His neck and shoulders were stiff. I gave him a message before a cuddle. As usual, Sherlock saw us and didn’t want to be left out. He nosed his way between us.

My husband and dog fell asleep almost immediately.

I did not.

I’m happy I didn’t.

For weeks, I’d been trying to work out the story line for Daphne’s and Florence’s comic book. I didn’t want to include the actual drawings and story but enough for the reader to get an idea of what it is about. And I thought of a way to tie it into 1775.

I also thought of how Gareth can reveal his lack of stability as well as Florence’s and Daphne’s first step in getting a publisher.

There is something wonderful about being married to another writer. He reads his writing to me, too.

Had he not interrupted my sleep, who knew when I would have solved the plot issues that had been niggling at me for far too long.

Chapter 41

Chapter Boston and Sudbury, Massachusetts

October 

 “FLORENCE! DAPHNE WAS gobsmacked to see her friend standing at her door. “When did you get back?” Daphne was still dressed in pajamas and big fuzzy blue slippers. She held an almost empty coffee mug in her hand.

“May I come in?” Florence took off her dark glasses.

“I thought you were still in France.” Florence’s family emergency had slowed work on their project. Her mother was suffering with pancreatic cancer. Florence had left in the August heat and humidity to care for her in Paris.

Now Halloween decorations were all over Boston. Leaves were turning red and yellow. Leaf piles, made for kicking, hid much of the brick sidewalks. In the mornings and after the sun went down, it was possible to see one’s breath.

Without asking, Daphne led Florence into their state-of-the-art kitchen, which seemed out of place in this otherwise Victorian apartment with its high ceilings, decorative moldings, oak wainscoting and antiques all of which belonged to the consulate.

The coffee pot was half full and warm. Daphne grabbed a mug and filled it for Florence and topped up her own. She didn’t bother with milk and sugar because she knew Florence took her coffee black. So strong, they joked, it could melt the china.

“I got back two days ago,” Florence said. She wore dark jeans, a flowing-sleeved blouse and a scarf in some convoluted folds around her neck. She carried a heavy sweater which she dropped on one of the four stools arranged around a gray marbled center island.

They were alone. A month before, Daphne had asked that a cook only be there if they were entertaining, which to date they had not done. Maya, the woman who had been assigned to them, had found another job, higher paid, in a Boston restaurant which Daphne thought was a win-win. The woman had a good job: she didn’t have to try and keep the woman busy. If they did need to do a formal meal, she or the consulate could hire a caterer.

Stephanie, who had been assigned to her for any secretarial needs (almost none), had returned to her family in Wales and wasn’t replaced. A cleaning woman came in three times a week, which was enough. This wasn’t one of those days.

“Where’s your staff?” Florence asked.

Daphne told her as she sat kitty corner to Florence, her two hands around her coffee mug. “I really prefer having the flat to myself most of the time.”

She hesitated to ask Florence about her mum.

One of the reasons, even in the short time they had partnered in the comic book project, was that they often read each other’s thoughts.

“Mum died two and a half weeks ago. I know I should have e-mailed you, but after her last few weeks being a full-time nurse, clearing out her apartment and getting a notaire going on the paperwork, which will take forever … My father has been useless.”

Daphne put her hand on Florence’s arm. “No should about it. You had your hands full. How are you handling it, the emotional stuff that is?”

“A little numb. We were able to put aside all our old battles. She was one tough lady. Maybe all those moves around the world.” Florence was quiet. “I often wondered why she didn’t come back to Massachusetts. She told me she felt more at home in Paris.” Then Florence stopped talking and fiddled with her coffee cup.

Daphne did nothing to fill the void, waiting for her friend to continue.

“It’s funny, I’m an orphan, but no one feels sorry for an adult orphan.”

“I can feel sorry for you if it will help. What time do you want me to start?”

Florence laughed. “English humor, I love it. When I arrived back, I didn’t realize how tired I was. Jet lag like I’ve never experienced before. But this morning I woke up, ready to get back to work on our project.”

“I’ve been working on it, especially the Abigail part.”

“You have formed the characters?”

“Yes. For example, the twins are the only children of William and Dorothy Billington. Dorothy had lost at least three children with miscarriages and two other children had died before they were four. Not sure how we should deal with so many kids dying.”

“Real people?”

“Composite is more like it. I found letters and diaries. Took a bit from here and bit more from there. It’s mixed enough that plagiarism isn’t an issue although I’m not sure of United States plagiarism law for materials written close to 250 years ago.” She had debated checking with the consulate, but that would alert Gareth how deep she was still working on the project. Maybe she could have checked with one of the law schools in the city, but then again she didn’t want to do anything that would involve an expense.

Gareth had given her an allowance making her feel as if she were a child again. It was more than enough to buy lunch, go to a movie or pay a museum entrance even clothes. However, he wanted to go with her to check that they were suitable.

Suitable?

When she worked at the tweed company, she wore jeans or slacks. Rummaging around in dusty files did not lend itself to suits. For board meetings, when she briefed the family who sat on the board, she had two suits, blue and black, that she would alternate. A different scarf or blouse would vary her appearance, although she doubted that the board members paid any attention.

More important were her PowerPoints.

That was another life, where her battles were what should be included. Sometimes, two family members, brothers in their 80s, worried about revealing family secrets so far in the past that that anyone who participated in those secrets was long gone.

Sometimes Daphne ached for those days when she was responsible for herself only.

“Earth to Daphne. Earth to Daphne.”

“I’m sorry. You were saying?”

“Do we want to go into that much detail? This is a comic.” Florence hopped off the stool and poured herself more coffee. She held the pot in the air toward Daphne, who shook her head.

“I agree, but be aware even if we don’t say it, it needs to be there,” Daphne said.

“I wasn’t arguing.”

“I know. And like any good bande desinée each frame will have lots of detail in the drawing …”

“… which is why we have to spend more time in those old houses in Lexington so I can make sure we get the details right.”

Daphne had more to share about her progress.

During Florence’s absence, Gareth had made several trips to the main embassy in Washington. This left her time to work without his being aware of what she was doing, even though she felt uncomfortable in keeping it a secret. The need to keep it a secret for peace in her marriage bothered her more.

When he wasn’t in Washington, most days after he left for work, she headed for the Boston Public Library. At times it felt much like having an ordinary job with fixed hours. She thought of the building with its marble central staircase and lion statues almost as a palace.

She’d fallen in love with the reading room and the rounded ceiling above. She loved its green lamps placed strategically along long wooden tables. She loved ordering the books and waiting for their delivery. Some could not be removed from the library. Others could.

Rather than take them out and leave them around the apartment where Gareth might question why, she sent them back to the archives. It wasn’t the type of reading matter that would be in great demand as a best seller would be. Still, when the book she was working with was there the next day, she felt a sense of relief.

It felt good to have a project where she could immerse herself as she had when she did research at uni or searching the records of the textile company to write a company history.

At night, whether Gareth came home early or late, she could have continued working but instead would read mysteries, biographies and chick lit. Even if her at-home reading was relaxing after her research, she felt sneaky. She may not have liked her actions, but she did like the peace that enveloped her marriage when she gave in to her husband.

She had acknowledged something was wrong with her marriage where she couldn’t follow her interests without annoying him. That he deemed the project “stupid, a waste of time, slacking her wifely duties” and on and on annoyed her even more.

Annoying was perhaps the wrong word. Gareth’s moods could change from lovable to ranting in minutes. She was never sure what would set him off. The ranting side was nothing she’d seen in their short courtship or early days of their marriage before moving to Boston.

His mood swings also varied from happy to sad with little warning of what triggered the switch.

When she figured out how to deal with it, she would. Now wasn’t the time and she wasn’t even sure she would recognize the time when it arrived.

She shared none of these problems, not so much of not wanting to reveal them, but there was no one she could talk to.

Her friend Victoria was at a critical point in her Ph.D. thesis. Daphne didn’t want to distract her.

Her parents were too far away to help. If she were to pack up and move in with them in Scotland while she sorted her life out, she had no doubt they would do everything they could to help with only minimal clucks.

At the same time, she knew they would talk in bed at night, keeping their voices low, saying how they knew Gareth was not the man for their beloved daughter, that something always seemed off. They might mention his exceptional good looks, his Oxford degree and his place in the government, all of which were reasons to look deeper for they were distrustful of anything that looked too perfect.

It was like she was living in a romance-type novel: young woman thinks she meets man of her dreams: her dreams slowly evolve into a nightmare. Maybe nightmare was too strong a word, but bad dream could work as a description. In a romance novel, Mr. Right would appear and save the heroine. She didn’t want to meet Mr. Right. She just wanted a smooth life: successful, handsome husband with interesting job, no money worries, a chance to see different places — a checked-off list of why she should be happy.

She wasn’t happy.

Often, before Florence had left for Paris, Daphne debated confiding in her. But that would mix personal into their project. She didn’t want to do that. Keeping them separate felt better. And then, Florence was the wife of another diplomat.

It didn’t help that Gareth said he disliked Florence and wished that Daphne didn’t spend so much time with her. When asked why, he had gone into his office, almost slamming the door. He hadn’t emerged until after she was asleep.

She didn’t know if Gareth knew Florence had gone to Paris. Maybe he thought that Daphne was no longer seeking out Florence’s company but the lack of the woman in and about their lives had reduced tension. It was just one more subject that they didn’t discuss.

“Let’s go to lunch at the Wayside Inn, then to Lexington so I can take some photos of the houses for the artwork?” Florence asked.

“Give me time to get dressed.”

*****

A waiter ushered them to a linen-draped table near the fireplace where little gray squares of a an almost burned-out log were outlined in red. A waiter added another log. When it fell on top of the old log, ashes flared up with a thud and crackle. Sparks flew up the chimney.

When the women arrived, most tables were either empty or people were shoving credit cards into wallets and reaching for jackets.

“It’s a good thing we aren’t allergic to wood.” Daphne swept her hand to indicate the floors’ wide planks, the wood-paneled walls and wooden beams holding up the wooden ceiling. The atmosphere was cozy compared to the cool day outside with a wind that was stripping the remaining colored leaves from trees.

“What do you expect? It goes back to the 1700s,” Florence said.

“How did you know that?”

“Longfellow wrote about it. At the time it was called Howe’s Inn or something like that. Just for the hell of it, I took Early American Lit course nights last year, never thinking I’d sometime be working on a book about the period.”

Daphne had to admit, although she kept it to herself, life took strange twists. A year ago, and a little more, she thought her life in Edinburgh was settled into a satisfactory routine of research, reports and seeing a few girlfriends for a drink or show.

A waiter appeared. “Would you ladies like a cocktail?” He was seriously cute with his curly dark hair and brown eyes one could fall into. He oozed charisma. Not that she was thinking of being unfaithful to Gareth, but she liked to admire nice-looking people. He would not be the man who saved the heroine like in that romance novel she had just read. She would save herself.

“Do you have anything typically New England, maybe even something typical of the Revolution era?” Daphne asked. Maybe they could use the meal in their comic book. She liked to feel history not just read about it. Among her thrills were when she stood on the spot where Mary Queen of Scots was crowned as a baby and in the palace room where Mary’s lover was killed.

“There’s our Cow Wow; it was the area’s first mixed drink with rum and ginger brandy.” He had a smile that if it were a TV commercial, a light would shine off a tooth and the audience would hear a ping.

“Sounds powerful,” Florence said.

“Or there’s the Stonewall with gin and apple jack.”

“What’s apple jack?” Florence asked.

“An old New England drink going back to the 1600s,” he said pinging.

“Sounds pretty strong, but we’ve work to do this afternoon. Maybe just a glass of wine,” Florence said.

“Excuse her, she’s French,” Daphne said. “I’m driving, so a Coke.” They wouldn’t be using alcoholic drinks in their comic book.

“Let’s go New Englandy with our meals,” Florence said.

“Nous avons New England Yankee pot roast. “Aussi quelque chose with cornbread stuffing and cranberry sauce.” Another smile without its ping.

Daphne looked at the menu. “What’s a Boston Scrod?”

“A fish,” the waiter said. “Usually haddock, but always a white fish. Very Bostonian to call it scrod.”

They selected the pot roast and the cornbread stuffed chicken and decided to share between them.

Once the waiter left, Daphne reached into her backpack and pulled out a folder. “Wanta discuss Abigail.”

“Bien sur.”

“Don’t bother to take notes. I’ll e-mail you this file and photos of things like the clothes when we get back.”

“Abigail is either 12 or 13. She has a twin brother. None of her siblings survived either checking out of the womb or giving in to the various diseases of the day. She attended the local elementary school, reads, writes. Her parents want her home to help with chores.”

“They had schools?” Florence asked.

“Blame the Puritans. They made a law that every town of 50 families or more must have a school for boys and girls. This was so they could read the Bible.”

“Maybe we can include that in the story, her going to school, not the law itself.”

“She could hate it or love it. Oh, I didn’t tell you. She lives on a farm and her father is one of the Minutemen.” That’s what they called the men who served in the militia,” Daphne said just as the waiter brought their drinks and left with another ping-style smile.

“I knew that,” Florence said.” We need to give her character. Make her a rebel?”

“I thought of that. She doesn’t like to embroider although her mother makes wonderful samplers. She’s garbage at sewing, but she’s good at spinning, cooking in the open fireplace and churning butter. Maybe a series of panels with her doing chores, which might come as a shock to modern children.”

“They might like the no-school part,” Florence said.

“Not so sure after the schools being shut during the pandemic,” Daphne said.

“We could have her dress as a boy and fight the British. Or maybe she could dream about a mobile phone,” Florence said.

Daphne stared for a moment then laughed. “I have missed you so much.” She had not realized how much until that moment.

 

Don't Join the Armed Services

The Army, the Navy and the Air Force are not protecting the United States. They are the illegal aggressor that is throwing the world into chaos. They are helping Israel in genocide.

It won't be the first time Americans have been lied to with propaganda claptrap. It happened in Vietnam and Iraq. It happened in a number of small military actions. 

In the many Indian wars the U.S. had stolen the land from the natives. When the natives fought back, they were often slaughtered. Often there were treaties, which the government broke when it pleased them. The soldiers who fought the Indians were killers of other humans. Nothing to be proud of.

The U.S. was not attacked by Vietnam. It would not have been. Earlier attempts at diplomacy had been rebuffed by the American government.

Yes the U.S. was attacked on 9/11. Instead of attacking the country where those that flew the planes from, Saudi Arabia, they attacked Afghanistan long after the mastermind had left that country. The US went after Iraq lying about weapons of mass destruction. 

Too many Americans died. Too many Iraqis were killed. Fathers, sons, husband, brothers, friend, children, even women on both sides, all dead.

There have been wars worth fighting. The Civil War, WWI, WWII. One was fought to end horrendous slavery, although the North could have let the South go its own way.  

WWI and WWII were fought to stop a dictator from occupying other countries and/or committing genocide. Normandy is filled with white crosses or Stars of David of men and a few women who died protecting the homeland.

Now more than ever, the new war is unnecessary. It is illegal under international law. As in most wars arms manufacturers benefit. Politicians who want power benefit. 

And those who agree to fight should know they are risking their lives, becoming killers of more innocent people, risking their health for what? 

Nothing!

Soap

 

When I look at something I want to see color and feel happy. This does not mean I ignore the horrendous wars in the world. It is a counterbalance, a few minutes of sanity in a world coming apart. 

For instance, I will decorate my laptop. One had butterflies and my new one has a little garden of red flowers on the lower right corner. It makes my eyes happy even when I sit down to write about bombs, genocide, and other human cruelties beyond understanding.

One of the most uninteresting things is soap. Boooooooooooooring. 

But a new village store has opened up that has unusual soap. Anyone who knows me, I HATE shopping. Time in stores is stolen from my life. 

However, this one village store has beautiful soap. The owners also have a cute puppy. I like talking with them and with the pup. Each design is more interesting than another. I've given bars selecting designs that fit the tastes of the person.

The soaps are handmade in the UK by some 250 staff. There is an element of artwork. They are committed to all natural ingredients, No animal products. Even better. 

As for me, I picked out a bunny rabbit among flowers. When I wash my hands, it is not routine ho hum, ho hum but a conscious pleasure to look at the rabbit, the flowers and the grass. If my daughter were still little we could make up stories about the rabbit. Maybe I will channel Beatrice Potter...

Lexngton: Anatomy of a Novel Ch. 38-39

 

Chapter 38

Geneva, Switzerland

May Quarantine 

I DO NOT necessarily write chapters in order. Nor do I always write complete chapters. Often, I highlight in yellow parts to return to while I wait for verification of a historic fact or more information. Sometimes it means a complete rewrite. More often, however, it is a matter of adding a few sentences, switching or cutting paragraphs.

Life happens during my writing. An example? We headed back to Geneva and ended up smack dab in quarantine because we came from the Occitanie part of France. The Swiss authorities have said people who are vaccinated do not have to quarantine.

The problem?

The quarantine regulation change doesn’t start until next month.

A good thing about quarantine is that it is easier to be disciplined in my writing schedule. Interruptions are more household chores and sitting with the dog in the garden than anything social.

When I first started my research on the missing cannons, I pictured huge cannons like those on the deck of the U.S.S. Constitution or even those I’d seen at Edinburgh Castle.

The story that the patriots had stolen cannons from the base on Boston Common during a drill then hidden them in a firewood box at a writing school near the base didn’t make much sense until I discovered these cannons were much smaller than I thought. More research taught me that cannons came in sizes based on the size of the cannon balls so there were one-, two-, and three-pounders.

One of my problems as a writer when I do research is that I go off on tangents. It happened as I researched the cannons.

What was a writing school?

Certainly nothing to do with fiction like today where one can get a degree in creative writing like I did at Glamorgan University in Wales. In pre-revolution times, it was where young boys went to learn to read and write and do math to enable them to work in businesses. These were the youngsters not studying Latin and Greek at Boston Latin School. Those students went on to Harvard to become doctors, ministers and lawyers.

In the search for the cannons, soldiers entered the school. A teacher was said to have his feet resting on the firewood box where the cannons were hidden. He looked up as if surprised to see the soldiers coming in, who left quickly rather than disturb the class — or at least that is how the story was told.

The search for those cannons will be a major theme. 

Chapter 39

Boston, Massachusetts

December 1774 

 

JAMES HOLLOWAY HAD spent five days wandering around Boston in civilian clothes searching for information to give the General. He had eaten at different taverns and tried chatting with locals. He wasn’t sure how to delve into topics that might produce something useful. He couldn’t say, “So where did you hide the gunpowder and cannons?”

He mentioned at one tavern, while sitting a table with four locals, that the rebels were really clever to move the cannons out from under the soldiers’ noses.

The youngest among them, probably a boy no more than in his early teens, if that, said, “And then hid them under their noses and when the soldiers searched the school . . .”

“Shush,” one of the older men said. “Walls have ears.”

James thought he knew the school the boy was referring to. It was located next to the military camp before the soldiers moved from the tents into the barracks. He also knew that when a search party went into the school, they had not wanted to disturb the class. Nothing had seemed out of the ordinary. Thomas, who had been one of the search party, had told that to James afterward.

James knew that the school was located close to where the soldiers had been practicing marching and drumming which made lots of noise.

Even if the kid had been shushed, James tried asking, “But two cannons in a classroom would be noticed.”

“Not if they were in a big trunk,” the boy said. “With the teacher sitting on it.”

The man who reprimanded the boy hit him on the head. “Shut your mouth.”

At least he had some information to give to the General, who was getting impatient at the lack of progress James was making.

He reported the conversation to the General that night when he arrived after the Gages were finishing dinner.

Dishes were still on the table waiting to be collected when the servant ushered James into the dining room.

“Would you like something, James? We still have a little beef and carrots,” Mrs. Gage said. “It will be cold, though.”

James looked at the General’s face for a sign that it would be all right and when the General gave a barely noticeable nod, he said, “That is kind. I missed dinner at the barracks.”

“I suspect this will be much better cold than what you’re given there,” she said.

She was right. The Gage’s cook believed in spices and the beef was tender and delicious. His impulse was to shovel the food in his mouth, even if he had had eaten lunch that day, but instead he copied the manners that he had observed when he ate with General Gage and his family.

“What have you found out?” the General asked.

“Not where the cannons are, but how they were hidden immediately after they were stolen.” He went into detail of the timing and school.

“I suppose that’s of some use, but not much. They aren’t still there, are they?”

“I went to the school. As I suspected, they could have been stored in a container next to the teacher’s desk.”

“A container?”

“A giant box. For firewood. The cannons aren’t that big.” The maid put a plate in front of James. He picked up his fork. “The headmaster acted as if he didn’t know a thing. He did say that he came in one day, and he can’t remember when, to find the school unlocked, but he said he probably had forgotten to lock up. With all the soldiers around, he never worried about safety or theft. He opened the boxes for me. One contained slates, chalk, a few books, cushions, which I have no idea what they were for. The other had wood for the fire.”

“Damn it.” General Gage almost growled the word.

“Dessert?” Mrs. Gage pointed to an apple tart.

Again, James looked at the General for approval. The General waved his hand. Mrs. Gage cut a good size piece.

Even if sugar was in short supply, the apples were sweet so only a small amount had been added. Or maybe it was honey. James did not remember eating anything that good since his wife cooked apple treats in the autumn.

*****

Back in the barracks, Thomas and Corporal Tilley were talking about the capture of the deserter. “We found him in the woods just the other side of Worcester. He’d made a lean-to and he’d dug a fire pit. He’d begun clearing trees. On the way back he told us he planned to have a farm,” Corporal Tilley said.

“Maybe he thought he’d be safe, because there’s so many rebels in Worcester, especially since the editor, I’ve forgotten his name, moved his paper Massachusetts Spy from Boston to Worcester,” Thomas said. James knew all about Massachusetts Spy, which he read when he could find a copy.

He knew better than to say that the General thought the ammunition might have been hidden in Worcester. The General hadn’t decided whether to go on a search and seize mission or wait for more information. Every morning when James received his morning orders, the General would caution James never to speak of anything he heard from him or his officers.

“Yes Sir. I know that.” James always replied the same way.

Usually, the General just nodded. Twice he’d warned, “If you do, you could be court martialed.”

“I know that, Sir.” He wondered why Gage seemed to trust him sometimes and other times not at all. He supposed the General had much to worry about. London was putting more and more pressure on him with each letter as the rebels grew more and more daring. The latest brought over on the Nautilus basically said, do whatever you have to do to stop the rebellion, not in those words, but close enough.

*****

“They found the deserter,” General Gage told James when he reported for duty in full uniform. He already knew, but he didn’t say so.

He couldn’t be out on the street every day. A day off might look reasonable here and there but not every day. Even out of uniform he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t part of the British forces. To blend in with the locals, he showed sympathy to them with a bit of distain for some of the practices of the occupiers. He said things like, “They shouldn’t block the harbor” or “I don’t understand why you need stamps on all those documents, anyway.”

Sometimes a local would agree. Most changed the subject.

Boston was still a small city. He had heard that it had a population of about 15,000 people, give or take. Someone, he couldn’t remember who, said London had about 250,000 people. Comparing the two, it made London seem like a bully.

He wondered how many people lived in Ely. If he were to guess he’d have said 3,000.

James found the numbers interesting. When he mentioned it to Gage, the General said that there were about 2.5 million people in the colonies compared to eight million in England.

“Who counted them?” James had asked.

“I think it’s an estimate,” the General said. “You certainly are the most curious orderly I’ve ever had.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Don’t be. Curiosity can be very useful.”

If James had been interested in making the army his lifelong career, he might have used his position with the General to speed up a promotion. Moving through the ranks was slow at best. The army, he had finally decided for certainty, was a temporary experience, something he wouldn’t share with Gage.

“I haven’t much for you today, why don’t you go wandering again,” the General said.

*****

After changing into civilian clothes, James decided to walk between the Common and the harbor. He thought of it as his beat because he saw the same people over and over: storekeepers, housewives doing their errands, people delivering meat and vegetables from the countryside, children playing, etc.

Out of uniform, some locals began to greet him, although most didn’t. As a civilian he might not stand out with his ordinary looks. Women didn’t swoon when they saw him. Brown hair, brown eyed, middling height and weight, no scars, no limps. Ordinary was good for spying. In uniform he looked like any other soldier.

When he did see someone he knew, he wasn’t sure how to get them to talk to him. A “good day” or a comment on the weather often ended there.

Having nothing happen, he headed for Hanover Street then ventured down Orange Street. No one looked familiar. He tried walking to Bunker Hill. Still no contact as people passed him on the way to someplace. This was a wasted day.

 

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch.36-37

Chapter 36

Boston, Massachusetts

August

 

 “ARE YOU INSANE?” Gareth Andrews stopped in front of the Boston Public Library. A second before he’d been walking next to her, holding her hand. Now he hovered over her. He was taller by a good eight inches.

Three people walked by. Each stared for a moment, maybe wondering if they were about to witness domestic abuse. Then they looked away as if Gareth’s glare discouraged them from interfering.

At seven in the evening, the temperature was in the mid-nineties with ninety percent humidity. Daphne carried a sweater folded in front of her, a woolen shield. The couple were planning to eat at Legal Seafood in Copley Place. Daphne knew the restaurant would be air conditioned to meat-preservation levels … thus the sweater.

Gareth had not been there before, but she and Florence DuBois had eaten lunch there the previous week to discuss their project, which was progressing faster and better than she could have imagined.

Until a few minutes ago, she hadn’t told him about the project. The time had never seemed right. Gareth was too tired after his workday. During the weekends he might be more receptive, but he still allowed work worries to creep into what could have been positive time.

Okay, so workload at the consulate was overburdening him. Part of his problem was replacing staff. Too many had quit under his predecessor. Those that remained had little motivation and changing the atmosphere of a workplace took time.

Daphne wasn’t sure she would like to work for her husband. He was demanding to the point that she sometimes wondered if her hasty marriage had been a mistake. He wanted his underwear folded a certain way in his dresser. His shirts needed to be lined up by color. He didn’t like the way the cleaning woman polished his shoes. These were things one never learned till after they lived with someone.

She had thought the difference in ages might have been a help. Ten years wasn’t a huge difference. There was almost twenty years between her new friend and creative partner Florence DuBois and her husband Yves.

Daphne had carefully planned tonight as the time she would tell him.

On Saturdays there was no alarm. Check.

She’d made love to him first thing. Check.

She’d made a full English fry up for breakfast. Check.

When he disappeared into his office, she’d brought him tea. Check.

It had been too hot to suggest any sightseeing. Gareth, who happily went to museums with her in the beginning of their relationship, hadn’t shown any desire to do so now, air conditioned or not.

As for movies, their tastes were far too different, but last night she willingly sat through an old James Bond film, hoping it would put him in a good mood for her announcement. She even made popcorn and brought him a beer. Although he poo-pooed many American things, he did like Sam Adams beer. He didn’t get her remark that the beer was the name of an early patriot who helped rout the British. He was well read on history of the last 50 years or so, things that might affect the U.K. current policy. Anything before that he called “ancient history and a waste of time” unless there was a direct correlation to now.

Gareth and she had made love a second time, before taking a nap. Naps were the ultimate luxury in her husband’s opinion. After he woke, he suggested Legal Seaford. Although she had eaten a fruit salad while he was asleep, she quickly agreed.

Maybe she should have waited until they had ordered their meals rather than springing it on him as they walked past the BPL. “I’m not at all insane.”

“She’s the French Consul General’s wife.”

“I know that.”

“Well, you can’t.”

“There’s no money involved, just my time, although if it works …”

“What’s the expression … cockamamie?”

“There’s nothing cockamamie about a series of historical comic books. We are going to concentrate before and during the first battle at Lexington.”

“And you think anyone would listen to a Brit and a Frog? You’ve no credentials.”

“I read history at Edinburgh University. She is a graphic artist.”

“One doesn’t read a subject in the United States. They study it.”

“Same thing. She went to art school. Those are good credentials, but it isn’t the credential, it’s the product.”

Florence had told her how she wanted to go to art school, but her father refused to pay for what he claimed was a useless degree. She worked days and took classes at night concentrating on computer graphics.

Then she married. Ongoing art classes were scattered between their relocations and caring for her stepchildren, Fanny and Yannick.

“We want to show how ordinary people really lived not just the big names,” Daphne said. “Let kids know what it was like to live in Colonial times.” She’d begun spending time at either the BPL or out at Minute Man National Park, where it seemed as if the park rangers knew the people who had lived in colonial times personally. The women had agreed once they had the base concept, Daphne would do the core story and the wording and Florence would draw.

A lot was still undecided. What they had narrowed down was that there would be a boy and a girl. One book or two? They weren’t sure. What if there were two books with the girl in the boy’s story and vice versa. They could overlap.

Daphne did not remember being so excited over a work project since the day she’d discovered a treasure trove of 1801 letters from the second head of Tweed to his son, who was about to take over the business. They were like reading a novel. She’d rushed to the CEO. He was as excited as she was and gave her free rein with the material. It had been a good balance to looking over old accounting books. When she finished, the book had sold well in the gift shop. Excerpts from the letters had been used in an advertising campaign.

“I forbid it.”

The word forbid had never been a good one to use with Daphne. As a child once forbidden to do anything, she would do it, even if she hadn’t wanted to. Over the years, she’d mellowed a bit, but the word still activated every bit of her rebel DNA.

Why had she married Gareth? Was it triggered by her friend Phillipa when she asked, “What’s wrong with you; you’re the only one in our group not divorced yet?”

It was true. Almost all the women she’d studied with at university had married immediately after graduation, but most of those marriages had floundered. If they hadn’t divorced, they wanted to.

Had she met someone she wanted to marry before meeting Gareth, she too might be divorced. Most of the men who asked her out were money and/or sports obsessed. They didn’t share any of her interests or her theirs.

Gareth had been different. Because he worked in the diplomatic corps, he was interested in politics, not just current politics but the interconnecting lines. He loved reading. They would often read parts of books to each other. He could be funny. He was good in bed.

His good qualities seemed to override his bad, although his desire to control everything around him seemed to be getting worse. When preparing for their move to Boston, Daphne had left him in charge since he didn’t like the arrangements she’d made.

He hadn’t reached the OCD stage and insist all the cans in the cupboard be lined up exactly like in that movie Sleeping with the Enemy with Julia Roberts. He wanted to know what she was doing with her day. Mostly she would give her destination which was often the BPL. He hadn’t thought anything of it, nor had he asked her why so often.

He would plan everything in advance and was uncomfortable when plans changed, which surprised her when he suggested they go out to eat after his nap.

“Do we go eat or not?” Daphne asked. “There’s two lobsters with our names waiting for us.”

Gareth sighed. All right. I could use a good gin and tonic, but we aren’t through discussing this.”

Yes we are, because I’m not going to stop, Daphne thought. She could always play the card that she needed something to keep her mind occupied and her duties as his wife would never do that. He’d mentioned a couple of times starting a family. She wasn’t sure she was ready or if it was right to bring a child into their relationship as it was.

Chapter 37

Boston

December 1774

 

 “WHAT ARE YOU doing in civilian clothes?” Sally Brewster asked. She put down her brushes and stood in front of the table where she had been painting on a leather bucket. Her expression was neither hostile nor friendly.

James Holloway had just entered her father’s bucket shop. Brushes from what looked like a pen point to one as large as his thumb were in front of her. Dishes were filled with ground something or other. Metals maybe?

She was working on a leather bucket maybe two feet high and a foot across. It was larger than some of the buckets on display outside the shop.

He was surprised at how pleased he felt that she recognized him out of uniform from the two times they had spoken earlier. “Soldiers can have a day off,” James said. He didn’t say that the General wanted him in civilian clothes. His orders were to walk around the city to integrate with those who might have connections to the rebels.

“I can’t expect you to find the people who stole the cannons or the missing powder,” the General had said. “But maybe you can eliminate where not to look.”

It’s a good thing, James had thought. He had no idea how he would be able to do that at the same time he knew he would try his best.

His first stop would be at the bucket shop where the owner was rumored to be a Sons of Liberty. John Brewster was suspected of having participated in the second Boston Tea Party in February, when rebels threw thirty-five boxes or so off the decks of the Fortune into the harbor. That was less than the first Tea Party almost a year ago today, but it had added to the anger in London against the Bostonians.

It wasn’t the father but the daughter that interested James, but there was the saying of killing two birds with one stone, not that he wanted to kill either father or daughter.

The General had received orders from London to do whatever was necessary to bring the rebellion under control. Whatever necessary included increasing the drills. Bullets were still too precious to have regular target practice, but the speed of loading the Brown Bess weapons had increased through extra drills. Searches for stolen ammunition increased. Guards on potential trouble makers had increased.

Between his work for the General and normal duties, James felt stretched. He was slower than many in loading his weapon because he practiced when he could instead of several hours daily. He marched less than the others, although he still did guard duty nights after the General released him for the day.

Today was his first day on civilian surveillance. He had wanted to go with Thomas and several of his company into the woods while they searched for a defector. Private Isaac Thompson had been missing for two days. He was tagged a runaway, heading west.

James wondered what the western part of the colony was like. He had been north, south and east, at least to the sea. Because he was accompanying the General, he was most often on horseback, which had improved his riding.

He’d been up the coast to Salem so many times with the General that he knew when to expect the next farmhouse to come into view. He’d visited Woburn, Winchester, Arlington. Mostly he had seen farms with stretches of woods and a few village buildings.

He’d heard the further west one went, the more unsettled it became. Villages gave way to farms then to forests with a few scattered farms with primitive cabins. And if you went far enough there were Indians. Someone said they were Nipuc. The Pennacok were to the north. How could you tell one Indian from another, he wondered. He knew how to tell a Frenchman from an Irishman from a German by accents. It was possible to recognize a Scot from someone in Ely by their accents and their red hair and beards on some. But an Indian?

He was sure he had passed Indians on the street based on coloring and long black hair. Negroes were easier. Their skins were light brown to so black they were like staring into a forest on a moonless night. Their hair was tightly wound. Some, he knew, were slaves. Some were free men.

A negro had been killed during what the propogandists called the Boston Massacre five years ago this next March. James only knew about it because rebels kept talking about it at the Green Dragon.

Today James wasn’t worried about negros or Indians. He wanted to make a good impression on Sally, but if she was a patriot sympathizer, which she surely was, he might be considered a traitor if he courted her.

A private had no business looking for a wife. William always accused him of living in an unreal world. Damn it. Why was William still bothering him?

“That looks fascinating, he said to her. Can you tell me more of what you’re doing?”

“Mixing paint, putting it on the buckets.”

“I can see that.”

John Brewster came through the door backwards. He carried large pieces of leather in his hand and had to use his ass to prop the door as he entered. The leather was deposited in a corner of the shop next to the fireplace.

He glared at James. “I’ve seen you with the soldiers at the Green Dragon. Unless you want to buy a bucket, you aren’t welcome here.”

James debated buying a bucket, but they were too expensive for his meager salary. “I was interested in the painting. Your daughter is talented.” He picked up one that had a village house burning and a line of men with buckets trying to put it out. Most of the buckets were much simpler with initials or designs. There were some with fruit trees in blossom.

“Aye, she is. Which is why I’m the most successful bucket maker in Boston.”

Before James could say anything, Brewster continued, “She is a respectable young woman, and shouldn’t talk to a British soldier in or out of uniform.”

“I meant nothing by …”

“I suggest you leave.”

“Papa …”

“Quiet, Sally.”

Out on the street, James realized the only thing he had learned was the degree of antipathy for the soldiers by one patriot.

 

BS Meter

 

One of the things about aging, is knowing when you've been lied to. How many times do the American people need to be lied to before they stop believing?

At the moment there are more lies about Iran. Two killers Netanyahu and Trump are responsible for thousands of deaths.

Americans have been lied to about the need for war for several wars. The first, I realized, was Vietnam. All those brave soldiers were told how they were protecting their country. 

• Some believed.
• Some didn't believe.
• Some have names on a long black wall in Washington D.C.
• Some never recovered mentally and/or physically

The August 4, 1964 attack in the Gulf of Tonkin didn't happen, but the story about it was used to expand the war.

"On the night of 4 August, two US destroyers reported they were attacked by North Vietnamese vessels and that they were returning fire. Later investigation revealed that the 4 August attack did not happen; no North Vietnamese vessels had been present. Shortly after the events, the National Security Agency, an agency of the US Defense Department, deliberately skewed intelligence to create the impression that an attack had been carried out." Wiipedia and other sources,

Books by people like Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara misjudged or outright lied about the war. This chart in Wikipedia shows the cost in humanity of that war. 

Deaths in Vietnam War (1965–1974) per Guenter Lewy

US and allied military deaths	282,000
PAVN/VC military deaths	444,000–666,000
Civilian deaths (North and South Vietnam)	405,000–627,000
Total deaths	1,353,000

Vietnam was never coming to attack the U.S. The Asian countries didn't fall one by one like "dominos" to the Communists. 

Night after night the television news gave body counts of the Vietnamese. Rosy reports  on how well the U.S. was doing. Those not believing, the kids protesting were considered traitors, draft dodgers and more.

It took a trusted newcaster Walter Cronkite to tell the truth Bing Videos  President Johnson was claimed to have said, "If I've lost Cronkite, I've lost middle America."

Then there were the imaginary "weapons of mass destruction." More lies although it was said it was faulty intelligence. Lies or stupidity it doesn't matter. Colin Powell on 5 February  2003 speaking in front of the UN, convinced the world they were there. In 2016. Powell said that the speech was written by the Vice President's office. 

So here we go again. The problems in the Middle East are partially the making of the United States. How things would be different if the CIA didn't overthrow the government of Mohammad Mosaddegh to help an oil company and supported the Shah and his tyrannical government, I'm not sure if the Iranian people would have the hatred they have today. 

Now Trump and his incompetent buddies are lying to people on why the U.S. should be spending billions to do (fill in the goal of the day). My faith in a man, who according to Washington Post lied over 34,000 times during his first administration, is non existent.

I watch how different American news stations try to justify the war. The international ones I watch either say foul, or side step. Different countries are anywhere from wishy washy to outspoken such as the Spanish head of State. 

My BS meter has exploded. Forgive me if I don't believe the United States  government after years of being lied to, just more flagrantly now than ever before. This time the lies are by a demented liar who is also a killer along with the Israeli leader.