Tea Time & Fairy Stories
In reply to…nessie6: No, not in any fashion will this be a romance. If I had planned for it to be one and wanted to alert the public, I would have given the story the title of 'romance' not 'drama'. No, no, no… I despise romances, on the most part, so no worry there.
Dawnie-7—No, Mrs. Bailey is not Miss Leary's mother. The usage of 'mum' in Miss Leary's dialect is merely old-fashioned slag for referring to another female superior to you. It's a bit like saying 'governor' to someone…the person isn't really a governor but is socially superior to you. And thank you for the lovely review, you're very kind to say that about my writing!
KatrinaKaiba—Oh, thank you so much! Nice, encouraging words are always great to hear from reviewers.
StarlitNiphredil-Thank you so much for your friendly comment on my writing style!
Writing Muse- I was so pleased to read your nice review! It really encouraged me, actually, and you're grammar (from what I can see) is fine! I am also glad that I have engaged you into the story! (beams proudly) I enjoy it when readers actually tell me in detail what they like/dislike, enjoy/ anticipate about my stories, and I am much obliged! Thanks, again!
The maid walked into the study, and made doubly sure she made no eye contact with anything except the tea tray and the floor. She had made a point not to stare at anything in the house, the reason being because Mrs. du Maurier had most almost fired her for looking at and picking up the golden mantle piece clock downstairs. She could not blame Mrs. du Maurier, there were many maids who stole from their households—and one must always be watchful, of course.
"If you could put the tray on my desk, tha' would be lovely." Mr. Barrie said, somewhere in the room.
She carefully marched over to the desk covered with scribbles, notebooks, drawings, and other clutter. That desk was one of the areas in the house she was absolutely forbidden to clean, but, quite to her annoyance, it was the most disorganized area in the whole lodging. Miss Leary turned her heels, and was ready to escape.
"You're the new maid, then?"
Miss Leary bent her head up slightly. "That I am, sir."
"Well, welcome, then, I hope Mrs. Finch isn't giving ya hard time in the kitchen?"
"Thank you, sir—No, sir—Mrs. Finch's very kind." She said, still in her soulless, monotone voice.
Mrs. Finch, a kind lady? Well, that's a lie if Mr. Barrie ever heard one, Mrs. Finch was a exceedingly scary woman, and she was absolutely anything but kind. Oh, well that's dishonesty. No one was honest to anyone, and, lately, Mr. Barrie did find himself noticing the abnormalities about a little, pesky thing called propriety. He noticed this vexing and completely omnipresent sprite, demon, devil (call it whatever you wish) more and more —and Sir Barrie hated it.
"I'm glad you're enjoying work, Miss Leary, but is it possible to help me down, please?"
Miss Leary stopped in her tracks, and once again turned around, "'cuse me, sir?"
"Please, Miss Leary, could ya help me down?"
Charlotte Leary lifted her head higher, and her neck creaked, sorely, because of its new position. She looked around the room, searching for the image of Mr. Barrie possibly somewhere near the open window or on top of a chair. But, no, he was—upside down and on top of the bedpost, looking very much like a fallen bird.
The maid put her hands over her mouth, rather shocked.
Mr. Barrie merely waved his hands, dismissively. "I suppose I could do it myself…"
And, then, tucking his legs back and uncoiling himself like a rollie pollie, the man sprang himself out of position and landed, rather regally, on the floor. He straightened himself up like a plank of wood, brushed off some of the dust from the wall, and acted as if he had done the most natural thing in the world.
Approaching the tray, Mr. Barrie said. "Thank ye, Miss Leary."
Miss Leary took her rough hands off her mouth, quickly, as not to offend him. After all, she had heard writers did odd things like this to be "inspired", but in Charlotte's opinion, it was just an excuse for the well off to act childish and eccentric. Mr. Barrie soon read the look on her face, and he readily explained himself:
"Oh, yes, I'm getting a new perspective. A perspective of a bird—I plan to climb up a tree, perhaps later today." He took a sip of tea, "It's for a book I'm beginning to write…I want to call it Kensington Gardens."
She tried to smile, but Miss Leary had the most blatant frown on her face. Deeply disturbed, she said, "Oh, I'll leave you then, Mr. Barrie."
"Could ya help me with something first, young lady?" Mr. Barrie said, looking down at some of his ruffled papers.
Miss Leary nodded her head and waited for further instructions, and Mr. Barrie asked the most peculiar question; it took some time before she could digest it.
"Tell me a good lad's name." Sir Barrie said, looking out the window.
"—A good lad's name, sir?" She said, "I don't know many, sir."
"One that's cowardly by night an' stupidly brave by day, give me a boy's name for that."
She was at a complete loss, and was quiet for an eternity. Then finally she broke out of her trance, sniffed worriedly, and suggested one. "Tony?" She whispered not really sure of the suggestion herself.
He nodded, contented with the idea— "Tony…Tony, very good. Thank ye, good bye."
He sat down in his chair and began to feverishly scribble. His hands and pen zipped along the pages like there was no tomorrow and his eyes had the white glaze of a madman. He paid no more attention to her, as he had gone off into his own world, and could no longer see her or anything else in the room, except his new creation 'Tony'—who he was, at an alarming rate, describing to the very fictional hairs on his head.
Miss Leary silently crept out of the room and shut the door, very gently. Charlotte Leary looked down in contemplation, and finally understood what Mrs. Bailey meant by "he's in one of his moods". Writers were not her sort of people, they troubled her deeply; you see, her mind tried to focus on other things, like getting her salary and weather she should spend a halfpenny at holidays. You know, important things like that.
Even as a girl, Miss Leary had never seen much in elves and mermaids. She concerned herself with numbers and digits and pounds and allowances—the things that mattered, you know, the things that kept bread on the table. Fairies and mermaids never put bread on the table…but calculation, work, sweat, and the salary always had.
Reality did most of the work, anyway, while Fantasy seemed to lull about in the parlor, playing cards with itself. Reality put her on a ship and sent her to London. Fantasy was still lulling about in Ireland, twiddling its thumbs and acting like it had nothing better to do. Reality was a good master, she thought.
As soon as Miss Leary entered the kitchen, something very shrill, very bird-like shrieked, "Mr. Barrie! Mr. Bar—rie!"
Oh, of course—it was Mrs. Catherine Reid, the boys' nanny. She and all her glory stormed into the house like a winter wind, with the four boys slowly walking afterwards, with ashamed, wilting faces.
"You—Mrs. Finch!" Screamed the nanny, in red-hot anger, "Where is Mr. Barrie? I must speak to the man at once!"
Roberta Finch scrunched her pock-marked face, and her icy blue eyes scanned the boys' faces. Then, gradually, Mrs. Finch yawned, and told Mrs. Reid to go and find Mr. Barrie herself—then the bony woman continued cooking dinner, her trademark scowl chiseled on her face.
Quietly, Micheal said something—
Mrs. Reid spun her heels around, "I don't want a word out of you, boys!" She shook her gloved finger at them, "I have had my fill of your disobedience!"
"Yes, Mrs. Re—" Began one of them, meekly.
"Not a word, Mr. Davies!"
None of the boys made an attempt to apologize this time, and they huddled together in a frightened mass. Mrs. Reid explored deeper into the kitchen and shouted repeatedly for Mrs. Bailey. The nanny's falcon-like eye spotted Miss Leary, and curtly told the maid to take the boys to the living room.
Mrs. Bailey waddled her way in, like a mother duck discovering her eggs being stolen by a fox.
"What is this, Mrs. Reid?" She asked, stopping Miss Leary from taking the boys away.
The nanny barked, "Please, get Mr. Barrie."
Mrs. Bailey shook her head and explained that Mr. Barrie had been most precise in that he was to be left alone to write for the evening. The nanny took no heed of this, and headed for the staircase (which was, in a way, the entrance into Mr. Barrie's world).
But she was pulled back by the swollen, puffy hands of Mrs. Emily Bailey. "But he's writing! Writers need privacy, Mrs. Reid!"
Now, Mrs. Reid's face turned into a horrible shade of crimson, and her eyes flashed, for one moment, a most terrible blood red. She hissed, like an angry cat, "I do not care, Mrs. Bailey, if he is the Grand Puba of the Royal Indian Court—I will see him now!"
The voice started everyone, "An' I'm here, Mrs. Reid. What's happened?" Ah, yes, there he stood like a spirit appearing out of the blue. He looked perfectly collected; his hands behind his back and his face as pleasant as spring. Everyone blinked many times, they could have sworn they had not heard him approach.
Mrs. Reid pushed this phenomenon aside and got to the soft throat of the matter—
"Well," The nanny huffed, pulling herself up to her maximum height, "They've been nothing but trouble all afternoon! First with Micheal throwing rocks at the Round Pond, then Jack hiding from me! The worst," Mrs. Reid lowered her voice, "Peter told me—right to my face, Mr. Barrie—to shut up!"
"He said tha' to ya, Mrs. Reid?" James Barrie breathed, rather shocked with this information. Whenever he was really shocked, his Scottish dialect seemed to get the better of him.
"He did!"
James Barrie turned his gaze over to Peter, who quickly averted his eyes and rested them on his shoes.
Mr. Barrie frowned and nodded to Mrs. Reid, "I think we might need to discuss this, Mrs. Reid. You, Peter, an' me—"
"I think we do!" She snorted.
It was then decreed that the boys (except for Peter) would be banished to their room in disgrace. Peter, who had been the naughtiest, was to receive the full-blown wrath of the grown ups, which was never more than a scolding and a thwack on the hand.
The living room doors were closed to conceal the conversation. But maids had ways of listening. In a way, they held all the cards—for they knew almost every detail, thread, and stain in these people's lives. But, Charlotte Leary refrained from such activities, as she secretly thought "listening in" was traitorous.
James Barrie's voice softly reprimanded, "Now, Peter, apologize to Mrs. Reid…."
Peter's solemn tone mumbled, "I won't."
Mr. Barrie coughed, worriedly, "Peter, apologize to Mrs. Reid."
"No." The boy almost shouted, "She deserved what I said."
Inside the kitchen, Mrs. Finch chuckled to herself and muttered something to Mrs. Bailey, who snorted knowingly. Mrs. Leary tired to concentrate on the dishes, but the lure of the conversation gradually seduced her. Soon, all three maids were huddled near the living room door and intently listening.
The boy, his voice filled with struggle and wet tears, said something about hating Mrs. Reid. "Mother never bothered with nannies! I can see why! I hate them!" Peter said, despairingly.
There was more ruckus and quarrel, and one might have thought it was Parliament House on a debate day. Mrs. Reid voice and argument was the strongest, leaving Mr. Barrie and Peter rather washed out. Peter was then told to leave and go upstairs, with the knowledge that he would not receive dinner tonight.
The women ran away from the door, and began idly dusting things here and there—whistling and humming, innocently, as Peter walked past them. When the child's footsteps silenced and the upstairs nursery door slammed shut, the maids eagerly resumed their posts.
Mr. Barrie was now talking, rather crestfallenly about how Mrs. Reid shouldn't be so hard on the boy, after his own mother's death, and he reassured the nanny that Peter had probably not known what he was saying. Though this was all lies! Alas, Mr. Barrie believed whole heartedly that Mrs. Reid absolutely needed to be told to shut up, and the only thing restringing the man from reliving the nanny of her duties, was Mrs. du Maurier, who would have disagreed. Children, you see, can smell a bad woman from a mile away—and Mrs. Reid was the Queen of Bad Women.
"The mother is only two months dead, Mrs. Barrie!" The nanny growled, "The boy must still be in morning. I never thought it was healthy to let them play. They need to stay inside…and reflect on her life."
"Fresh air will help—"
"Fresh air does nothing to change the circumstances, Mr. Barrie."
"Of course," Mr. Barrie said, tiredly. "Of course…yes…"
"The only outing proper for these boys is going to church," Mrs. Reid said, reprimandingly. "To meditate on their mother's tragic passing. Mrs. du Maurier has been attending church every day, since her daughter's death. The boys should follow her good example."
Mrs. Reid's words weighed heavy on his chest, as Mr. Barrie nodded his head.
"A visit to a graveyard might help them, too," Mrs. Reid said, darkly, "All children need graveyards, Mr. Barrie. It reminds them of their mortality, and it sobers their spirits."
Mr. Barrie frowned and his soul went up in a fire. Sober spirits? Children needed spirits drunk with happiness, love, and heartlessness—not sobriety and all the dastardly things that adulthood entailed. Children need the world to be drained out with fairy tales and pretend!
"Certainly not!" Mr. Barrie protested, rather upset.
"Mrs. du Maurier will think differently," Was all Mrs. Reid said, as she left the room. When she opened the doors, the force of the door hit the maids' faces. They scurried away, like terrified mice.
Graveyards were perfect places for children, after all, it's only a kind of park with dead people under the soil.