Sammy Boy
This is my second attempt at writing this filk. My first attempt went down the drain with the rest of the stuff on my hard drive when my PC crashed, which was infuriating. So, for the second time:
Frosteh: waves hands placatingly Look, I can see you're upset, just put down the big stick thingy that throws metal pellets at people, and maybe we can talk about this, hey? You don't want to talk? Okay… er… well… Hey, look – CA fluff! runs out into street and is promptly mown down by speeding cart driven by Nobby
Insanity Inside: But of course not, then all my efforts would be in vain…
Jess Idres: I didn't know I was IN your head in the first place… And I would like to write a fic with you, very much so!
Egleriel: Just wait till you do AS-levels, love…
ZachariasofBorg: I'm not planning to do any more filks for a while, but there will certainly be more appearances from Palms and Octarine Twilight in the future…
Ozodrac: AND WHAT'S WRONG WITH PLAYING THE TROMBONE? Seriously though, your updates are getting me through my exams – you'd better not quit, 'cos it's my arse Frosteh's gonna come after. Seriously, don't worry about whether you can't spell. I'm an English Language student and I have no idea about half the stuff on the exam. Er…
mcjack: I thank you, my dear fellow!
Aaanyways, as I said before, this is going to be my last filk for a while – not for ever, just while I do some more work on other projects, including trying to get a website set up to host my fics and related projects. There are some things I want to do which might frown upon (no, Jess, not THAT kind of thing), which will hopefully allow everything to make a bit more sense.
Unfortunately, any corrections of the Carrot-filk will have to wait, since I lost all my master-copies in the PC crash. It's been quite a battle merely to get myself to start this one again.
Yeah, so… the filk! It's based on an old Irish ditty called 'Danny Boy', which is a very, very moving song. Edward's reaction to it is very similar to mine last time I tried singing it.
DISCLAIMER: The song 'Danny Boy' is the property of… uh… someone. Not me, anyhow, unfortunately. Likewise, all the characters depicted here, barring Edward and Chris, are the property of Terry Pratchett.
SAMMY BOY
It is one of the stranger traits of the human condition that some tiny thing that to most of us would be meaningless can send some people into a deep reverie of 'Days Gone By ™'. It can be something quite unexpected, like the sight of a picture, a scent on the evening air, a word someone mentions in conversation.
In the case of one Edward Blankwall, only-just Corporal, Ankh-Morpork City Watch, it was the weather. It was incredibly puzzling to his colleagues, who saw only effort-free drizzle and the most boring, blank grey sky imaginable, but Edward seemed entranced by it.
"What's up with him?" said a lance-constable, gesturing out of the window.
"Maybe the fact that he's Corporal Blankwall?" said another, causing a snigger to run through the crowd.
"What I tole you 'bout talkin' 'bout seen-ee-ur officers dat way?" bellowed Sergeant Detritus. "You be showin' respect for Corp'ral Blankwall right now, even if he is loony twerp from der stalks!"
"That's a little unfair, Sergeant," said Sergeant Angua.
"Sorry, sarge."
"Barrerpool's not in cabbage country. They mostly eat fish there."
"Huh," muttered Detritus. "Fish's not much better dan oograh. Dere's no texture."
"What is he doing out there?" said Angua to herself, as Detritus took the lance-constables out to the coachyard for archery practice. She got up and went to stand at the window. Edward was leaning against the wall of Pseudopolis Yard, staring at the sky.
"Sergeant?" Angua turned and looked into the face of Sergeant-by-a-matter-of-days Ottersneeze.
"Yes, Chris?"
"Have you seen Edward anywhere? Only no-one's seen him all morning, and he hasn't had his cuppa yet…" Chris held up a cup of stone-cold, congealing, orange tea to emphasise his point.
"He's-" Angua was cut off by the door opening, revealing a slightly damp Edward. He walked past them, picked up the stone-cold cup of tea that Chris had put down on the desk, and shuffled upstairs.
"Did you see his face?" said Chris, turning to face Angua.
"Oh, yes," she said. "I didn't have to, but I did."
"Sergeant?" said a voice from behind them.
"Which one?" said Chris, turning round to face Andre, head of the Cable Street Particulars.
"Well, either of you, I suppose," Andre replied. "Look, I was just wondering… is something up with Corporal Blankwall?"
"He doesn't look very good," said Chris.
"Or smell much better," added Angua.
"But we don't know what the problem is," finished Chris.
"Right," said Andre. "Look, do you want me to go up and have a talk with him? Maybe I can get something out of him he wouldn't tell anyone else."
Chris and Angua looked at each other. "Well, I suppose it's worth a try," said Chris.
Edward lay on his bed, and stared at the ceiling.
Why had he got so worked up over the damn weather? It was just wind and water and photons, when you got down to it. Nothing to make a fuss over.
But he had made a fuss. And he knew perfectly well why.
He was homesick. He wanted to go home, back to his little house in Altin, to his old job in Barrerpool, the main port of the Bution estuary, on the Hubwards part of the Sto Plains' Rim Ocean coast. It was cooler there, for starters, and you got nicer weather. Nicer fish, too. No-one expected you to eat cabbage, or – he shuddered – sprouts. He hadn't even heard of kale before he'd come to live in Ankh-Morpork.
But he couldn't go back, could he…
He flipped over onto his front. Oh, sure, he could walk back into the city as if nothing had happened, go back to his old job, take back his old life – and he'd have lost. He could go back, and by going back he'd admit he'd failed, even if he hadn't. He'd done what he'd set out to do, he was doing well in the Watch, he'd proved he could cut it away from home, and yet…
What was it they used to say? You can take a man out of his city, but you can't take the city out of the man. Something like it, anyway. Going back because of homesickness would be just as much of a defeat as if he'd gone back after three days because Ankh-Morpork smelled funny. It'd be like-
A sharp knock on the door shunted his train of thought through the buffers and down the embankment into the river.
"Who is it?" he called, in a slightly shaky voice.
"Edward? It's me, Andre," said the knocker. "D'you mind if I come in?"
"Yeah, sure, the door's open." Edward sat up and stared out of the window, where the mist had left flecks of condensation on the pane.
Andre came in quietly, and shut the door behind him. Edward didn't look round, but spoke to the window pane.
"Let me guess – Angua asked you to check on me," he said, staring at the horizon.
"Actually, I asked Angua if she wanted me to see what was up with you," said Andre. "Look, you haven't been yourself recently, Edward. Certainly you haven't today. What's go to you?"
Edward still didn't look directly at Andre, but he dropped his gaze and sighed. "It's been about two years since I left home – y'know, Barrerpool, I'd already moved out my parents' house by then. Two years without anything familiar around me, without seeing my friends. I mean, okay, some of my friends have ended up here, and I've made new friends since I arrived, but I want to go back home."
"Why can't you?"
"Because…" Edward faltered. "There're lots of reasons. I'm worried I'd not be able to tear myself away if I went back, for one." And it was true, he thought to himself. It just wasn't honest.
"Right." Judging by the look on his face, Andre wasn't too convinced either. "Well, I've always got a free ear – except when Mister Vimes is using it to listen in on things." He got up to leave, then hesitated. "If there's anything I can do…"
"Yeah, sure," said Edward, staring out of the window. Then something occurred to him. "Actually, there is something you could do…" He went over to a pile of manuscript paper piled on the desk at one end of the room, and pulled out a few sheets of printed music. He turned to Andre and held them out to him.
"Do you have a spare ten minutes?" he said.
"Where have they gone?" said Angua.
"I don't know!" said Chris. "I went up to his room and there was no-one there!"
"So what do we do?"
"I don't know!"
Both watchmen sat down. There was a brief pause.
"Vimesy's gonna kill us," said Chris.
"Oh yeah."
"Where are they?"
Both NCOs spun round in their seats. Commander Vimes fixed them with a glare.
"I'll say it again – where are they?"
"We don't know, sir," said Chris. "We've tried everywhere, but-"
Vimes waved him into silence. "What's that?"
Both sergeants fell silent. "It' sounds like a piano," said Angua, "but it's coming… from below us…"
"Does this place have any cellars, sir?" asked Chris.
"There is one," said Vimes. "Yes, I remember now – Andre asked to move his piano into Pseudopolis Yard a few months ago. I said he could if he could find anywhere to keep it. Then he showed me the cellar he'd found the week before."
"So why're we waiting? Let's get down there!"
"Think you've got it this time?" said Edward.
Andre made a marking on the sheet which would've been completely incomprehensible to anyone who hadn't been a student of musical theory for half their life. "Whenever you're ready," he said.
Edward nodded, and tapped out the tempo on the piano. Andre started to play just as Vimes, Chris and Angua entered the cellar.
"What's-" Vimes began, but Chris waved him into silence.
Edward took a deep breath, and began to sing. His voice wasn't at its best, but it was plaintive, with an undercurrent of emotion.
"Oh Sammy Boy,
The bells, the bells are ringing,
Across the hills,
And from the riverside.
The spring has gone,
And all the blossoms falling,
It's you, it's you
Must go and I must bide."
Edward's voice was becoming more emotional now. Remember what you were taught, he thought. Float up to the top notes…
"But you'll come back when summer's in the city,
Or when the roads are hushed and white with snow,
I will stay here in sun or smog or shadow,
Oh Sammy boy, oh Sammy Boy, I love you so!"
Now Edward's voice was cracking with barely-concealed emotion. I will not cry, he thought to himself. I will not cry. I will not do what I do every time I sing this song, no matter how many times I've said that in the past…
"But when you come,
And all the flowers are dying,
If I am dead,
As dead I may well be,
You'll come Groton
Where I shall be lying,
And kneel and say
An Ave there for me."
Edward gave up trying to hold the tears back, and burst out in silent tears, but he was determined to finish the song.
"And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me,
And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be,
For you will bend and tell me that you love me,
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me."
As the last chords from the piano faded into silence, Edward collapsed, sobbing quietly to himself. Vimes turned to Angua, and was surprised to see tears running silently down her face. He put a hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off and mumbled, "I'm fine… it's just my PLT…"
Chris looked up at Vimes, with eyes that were slightly redder than usual, then glanced at Andre, who was blinking furiously. The two of them looked at Vimes again.
"Are you alright, sir?" asked Andre, slightly shakily.
"Wh-why?" said Vimes, surprised at the stutter in his voice.
"It's just… your cheeks…"
Vimes reached up to his face, and realised his cheeks were damp. He'd been crying himself, and he hadn't even realised it.
"It's… nothing," he said. "Probably just… you know… the dust down here… gets in your eyes… Listen, I've got to… I supposed to… I mean," he pulled himself together, "I've got to leave now. It's Lord Selachii's party tonight… can't be late…" He turned to leave, then looked back. "Are you going to be okay with, er…"
Andre looked at Edward and Angua. "We'll manage, sir," he said.
Several hours later, Edward ventured out from his room, still red around the eyes, but otherwise no different to how he usually looked. He found Chris, Andre, Angua and Carrot in the canteen. He came in quietly, sat down, and stared in front of him for several seconds before he spoke, low and quiet, almost embarrassed.
"Are you all all right after… before?" he said. There was an assortment of grunts and nods from the others. "I'm sorry about breaking down like that," he went on. "It's just…"
"We know, Edward," said Angua.
Carrot gave him a look. It was a Watchman's look, which said: Okay, something's up and I'm the only one who doesn't know, so let's make sure everyone's up to speed before we go on, okay?
"Why does that song upset you so much?" asked Andre.
"Well, partly it's because it's from home –you know, Barrerpool – and I've been feeling homesick for a while, so, y'know…" Edward trailed off, then started up again. He talked about the great love the two people in the song felt for each other, so great that even death would fail to harm it, even if they never saw each other again…
After a few hours, Andre lit some candles to fight off the gathering gloom. The story of the two lovers wound itself around the five people sat around the table as the candles sank ever lower in their holders. Angua snuggled up close to Carrot, who wrapped his arms around her and held her close. Chris sat a short distance away from his friend, helping out where he couldn't remember things. Andre sat back and listened, until dawn crept up on the world and the story was finished.
Sybil Vimes was surprised when her husband came home from work early, and shocked that he was so visibly upset. She sent a message to the Selachii's telling them that, due to unforeseen circumstances, they would, alas, be unable to attend, closed the curtains, put a pan on the stove, and made him a big meal. They sat and ate in silence. And, after tea, Vimes went up to his son's room, kissed him goodnight and tucked him in. The he came downstairs and sat in his chair in front of the fire, while his wife sat opposite him, and lit a cigar, and as the shadows lengthened he eventually came out and told her what had happened. They talked long into the night too, and he came over and sat next to her, and they cuddled (JUST cuddled. In the nonperv sense), and they went to bed and slept next to each other, just as they did every night. But tonight, instead of dreaming of boots and rooftop chases and Dibbler's stew, Vimes dreamt of himself and his wife in the tale of Sammy Boy, and of the love which, in many ways, resembled his own.
Angua and Carrot lay entwined on the small bed in Carrot's room. They were both fully clothed, merely resting before the day began in earnest rather than actually going to bed. But neither was asleep. Quite independent of each other, their thoughts kept turning to Edward's story of Sammy Boy. Neither of them spoke for a while.
Eventually Angua spoke. "Didn't Edward say there was another version of the song?"
Carrot nodded. "Written from the other perspective. He said that Sammy Boy felt the same way about Livvie Dear as she did about him."
Angua drew herself closer to Carrot. "They were soulmates," she said, quietly.
Carrot nodded, and wrapped his arms around her. "Soulmates," he said.
Neither spoke after that, and neither of them got undressed either. But, as the light filtered in through the window, each resolved that, whatever happened to draw them apart physically, nothing would ever separate them where it mattered most.
Andre poured a small shot of brandy into his tea, then gestured to Chris with the flask. Chris shook his head, and the other watchman raised an eyebrow at him.
"You know I hate brandy."
"Your loss."
The two of them sat in silence for a while longer, drinking their respective drinks.
"That song…"
"Yeah?"
"It seemed to get to you a bit."
Chris shrugged. "It's not easy leaving home. Besides, that song's special in Barrerpool. You know 'All The Little Angels'?"
"Of course."
"That song's like the Barrerpuldian equivalent. People can get very emotional singing it." There was another pause. "You weren't exactly dry-eyed yourself."
"Mmm". The next pause went on for several minutes.
"Did it remind you of anyone?"
"There was… my family. My friends. My home. A girl? Well… I think that's for me to know, and you to be told if and when I decide to tell you. What about you?"
"That's none of your business."
The two of them nodded to each other, and carried on drinking.
Edward stepped out into the street. The mist of the last twenty-four hours had disappeared, and the Rimwards sky was being lit by the rising sun. He stood for a few minutes, watching as the clouds changed from Surgical Appliance Pink to Prescribed Medicine Orange, and then on to Just-This-Side-Of-Tasteful Gold, and he couldn't help but smile. It was cheesy, he knew. He still hurt inside, still longed to go home… but, he reflected, it wasn't all bad, being away from home. And sometimes, even if it couldn't replace what you'd left behind, you could see it long enough to love it in its way.
He grinned at the sky again, and set off on patrol. As he walked, he felt like whistling, but what? Then a tune floated up from memory.
Perfect.
He whistled a ditty as he proceeded down Broadway. Any Barrerpuldian within earshot would recognise it as 'Sammy Boy', but it was different now. Rather than it's beautiful mournfulness, it sounded lively and joyful, the sound of love and life and vitality expressed in music. And, whistling gleefully and smiling at the world, Edward Blankwall walked off into the new day.
Bloody hell, this took me a while. Obviously the exams and the computer crash didn't help…
This is definitely a love-it-or-hate-it. It's certainly not as funny as the other filks – it's kind of an attempt to make my OC's seem more three-dimensional, and I'm not sure it's worked. Plus there's more kind-of-OOC-Vimes. Again. Anyway, do enjoy. I want to start a real project over the summer, but I will continue to write filks, and there's some other ideas I have that I want to put up, so keep tuned (NOTE TO SELF: Stop using clichés. Also find character to cause pain to a la Rust/Downey).