And here's another contender for the Lead Balloon Award...
... and while you may simply have been mystified by my story 'The Tribes', there's every chance that you may actually hate 'Echo'. Anyhow...
Initially, I came up with the idea for this story because I meant to prove a point... This happened after a discussion about what roles in life—what 'careers'—would have been open to Victorian middle class women other than wife and mother. Don't get me wrong, being a stay-at-home mum is perfectly fine by me as long as it is a choice. But I wouldn't accept that we, as modern writers, should glorify a state of affairs in our fanfics that was not a choice at the time; instead I argued in support of giving female characters a goal of their own, albeit within the correct historical framework. However, I had to admit that going completely off the beaten track would have been a tall order for women at the time, and possibly needing a huge incentive to go the extra mile, so to speak. This, in turn, made me wonder what said incentive might have been.
'Echo' covers a few weeks each in the lives of Emily Thornton, daughter of Margaret and John, in 1869, and of modern-day Meret Frederikson, who has come to Milton to research her ancestry. It is a story within a story within a story. It is about growing up, about aching uncertainties and loss, but also about resilience and—in its own way—about hope. This is not a romance; and it most certainly is not what you'd generally expect from a fanfic.
Please consider yourselves warned!
—
Echo
Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
As sunlight on a stream;
Come back in tears,
O memory, hope, love of finished years.
Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,
Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,
Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;
Where thirsting longing eyes
Watch the slow door
That opening, letting in, lets out no more.
Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
My very life again tho' cold in death:
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
Speak low, lean low,
As long ago, my love, how long ago.
'Echo' by Christina Rossetti
Part 1 | England
01|
This is my first memory:
From the top of the stairs just outside our front door I am looking down at the mill yard. There is an old-fashioned perambulator standing at the bottom of them. The blanket is invitingly folded back, waiting to receive its charge. Waiting for me, I suppose.
I know that someone is holding me in their arms, because there is a sense of elevation—of a height greatly exceeding my own.
This memory is like a photograph; there is no awareness of time passing by and I cannot identify any feelings associated with it. For all I can tell I am neither particularly joyful nor apprehensive. For some time I thought that it might indeed have been a photograph, but I checked; no such picture exists. And besides, who would waste precious photographic plates on such a mundane topic?
The image is bright—it must have been a sunny day—but it is utterly still.
From all the things I could have remembered, why this? What was so special about this moment that it engraved itself upon my budding mind?
... and, the more I think about it, the more the question arises about the person holding me. Who was it?—and is he, or she, perhaps the very reason for this memory?
(Excerpt from the diary of Emily Thornton)
"Hello. My name is Meret Frederiksen. I called in yesterday... I was told that I might be able to see Mr Paxton today—" Her voice trailed off, for it became apparent that the young receptionist, who had identified herself as 'Carrie', was listening to her with barely half an ear.
On the wall behind the reception desk 'Paxton Cunningham Architects' stood white-on-white in raised characters. Its modern understatement formed a stylish contrast with the listed industrial building. The interior was carefully preserved and with many of its original features, such as the overhead transmission system, still in place.
The girl was turning to cast a—what could best be described as 'harried'—glance through the glass partitioning, another modern addition, next to her desk. On the other side, on an open-plan office floor, pandemonium seemed to rule. Groups of people stood hunched over computer screens gesticulating wildly, while others were rifling through printouts and sheets and, quite literally, pulling their hair in apparent despair.
No voices transmitted through the glazing which turned the scene into a surreal pantomime.
Clearly, nobody was expecting her. This very much looked like a wasted trip.
"Sorry, Miss... um... Frederiksen," Carrie the receptionist said. "We're experiencing a bit of an IT emergency at present—" Again, the girl glanced towards the office where, at this very moment, people started to cheer amidst high fives. She gave their visitor a bright smile. "Oh, here we go... I'll see what I can do for you now."
"Right folks. System's up and running," Meret heard a tall man in shirtsleeves shout above the clamour as the door opened. "Cancel all plans for tonight... and let's get a move on!"
"Hang on," a woman in a businesslike trouser suit called out from the far side of the room. "My babysitter's just called in sick for tonight. I'll have to be off in an hour—"
"You must be kidding me, Ella," the man replied with a scowl. "Those 3D renderings won't happen all by themselves!"
The woman shrugged helplessly. "I'm really sorry... I'll try to come in early tomorrow morning and make up for lost time—" But the tall man—with 'boss' written all over him in large print—was already stooping to talk to the bespectacled hipster next to him and a rapid, if rather one-sided, conversation ensued. 'Boss person' kept his voice low, but his whole demeanour was tense, almost menacing. Going by appearances, 'nerdy guy', who kept his eyes glued to his computer screen, seemed to be in big trouble.
"Mr Paxton? Excuse me?" the receptionist diffidently chimed in. "Miss Frederiksen is here to see you?—about Marlborough Mills?"
"Oh, damn it, Carrie," Paxton—for it was him—snapped without turning. "Not now, for Christ's sake!"
Oops, rotten timing, Meret thought as he continued, "Get her details and then get her off my back—" He straightened and snatched up a sheaf of papers—and, in turning, he became aware of Meret who stood just behind the receptionist. For a moment he gave her a bland stare; then, with a brusque "If you'll excuse me", he stalked away.
What an utter jerk! With a irritated shrug Meret turned towards the exit, with the receptionist scurrying after her.
"Um... sorry about this," the girl murmured, looking uncomfortable. "You see, the system shut down; and that means a whole day's work gone to waste... and there's a deadline coming up fast, so everyone's rather stressed out—" They had reached the reception desk. "Would you mind if we came back to you at a more convenient time?"
Meret bit down on the snappish reply that had been her first impulse. After all, it wasn't the girl's fault. Better deal with Paxton directly and then give him a piece of her mind! She pulled a business card from her purse—it read 'Medical Institute for Metabolic Disorders'—and scribbled her extension number on it. This will tell him that it's not just anyone's time he's been wasting! "You can either reach me there or leave a message with our department secretary." Making for the door she said, "Thanks for trying anyway... and I hope you won't be in for too much overtime tonight."
"Nah, no worries," Carrie replied with a smile. "I'm administrative... It's only the creative team that's into it up to their necks—"
"Good for you!"
They both grinned.
"I'll make sure to fix a new appointment with Mr Paxton within the next few days," Carrie said, adding in a low voice, "He doesn't usually bite people's heads off, you know."
Calling 'Paxton Cunningham Architects' two days previously had been a spur-of-the-moment decision after reading about them and Marlborough Mills in the Milton Post online news. At just two weeks after arriving in Milton, this article had seemed like a stroke of luck—because at that point she didn't have a clue on how to get started with her little private research project.
However, present experience made it feel more like a fool's errand.
Outside the building Meret went to retrieve her bike, but then hesitated over unlocking it. Well, there she was, the afternoon was wasted, and so she might as well take a look at the premises if nothing else. There was still time before she was to meet up for drinks with some of her co-workers from the institute.
So this is it. Marlborough Mills. Or what remained of it.
From where she stood—underneath the arch of the old gatehouse—the yard lay in front of her. On two of the three other sides it was flanked by historic buildings, their stonework façades still holding traces of soot that neither time nor gentrification had been entirely able to eliminate. To the right was the building she had just left; it was fairly large, three storeys tall, and must have been packed with machinery at one point. The modern steel ramp at the front, leading to the main entrance, may have replaced the original loading bay.
The building in front of her, across the yard, was encased in scaffolding. The news article, based on an interview with Paxton, had been about the ongoing work there and the findings of some 19th century artefacts. He had talked about layers of different wallpapers and personal items found in unlikely places—and hinted at deductions about its former inhabitants.
By the look of it the house seemed large and stately enough for the mill owner to have lived there, even though for anyone of wealth to live on the actual mill premises, with all the noise and bustle, would have been rather eccentric at the time.
To the left, behind a row of young silver birches, stood a modern angular two-storey building, slightly lower than the old mill buildings and pleasantly unpretentious. Glass, quarry stone walls—apparently the same kind that had been used for the older buildings—, and large sheets of pre-rusted steel. A list of company signs next to the entrance identified it as another office building.
While looking around and reading the names, Meret slowly crossed the yard. At the corner of the main factory building she turned right. But to her disappointment there was nothing much to be seen—no chimney stacks, no further mill outbuildings and sheds, and no modern additions... nothing but a patch of industrial wasteland with a few cars parked on it. At least it was cleared and orderly, unlike the dumping grounds occasionally encountered elsewhere across town. Maybe a building plot, tentatively reclaimed by nature for the time being and sprinkled with clusters of poppies and small shrubs.
A gust of wind carried a few drops of rain before it. Meret took it as a sign to be on her way. A look at her mobile confirmed that it was almost time to head off into town anyway.
Cycling in Milton was something of an adventure or—as her colleagues put it—a venture best undertaken by people with a death wish. But Meret's inbred pigheadedness kept her at it; she had cycled all her life, had in fact never owned a car, and therefore cycle she would! The lanes were narrow in the older parts of town and traffic was dense, in particular during rush hour.
Gå ad helvede til! Swearing under her breath in a fluent string of Danish—cursing all motorists and the weather, for good measure—she finally made it to The Drovers Inn at the onset of a downpour. She quickly chained her bike to a nearby fence and went inside.
It was still early in the evening and the lounge area was not yet crowded, and so it took her but a moment to see that the others were already there and had managed to occupy the best table; a semicircle bench in a bay window. She went to them and slumped into the seat next to Phil.
"Get off!" he exclaimed, indignant. "You're dripping wet."
She flicked a drop from her jacket sleeve at him. "You're early, guys," she remarked, taking off her jacket and hanging it over the back of an empty chair. "And there's me thinking you're still slaving over those samples and questionnaires, filing them."
"Nah... someone messed up the right order and now we'll have to identify them by their serial numbers—but tonight we just couldn't be arsed," Sebastian explained, "So, we dumped the lot in the fridge... Gonna give it another go tomorrow."
Meret groaned. "You lot better sort that out first thing! You are aware that I'll have to start sequencing tomorrow morning, aren't you?"
"Yes, guv." Sebastian smartly pulled his forelock while Meret just rolled her eyes.
Louisa giggled. "I told you she'd be prissy—"
"Same again?" Phil, after a look at the sorry display of empty glasses on the table, got up to head for the bar. "And what'll you have, Meret?"
Their team at the 'Medical Institute for Metabolic Disorders' consisted of four students under the supervision of Dr Akintola—currently not present—doing research work on AMP deficiency. Both Phil and Louisa were participating as part of their final year project, while Sebastian, as the only postgraduate student, was working on his dissertation.
Strictly speaking, Meret wasn't a student at present; with a masters degree in biochemistry already under her belt, she was currently tiding over and earning some money until she was to start on her PhD course back home in Copenhagen. Her choice of Milton—of all places!—as her four months' work stint, following one year of postgraduate studies in Oxford, was entirely of a personal nature.
"So, how was your appointment?" Louisa asked Meret.
"None too great, actually. That guy Paxton jumped down my throat the moment he laid eyes on me... or, rather, even before he laid eyes on me. He's an idiot; and the whole idea was nonsense, anyway." She scoffed.
"Aw, sorry to hear. So, what's next?"
"Local archives, perhaps... If there's such a thing, that is—"
"That would be the County Record Office over at Ashley Library," Sebastian interjected.
"Do you know how this works?" Meret asked, intrigued.
"Not exactly," he admitted. "But a schoolmate of mine works there as a librarian. Want me to contact her?"
"That would be great —"
She hadn't quite said the word before Sebastian was already busy texting on his Smartphone. "Right," he said a moment later. "Let's see how this goes."
A few minutes later a beep indicated a reply message. Sebastian quickly scanned it and then handed his phone over to Meret. "Not very helpful, I'm afraid," he said. The message read, What do u need? We have birth, adoption, marriage, civil partnership, death certificates from 1837.
"Is that all? That's no use, then," Meret said. "I've got her Danish marriage certificate; and, next to her own date and place of birth, this also gives both her parents' names and dates... But... Is there an actual archive, do you think?—where they'd store documents from Marlborough Mills?"
"Sorry, my bad," Sebastian replied, smacking his forehead. "There's the municipal archive, of course, also at Ashley Library! I should have thought of that at once—"
"Oi, guys. Drinks!" Phil warned. Two of the glasses he held were tilting precariously. Immediately, three hands reached out to the rescue. "Reflexes and priorities still present and correct, I see," he said drily once they were all back in their seats and with their drinks in front of them. "Cheers."
While the others chatted about an up-and-coming concert venue, Sebastian continued texting. Eventually he said, "Got it... Jackie says there should be plenty of stuff from various mills in the archives, though much of it isn't fully catalogued yet. You'd like to come see her sometimes during opening hours... I'll send you the link and contact."
"Thanks, pal," Meret said. "I owe you."
"Meaning you'll help with the filing tomorrow?" he said, giving her a hopeful grin.
"You dream on!" she laughed. "But I may buy you another drink, like... right now."
"Why're ya so int'rested in—what's'ername... Emily somethin'—anyway?" Louisa slurred as they made their way back to the flat they shared for the duration of their assignment with the research institute. Meret, slightly more sober, was pushing her bike while gently steering the other girl to their place.
"She's my great-great...great-aunt—" She stopped short, counting. "Might have missed another 'great' there," she mused. "Anyway, she's family."
"Ancient history, more like," Louisa said, waving her hands in a vaguely dismissive gesture.
"I think she's interesting," Meret insisted. "And I think she may have a secret."
"Ooh!—Let's hear!"
"Another time, p'haps?" Meret suggested, judging quite rightly that the effort would be wasted on her flatmate at this point.
They had reached their front door, and while Louisa still struggled to unearth her keys, Meret kindly unlocked the front door with hers. "There you go," she said, moving over to the side in order to chain her bike to the inside of the fence surrounding their overgrown front garden.
"See ya at breakfast... 'Night," Louisa called back, stumbling inside.