Something to Write About

by sweetie buttons

[St Clare's] [Five Find Outers] Ern Goon runs into Anne-Marie Longden on the train to Peterswood, and the two poets find themselves becoming close. Ern gets new inspiration for a poem.

Ern Goon sat on the train to Peterswood, observing his poetry book. It was one of his better poems, but it wasn't anything close to the ones Fatty could recite off the top of his head. Ern read the poem one last time, before closing his head and groaning. He had gotten slightly better at poetry now that he was older, but he still had to slave like anything to come up with anything worthwhile. He couldn't understand how Fatty could recite masterpieces without thinking, and he couldn't prevent the envy he felt. Still, maybe Fatty would be able to give him advice once he arrived at Peterswood. Seeing Fatty and his friends always cheered him up, even if it meant having to put up with his dreadful uncle.

Ern opened his eyes as a girl stormed into his carriage. She looked as frustrated as he felt, her dark eyes flashing as she flipped her golden hair over her shoulders. But she was also very pretty, at least to Ern. She slumped down in the seat next to him, fuming. Ern stared at her in surprise.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she apologized, just seeming to notice him. "The others in my carriage were causing a frightful chaos, and I found it hard to concentrate on my work. I do hope it's quieter here."

"It's fine," Ern assured, taken aback.

He watched as she opened a notebook and began writing furiously. Ern knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help peering over her shoulder, impressed by how fast she could write. He never could when he was writing poetry. He thought she had lovely handwriting, much neater than his, but not nearly as lovely as the words she wrote. She scrawled out line after line, using long, eloquent words and phrases that Ern could barely understand. But he couldn't help watching. It was just as sad as everything he wrote, lines speaking of sorrow and anguish.

The girl raised her head, and Ern quickly looked away. "I-I'm sorry," he apologized.

"Sorry? For what?" The girl stared at him, before glancing out the window.

"Nothing," Ern muttered, embarrassed. He glanced down at his poetry book, scanning the same lines again.

Suddenly, she stood up on the train with an exclamation of shock. "Oh, no!"

"What's wrong?" Ern asked, alarmed.

The girl groaned. "I just realized. I've taken the wrong train."

"You have?" Ern exclaimed.

"I'm sure I missed my train, and then I took the next one," she muttered, shaking her head. "Oh, what will I do? It isn't even the first time, either. My mother will be awfully cross with me."

"Oh, don't worry about it, miss," Ern assured, feeling sorry for her. "The next stop is Peterswood, so you might as well get off there. I'll try to help you."

"You will?" she asked, smiling at him. "Well, thank you. That's awfully kind of you, if it's not too much trouble. I'm Anne-Marie Longden, by the way."

"I'm Ern Goon," he said, thinking about what a beautiful name that was. It would be perfect for a poem.

Anne-Marie slumped down next to him. "If only I hadn't been so focused on my poetry."

"Oh, you write portry? I mean, poetry?" Ern asked. His heart sank as he thought about the long, profound lines she had written. It seemed much nicer than anything in his poetry book.

Anne-Marie scoffed. "I'd hardly call it poetry. The other girls and even the mistresses at my school always said I should stop wasting my time on such pretentious dribble. And they're probably right. I wouldn't have taken the wrong train if I hadn't been so busy. But I can't seem to stop myself."

Ern glanced down at his own poetry book. "Well, I don't think so. I think it was very nice, what you wrote."

Anne-Marie glanced at him in surprise. Ern blushed. "Not that I was reading it all or anything, mind," he assured. "I didn't even realize it was poetry. But I couldn't help being curious. I'm a poet too, see. I think of poems everywhere I go."

"You are?" Anne-Marie exclaimed, glancing at his poetry book.

Ern tried to shut the book, but stopped when he realized Anne-Marie was studying the poem he had written. Her dark eyes narrowed as she studied it. Ern felt sheepish, thinking she'd consider it far inferior to the eloquent lines she wrote.

"That's a nice poem," she remarked. "Very simple and straightforward."

"Really?" Ern asked. "It is very simple. Just the first thing I thought of." He was too embarrassed to admit that even the simple words had taken him ages to think of.

Anne-Marie was about to reply when the train came to a stop. "Well, we're here, miss," Ern announced. "I'll try to help you find another train, but it could take a while."

Anne-Marie gratefully followed him off the train. "I have a friend here who writes poetry too," Ern remarked as he stepped onto the platform. "Except he doesn't even write them. He just recites them off the top of his head, like magic. He's a genius, he really is. I wish I could make up poems like that."

"A genius?" Anne-Marie asked, narrowing her eyes. She didn't seem to like the word. "Gosh, I'm hungry. I was so busy writing poetry, I didn't have anything to eat."

"There's a nice tea shop not far from here," Ern said. "We could stop there. It'll be a while until the train arrives."

Anne-Marie gratefully followed him to the tea shop. They sat by the window while Anne-Marie pulled out her poetry book. Ern watched as she started writing again.

Anne-Marie glanced up sheepishly. "Oh, dear. I guess I shouldn't be. I should've learned my lesson after I missed my stop, but I just can't seem to help it. When I start writing, I can't stop. Even after what my teacher said…" She trailed off.

"I wish I was like that," Ern admitted. "It takes me ages to think of even a few lines. I can't just write and write whatever comes to mind. I guess I'm not gifted like you or Fatty. That's my friend."

"Oh, I wouldn't say I'm gifted," Anne-Marie insisted. "The other girls say my poems are too fancy and pretentious for anyone to read, let alone understand."

"Well, I can't understand many of the words," Ern admitted. "But that's probably just because I'm not the brightest. I can't even spell right in most of my poems."

"Like in The Pore Old Boat?" Anne-Marie asked. Ern was surprised she had remembered the title. "At least that poem was simple and straightforward. It was very sad, too. How the boat floated, before sinking. Or being sent under by waves of thunder."

"Oh, yes. I always write sad poems," Ern agreed. "None of my poems are ever happy. Not like Fatty. He can write funny poems that make everyone laugh. Maybe I should try that."

"I do the same," Anne-Marie admitted. "I think all poetry should be sad. It should speak from the heart."

Ern glanced at her book. "Could… could you show me one?" he suggested. She glanced up at her. "Not if you don't feel like it, of course. But you read my poem, so…" He trailed off.

Anne-Marie smiled. "Well, if you insist." She glanced down at the page, beginning to read in a low, melancholy voice. "Through my tear-bedimmed eyes, I mourn the fading of the twilight…"

Ern listened intently, overwhelmed by the utter sadness and despair of the poem. His poems were sad too, but they lacked any of the depth or complexity of Anne-Marie's. She spoke as if she could feel the sadness. Her voice was very pleasant, low and deep, and Ern felt he could listen to her for hours.

By the time the poem was over, Ern felt tears come to his eyes. "Golly, that's wonderful. I wish I could write anything half as sad as that."

"You really think so?" Anne-Marie asked. "The others say my poems are all sadness and long words and nothing else."

Ern blushed. "Well, the poem was very nice, but I didn't understand much of it. I was mostly just listening to you. Your voice is much nicer than any poem."

Anne-Marie stared at him in surprise, and for a moment, he thought he had offended her. But then she smiled. "Well, that's good to know," she said. "A poem can only be read and recited, but a voice can be used for anything."

Ern nodded, taken aback by her words. "That sounds like it should be in a poem," he remarked. "You even talk like a poet, which I don't. My friends say I have a funny way of speaking."

"Tell me about your friends," Anne-Marie suggested. "Do they really solve the crimes in this town?"

Ern nodded. "You should meet them. They're real talented, especially Fatty. He's a genius, and not just in poetry. You should see the disguises and tricks he can play. He even fooled me a few times."

"What disguises?" Anne-Marie asked curiously.

Ern quickly told her about some of them. "When I met his friends for the first time, they thought I was him in disguise!" he exclaimed. "Looking back on it, I'm flattered they'd think I was him. But I definitely wasn't when they kept trailing after me, calling me Fatty. I said I'd fight them if they called me rude names."

Anne-Marie chuckled. "Do you really call him Fatty?"

"Well, it's his nickname," Ern admitted. "His real name is Frederick, but his initials spell, well, fat. But he is fat, see, so it suits him. And he's a good sport about it."

"It's a good thing he is," Anne-Marie remarked. "There was a girl at my school with an unfortunate name as well. Her last name was Pudden, and she was always eating. And she wasn't decent about it in the slightest. She was so irritable, and greedy too. She even stole food from others, which they blamed me for." She scowled.

"Sounds like my uncle," Ern remarked. "He's the village policeman, see? PC Theophilus Goon. He's always on their case about some mystery or other. I wish I didn't have to stay with it, but it's worth it to see my friends. I'm ashamed to admit I actually helped him a few times. I was so scared of him, I told him all about one of the mysteries. He wasn't pleased when I was about to go out to investigate, especially when he saw the poem about him."

"You wrote a poem about him?" Anne-Marie exclaimed.

"Well… not exactly," Ern admitted sheepishly, flipping to the end of the book. He observed the ripped out page with the poem titled "To My Dear Uncle". He had told his uncle he'd ripped it up, but he'd secretly kept the page inside. He'd been dismayed when he found out that it wasn't actually by him after all, but scrawled down by Fatty when he had gotten hold of his notebook. Apparently, he was a genius at disguising his handwriting as well as writing poetry. Ern couldn't help the jealousy he felt, but he wasn't too surprised. He should've known he couldn't write anything half as good.

Anne-Marie leaned over to read the poem. Then she chortled. "Oh, that's rich! How I love thee, Uncle dear. Although thine eyes like frogs appear…" She trailed off while scanning the rest of the words, beginning to laugh. "It's too funny for words. I thought you only wrote sad poems."

"I didn't write this one," Ern admitted. "It was my friend, Fatty. I told you he's a genius."

"What? But it's in your handwriting, isn't it?" Anne-Marie asked. "At least, in the same handwriting as the rest of the book."

Ern sighed. "That's another thing Fatty is good at, disguising his handwriting. He made it look like mine, so well that even my uncle and I thought I had written it when we came across it."

Anne-Marie winced. "Your uncle couldn't have been happy."

"Not in the slightest," Ern admitted, wincing at the memory. "He, er, caned me. Then he locked me in my room, so I couldn't go out to investigate."

"How horrid of him!" Anne-Marie exclaimed. "And how horrid of your friend to play a trick on you like that. Are you sure he's really your friend?"

"He wasn't trying to get me into trouble," Ern insisted. "I suppose he just thought it'd be funny. I don't think he even intended for my uncle to see. I was thrilled when I thought I had written something like this. I told myself I must've done it in my sleep or something."

Anne-Marie suddenly grinned. "That reminds me of a trick I played on one of my teachers. She was always telling me how mediocre my poetry was, that I should tear all of them up. I wanted to test if she actually had good taste in poetry, or if she was just biased against me. So I handed in a poem that I said I had written, but it was actually by somebody else."

"What?" Ern exclaimed. "You mean, it was something one of your friends wrote instead?"

"Not exactly," Anne-Marie admitted. "Actually, it was by a famous poet, Matthew Arnold. A poem titled Despondency."

"Oh! I've heard of that one," Ern exclaimed. "It's a wonderful poem, it really is. About stars on life's cold sea."

"Yes, that's right," Anne-Marie agreed, surprised. "But my teacher didn't recognize it. I made sure I chose a lesser known poem on purpose, one that matched my writing style. She said it was exactly like mine, and easily believed I had written it. She hated that poem just as much as all of mine. She said it was the worst in the class."

"She did?" Ern asked. "I suppose she got a real shock when she realized who it was really by."

Anne-Marie chuckled. "Yes, she did. I told her I was flattered that she thought my poetry was like the famous poet's, but that he wouldn't be pleased if he knew what she said. And I knew then that she was a fraud. I don't know why I ever admired her."

"That must mean your poetry is good after all," Ern remarked. "At least you knew that poem wasn't yours. I should've known I couldn't have written this one, even in my sleep. I couldn't write something that wonderful without thinking about it, even if I was a genius."

"Well… maybe you could," Anne-Marie suggested. "There was a girl at school I shared a study with who was a genius, and she did things in her sleep as well. A musical genius, that is. At least, all of the other girls said she was. She'd get up and sleepwalk, and when I followed her, I'd see her playing like she was awake. Or at least, pretending to, like this." Anne-Marie raised her hand to her arm and moved it up and down, pretending to play the violin. "I wouldn't be surprised if she used a real violin sometimes."

"Coo, really? That's a marvel." Ern smiled, before sighing. "Still, only real geniuses could do something like that, and I'm sure I'm not. Not like you or Fatty."

"I wouldn't call myself a genius," Anne-Marie admitted sheepishly. "I see now that I was trying too hard to be impressive, at the cost of writing anything meaningful. I use too many words without actually saying anything."

"Better to use too many words than too few," Ern quipped. "I can't think of anything to write, most of the time. Fatty can reel off verse after verse. I wish I was like him."

"And I wish I was like Felicity," Anne-Marie admitted. "Everyone said she was a genius, but they didn't think I was. I couldn't help being jealous. I even pretended to be sleepwalking like she did, just so they'd pay attention to me."

"You did?" Ern exclaimed.

Anne-Marie blushed. "It didn't end too well. One of the teachers followed me, but I still kept pretending, realizing I'd be in trouble if I didn't. But then one of the younger girls poured water all over me, the little pest. That woke me up." She sighed. "I thought that if I acted like a genius, then I really would be one. Or at least, the others would think I was. But I suppose I'm just not."

Ern took her hand, and Anne-Marie stared at him in surprise. "Don't worry about it. Some people just aren't geniuses. But it means more if you have to slave away, don't you think? It isn't as much work if you can just come up with it all on the spot. The geniuses don't know what real work feels like."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," Anne-Marie agreed, smiling.

They stared at each other for a moment, until they were interrupted by the clang of the bell. They both glanced over as somebody entered the shop. Ern sat up brightly as she realized it was Fatty.

"Fatty!" Ern called, beaming. "Old Fatty, how nice to see you!"

Fatty grinned as he came over, as plump and jolly as ever. "And you too, young Ern. I heard you were coming today! I thought I'd stop here before coming to the train station. You know me, I can never resist something to eat. Er, you don't mind if I…?"

"Help yourself," Ern suggested, pushing over the plate of scones. "I say, where are Bets and the others?"

"At the train station," Fatty explained. "They'll be happy to know you're here." He glanced at Anne-Marie. "And who's this?"

"Anne-Marie Longden," explained Ern. "Isn't that a pretty name?" Anne-Marie glanced at him in surprise. "She missed her train, and took the next one."

Anne-Marie smiled politely at Fatty. "You must be Frederick... or Fatty, as you're always called. Ern's told me all about you."

"He has?" Fatty asked, raising an eyebrow. "I'd imagine so. He can never stop worshipping me, just like young Bets. Did he tell you about how clever and ingenious I am?"

"Fatty, you're the limit!" Ern laughed. "Still boasting as much as ever, I see. Still, I suppose you have good reason to."

"He did, actually," Anne-Marie added. "He said you were a genius at writing poems."

"He did? Oh, of course he would," Fatty said. "Ernie here loves poetry. Or portry, as he calls it. But it's a serious hobby for him, and not for me."

"Even if you're much better at it than me," Ern muttered.

"I'm a poet, too," said Anne-Marie. "I write all sorts of poems."

"Hers are much nicer than mine," Ern added. "Much longer, with bigger words and sadder lines."

"You are? Well, you and Ern must get along like a house on fire," Fatty remarked.

"Oh, please do tell me one of your poems right now," Anne-Marie pleaded. "It's hard for me to think of new poetry, but Ern says you can make one up off the top of your head. They're all awfully sad and solemn."

"Just like Ern," Fatty remarked, clearly pleased for the opportunity to show off. "Well, if you insist. Which one should I tell her, Ern? The one about your clues, or the one about a mystery on Christmas Hill?" He grinned. "Or how about the one about your dear uncle? Do you remember that one?"

Ern groaned. "Not that one, Fatty. Anything but that."

Anne-Marie frowned at Fatty. "It was a jolly mean trick, what you did. He told me about it. He got into such trouble with his uncle."

Fatty looked taken aback. "It was just a joke. I wasn't even expecting old Goon to see the poem. I just expected Ern to see it and have a bit of a surprise, thinking he'd written it."

"Must've been funny for you," Ern muttered bitterly.

"I am sorry, old chap," Fatty apologized, sliding over an éclair to Ern as if giving a peace offering. "I never knew it'd get you into so much trouble. And the temptation to write something about Mr. Goon was too much to resist. Besides, you can't deny that the poem was marvellous."

"Yes, it was," Ern agreed, grinning. Then he sighed. "It's just a shame I didn't write it."

"I didn't have the heart to break it to you," Fatty explained. "You look so happy about it.

But Anne-Marie prefers much more solemn poems, like me. I don't suppose you know any serious, sad ones, do you?"

"Those aren't exactly my forte," Fatty admitted. "I don't see the use when you could be writing poems that make people laugh. But I suppose I can think of one." Fatty stood up, and Ern watched eagerly, knowing what he was about to recite.

"Two poets sit in a shop, drinking tea

What goes on outside, neither of them see

They wrack their brains for lines to write

Thinking and thinking all day and night

But never will a poem ever be complete

No words are jotted down on the sheet

The right words and rhymes, they're completely useless to find

Unless they receive advice from someone with a cleverer mind..."

Fatty didn't get the chance to finish as Ern playfully hit him. "You wretch, Fatty! We didn't ask for you to insult us and praise yourself, did we?"

"Well, it is sad," Fatty teased. "Sad that you two aren't as naturally talented as me." He dodged as Ern swung out at him.

Anne-Marie stared in awe. "That's incredible. Truly, it is," she marveled. "How you can just spout out lines like that..."

"It isn't even true," Ern scowled. "I finished a poem not too long ago. And I even finished a few others."

"Really? How many?" Fatty teased. "One or two?"

"Oh, yes. It was a very good poem that he wrote," Anne-Marie added. "About a boat that floated at sea, before sinking. It was very sad."

"Really? Let's hear it, then," Fatty suggested.

Ern flipped through his poetry book. "Well, here it is." He started to read the poem. "The pore old boat sailed out at sea..."

When he was done, Fatty looked slightly impressed, but probably only because it was a step above the rest of Ern's poems. "You really are getting better," Fatty remarked.

"I'm nowhere near as good as you, I know," Ern said glumly.

"Can I give you some advice, Ern?" Fatty asked. "Your poetry – or portry – isn't terrible, but you have a small problem. You always write with such distant ideas. For example, you didn't write this poem while you were on a boat or even near the sea, did you?"

"Well, no," Ern admitted. "But it was inspired by that boat I saw in the sea pictures at Banshee Towers. You remember that, don't you, Fatty? How I noticed the boat wasn't there in the painting anymore? I pretended in this poem that it sank, instead of being wiped out."

"Oh, yes," Fatty agreed. "That was very sharp of you. That's probably why the poem is a little better than the rest. All of the poems I come up with have something to do with what I see around me. I saw you two poets sitting in a coffee shop together, and got the idea. After that, it's just a matter of finding more words and making them rhyme. The same way I wrote that poem about all of those clues you found on Christmas Hill. Or that one about dear Mr. Goon after witnessing him firsthand often enough." Fatty grinned.

"Golly! I suppose you're right, Fatty," Ern agreed, taken aback. Anne-Marie stared intently at him, listening just as carefully. "My poems don't often have much to do with what's going on around me. I guess that's why it's so hard for me to think of another line after 'The pore old man lay on the grass' or 'The pore old horse'."

"But you can sometimes," Fatty reminded. "Remember that poem you started that you called Coo? That was one of your better ones, because you were inspired by the things around you. Look at the primroses down in the ditch, smiling all over their faces..."

"Yes, yes, I remember," Ern agreed. "And then you finished it for me. I could think of a few lines, but still not that many. I'm not like you, Fatty. I just can't make up a poem about anything around me."

"Then don't," Fatty suggested. "Find something that's actually worth writing about. Or someone who is." He smiled meaningfully. "I'm sure you can think of something that inspires you, Ern."

Ern glanced at Anne-Marie who had begun scribbling in her poetry book again, obviously inspired by Fatty's input as well. "Yes, I'm sure I can," he agreed.

"Well, we'd better get going, Ern," Fatty announced. "The others will be wondering where we are, and the next train isn't long from now, Miss Longden."

"Gosh! Isn't it?" Anne-Marie raised her head in alarm. "I better be going. Oh, my mother's going to give me an awful telling off."

Ern followed them to the train station, eagerly greeting the others. They were older now as well, including little Bets, who was shocked to discover she went to the same school as Anne-Marie.

"I go to St Clare's too!" Bets exclaimed. "I just started in the first form. Now I know what it's like to go to boarding school, like Pip and the others always did."

"Really?" Anne-Marie's eyes widened in surprise. "What a coincidence. There are so many girls there, I've never seen you around before. Well, when I return in the sixth, I'll be sure to keep an eye out for you."

"It would be nice if you took care of her," Pip remarked. "I still think she's too much of a baby to go off to boarding school."

Bets glared at him, before smiling at Anne-Marie. "I heard about that midnight feast the second formers had, but I never imagined you were sleepwalking at the same time."

Anne-Marie chuckled. "Well, I wasn't exactly sleepwalking..."

"I suppose you'll be leaving now," Ern remarked awkwardly. "You know, to your home."

"We could write letters," Anne-Marie suggested. They had exchanged addresses. "I'll be sure to send you my poems, and I'm sure you'll do the same."

"You bet," Ern agreed.

Fatty grinned. "Two poets together!" he muttered. "Neither with much talent." Ern pretended not to hear him.

"There's the train!" Bets exclaimed, pointing. "Remember me next term, will you?"

Ern watched as Anne-Marie ran off to the train, her golden hair flying behind her. He decided Fatty was right. He did feel inspired to write something.

Fatty nudged him, grinning. "Getting any ideas?"

Ern nodded. He quickly took out his pencil and began scribbling down the first thing he could think of about Anne-Marie. He erased the first few lines before finally deciding on something that sounded decent.

Her hair falls down her back like woven gold

While a pencil in her hand she holds

Her eyes glisten like the dark night sky

As she writes and writes, while the time passes by

The words flow out, taken from her heart

She writes so well, since she's so smart

Ern laughed. The last line was definitely out of place compared to the rest of the poem, but it was the only thing he could think of. He was impressed by how eloquent it was compared to his other poems. He supposed Fatty was write about finding something that inspired him to write about. But it seemed incomplete. He decided Anne-Marie was a perfect name to add in a poem. Not just because of how pretty it sounded, but also because it rhymed with so many words.

Someday, she might once again visit me

The beautiful girl named Anne-Marie.

I've been on an Enid Blyton kick lately. Those books were my childhood, and there's so little content for them. I figured I might as well pair these two together, since they're both poets who only write sad poems and are less talented than they think, though their writing styles are opposite. I'm not sure I got Ern's speech patterns down right, but I hope Fatty's poem sounded like the ones in the books.