Flower Bed Boy
June 19th 1926
Patricia heard the unmistakable raucous of her little sisters in the next room over; the heightened screeching of pain from hair being pulled; the thump of small bodies against the floor; the condemning yell of their maid, Anne, in her broad Scottish accent. She stared down at her book and scanned for her forgotten place, trying desperately to block out the distraction but ultimately failing. The book – not particularly enjoyable – was shoved off to the side as Patricia stood up, tightened her fists and stomped to the window.
The large window took up all but a sliver of the wall space, stretching wide and tall, framed by painted white wood and divided up into three sections. The sill was wooden, lined with cushions that Patricia always found her mother sitting on, staring out into the garden, lost in her own thoughts about nothing she ever wished to share. Often she pestered her mother for an answer, but mostly to no avail. Most of their land was wild but for what the window displayed; finely cut grass, a simple stone fountain and beds of flowers round the edges of the trees, where from there nature did as it pleased without any intervention from the gardener, Charlie.
She thought, for a brief moment, that she had seen Charlie hunched over the flower beds, but it couldn't have been. Charlie was 'a strapping lad' in the words of her mother, broad in every direction at only eighteen, and the figure that loomed near the flowers was simply too small. Patricia brought her face closer to the glass, mindful not to leave fingerprints that would most certainly infuriate Anne, and made out the body of a small boy, thin and fingers deep in the dirt of the earth.
Curiosity consumed her like the discarded book had failed to do, and before she could think of the consequences, she was half way across the grass and nearing the fountain. The dew of the early morning had been swiftly devoured by the sun's rays, warming the ground beneath Patricia's slim shoes as she strode directly towards the boy, who had yet to notice her presence. She announced her arrival with the clearing of her throat and a quick tap on the boy's shoulder.
The boy spun around quickly, got up onto his feet and staggered back a few steps, right into a bunch of daffodils. There was a couple of yellow flowers already in his mucky fist.
“And who might you be?” Patricia asked, arms coming across her chest. She felt oddly powerful by the way the boy cowered from her in embarrassment.
He was a small boy, from youth and not malnutrition, she decided, with hair curling at his nape and over his brow. His cheeks flushed red over his sunburned skin and his eyes served as an annoying reminder of a set of marbles she had once owned before loaning them to her sister, only to never see them again. He would grow up to be a moderately attractive gentleman if he ever grew into his nose, she concluded in her own head, but nothing like the men in her books.
“Tom,” he mumbled, eyes cast down at Patricia's shoes. His head jerked up afterwards, nose scrunched up in confusion. “Any you, Miss?”
“Patricia,” she answered with a light undertone of amusement. The edges of her lips turned up and Tom's did the same, his gums and teeth on display.
It shouldn't have been so easy to fall into conversation with Tom, but it was, and the reason remained largely unknown. He was seven, the same age as her sisters, and seemed to be mimic the adults in the way he spoke; Patricia didn't mind. He was the cook's son – and a bastard child, though that he didn't quite know yet – and he liked playing in the flowers, climbing trees, wrestling with his imagination.
“Do you like books?” she questioned, curious, a tad doubtful that he could even read. He couldn't, but school was starting soon and he'd learn then, he told her. “I could teach you too?” He profoundly agreed with a violent nod of his head and a glint of excitement in his eye.
He brought a flower to his face, examined it with close-knit brows and thrust it over to Patricia, crumpling a few petals as he did. It was a childish offering of friendship; she took it.
The large window took up all but a sliver of the wall space, stretching wide and tall, framed by painted white wood and divided up into three sections. The sill was wooden, lined with cushions that Patricia always found her mother sitting on, staring out into the garden, lost in her own thoughts about nothing she ever wished to share. Often she pestered her mother for an answer, but mostly to no avail. Most of their land was wild but for what the window displayed; finely cut grass, a simple stone fountain and beds of flowers round the edges of the trees, where from there nature did as it pleased without any intervention from the gardener, Charlie.
She thought, for a brief moment, that she had seen Charlie hunched over the flower beds, but it couldn't have been. Charlie was 'a strapping lad' in the words of her mother, broad in every direction at only eighteen, and the figure that loomed near the flowers was simply too small. Patricia brought her face closer to the glass, mindful not to leave fingerprints that would most certainly infuriate Anne, and made out the body of a small boy, thin and fingers deep in the dirt of the earth.
Curiosity consumed her like the discarded book had failed to do, and before she could think of the consequences, she was half way across the grass and nearing the fountain. The dew of the early morning had been swiftly devoured by the sun's rays, warming the ground beneath Patricia's slim shoes as she strode directly towards the boy, who had yet to notice her presence. She announced her arrival with the clearing of her throat and a quick tap on the boy's shoulder.
The boy spun around quickly, got up onto his feet and staggered back a few steps, right into a bunch of daffodils. There was a couple of yellow flowers already in his mucky fist.
“And who might you be?” Patricia asked, arms coming across her chest. She felt oddly powerful by the way the boy cowered from her in embarrassment.
He was a small boy, from youth and not malnutrition, she decided, with hair curling at his nape and over his brow. His cheeks flushed red over his sunburned skin and his eyes served as an annoying reminder of a set of marbles she had once owned before loaning them to her sister, only to never see them again. He would grow up to be a moderately attractive gentleman if he ever grew into his nose, she concluded in her own head, but nothing like the men in her books.
“Tom,” he mumbled, eyes cast down at Patricia's shoes. His head jerked up afterwards, nose scrunched up in confusion. “Any you, Miss?”
“Patricia,” she answered with a light undertone of amusement. The edges of her lips turned up and Tom's did the same, his gums and teeth on display.
It shouldn't have been so easy to fall into conversation with Tom, but it was, and the reason remained largely unknown. He was seven, the same age as her sisters, and seemed to be mimic the adults in the way he spoke; Patricia didn't mind. He was the cook's son – and a bastard child, though that he didn't quite know yet – and he liked playing in the flowers, climbing trees, wrestling with his imagination.
“Do you like books?” she questioned, curious, a tad doubtful that he could even read. He couldn't, but school was starting soon and he'd learn then, he told her. “I could teach you too?” He profoundly agreed with a violent nod of his head and a glint of excitement in his eye.
He brought a flower to his face, examined it with close-knit brows and thrust it over to Patricia, crumpling a few petals as he did. It was a childish offering of friendship; she took it.
♠ ♠ ♠
I am really excited about writing this story, though I fear I might fall a little bit too much in love with some of the characters. I do plan on making the chapters longer than this, but I suppose this was merely an introduction.