HAWES ESCAPES

“The King is dead. Long live the King.”  Hoskins hoisted his nearly empty pint, looking hopefully around for somebody to notice this and offer to refill it.

“The king ain’t dead, you bloody sod,” said Smith. “He’s bleeding abdicating. To marry that American tart. The divorcée.”

“I seen her picture in the papers,” added Woodcock. “She’s a  looker, but I can’t say as I’d give up the Crown to marry her.”

“Thin as a sodding skeleton,” spat Smith. “Probably bruises the Royal Balls on her bleedin’ hipbones.”

“Well,” said Hoskins, still holding aloft his now empty glass. “We ought to drink to him anyway. The next King, I mean. Prince Albert. In a can.” He got awkwardly to his feet and scowled at the men hunched over the greasy table.  “Now one of you chaps  stand me to another pint so’s we can do it proper.”

 

Sunday Photo Fiction

 

 

For those who don’t know, in 1936 King Edward VIII abdicated the Throne of Great Britain to marry an American socialite. It threw England into a constitutional crisis on the eve of WWII. Public opinion about the matter varied considerably.  

Dreams in the night. Waking dreams.

Now she is wandering through the small town airport dragging the suitcase behind her like a reluctant child. Her eyes scan the expanse of glittering floor, the sea of worn blue carpet. A woman in uniform smiles, asks if she may help.

Another city. Days later, or years. Eternal. She stares through the tall window across the flat roofs topped with functional gray blocks, pools of black water, crumbling chimneys. Gleaming towers of copper and cobalt and cerulean, poetic names that soar above the real colors chosen by the architect. Red. Blue. Green.

She holds a glass of wine. The man takes her name, incurious, eyes habitually gliding down her chest and back. May I help you? He doesn’t smile.

The chair is hard and hurts her ass. When was the last time she thought of him, of them, of any of them?

They are calling her flight. Another city. Another destination.

 

Sunday Photo Fiction

“Stephens,” said Mr. Wentworth. “When you’ve finished your lunch I need to see you in my office.”

Stephens took his time, made his thermos of tea last the full half hour. Screwing the top back on, he placed the container into his messenger bag and brought it with him. He knew what was coming.

The office was in the Tower proper, atop a dark spiral staircase set with iron-bound cells every dozen feet or so. As always, he admired the  stonework, the steps worn to smooth concavity by fifteen hundred years of foot traffic. The heavy wooden door at the top was ajar. Stephens wondered if prisoners taken up for execution had a similar icy feeling in their gut.

Mr. Wentworth sat behind his work table, his expression neutral. He pointed to a chair. Stephens sat.

“We have had reports on your conduct,” he began, tapping a folder in front of him. “Several of our visitors have remarked on things you told them during the tours.”

Stephens said nothing.

“For example,” said Mr Wentworth as he took up the folder and opened it, “a Mrs. Mulwrath from Surrey writes that you described  the Duke of Sussex’s head bouncing down the stairs like a football. She said you laughed as you told her. Laughed maniacally, in her exact words. Her daughter was quite upset.”

He peered at Stephens over his glasses. Stephens seemed to be looking at the stone wall behind him. “You are aware that, as a docent, you have a responsibility to historical accuracy? Have you an explanation for this?”

Stephens swallowed. “It’s just that the actual history is so bloody dull.”

 

Sunday Photo Fiction