The Hat Girl...

One evening this week I was out walking when I tripped, causing my shoe to fly off and my foot to land in a puddle. I cursed my stupidity loudly and then proceeded to make this story up for the remainder of my rather damp journey home.

“Oh fiddlesticks!” She cried, looking downwards at her now sodden foot. A protruding cobblestone had turned her ankle, resulting in her precarious wobble into the offending puddle. It was now that she was once more upright and on two feet that she realised aghast that this small token of clumsiness had cost her the job. The discrepancy in colour between her stockings was far too noticeable to be able to continue her journey onwards. She would have to return home and change. Such a delay would undoubtedly cause her to miss the appointment she had made with Mrs Potts of Mrs Potts’ Fabric Emporium.

Her hat slid wetly to one side as if it too was disappointed in the current turn of events. Tearfully she prodded it back into place with the rusted hat pin. The hat summed up her life really – fraying around the edges and more than a little unsatisfactory. It was a shame that she couldn’t afford something a bit nicer, for she was blessed with a pretty face rendered even prettier when framed with the right hat. The current sodden mess atop her head, which had once believed itself to be a hat, fell askew once more.

Sighing despondently she looked across the street. The warm light and pretty colours of the shop window drew her closer. It was the milliner’s shop and they’d just completed a new display of the latest confections and fashions declared to be popular in Paris. Her eyes fixed longingly upon one creation, a cloche hat in vivid purple. It was of course entirely impractical as well as far too dear for the meagre wage which she had until a moment ago the opportunity of earning. Defeated she turned from the cheerful display and began to limp home, one foot squelching wetly and beginning to go numb from cold.

“Excuse me! Excuse me Miss! Please wait.” She heard with disinterested bemusement the sound of a man calling down the street, before realising with embarrassment that he was in fact calling her. She turned. Good heavens she thought to herself, feeling more than a little flustered by his approach, and wondering whether she’d woken up in a novel. He was tall with a sweep of dark hair and a beautifully tailored suit. He held out his umbrella, sheltering her from the worst of the rain.

“I’m terribly sorry for all this.” He began. “But I noticed you walk past and as soon as I saw your face I knew that you were exactly the girl I’ve been looking for.” Startled by his impropriety she drew back, a hint of fear widening her eyes. She darted small glances around her, but all the other pedestrians on the street were too engrossed in avoiding puddles and dripping eaves. “Oh good Lord!” He exclaimed, realising his mistake and having the grace to colour slightly. “No, never, not that.” He stumbled over his words in a rush of apologetic negation. “It’s more of a job proposal you see.” She did not see at all for he was not explaining himself well. He tried again. “I’m the owner of the milliner’s shop that you just passed by. I’m looking for a girl just like yourself. I was wondering whether you would consider applying.” She stared at him flabbergasted, quite certain in her own heart that he could not want a girl like herself.

“That’s very kind I’m sure. But I really don’t think -”

“Please say you’ll at least consider my proposal.” He interrupted desperately. “Every girl I’ve interviewed in the past week look like they’ve had a dead bird clinging to their heads. Whereas you...” He paused, seemingly uncertain whether it was entirely proper to say the next words. “...whereas you look quite perfect. Even in that frightfully unbecoming hat.” He added with a twinkle of humour.

She touched her hat self-consciously, but was unable to disguise the twitching of a smile, which indicated her ability to laugh at herself. There was something quite appealing about this young gentleman and his earnest looks. He made her feel like she would be doing him a great favour by accepting the job, rather than him rendering her a service. She hesitated despite the fact she knew there was only one answer she could give. The hesitation was born out of natural trepidation that so few and so small a group of words could change her life forever. Gathering every fibre of strength in her character she said with greater gumption than she really felt,

“Alright. I accept.”

Tile Mania

This week I was incredibly lucky to have the opportunity to handle thirteenth-century mosaic tiles. Though these tiles are now merely fragments stored in cardboard boxes it is quite possible that when originally laid they would have created a spectacular design such as this one from Byland Abbey.

Digging For The Future...

“It’ll be magnificent.” The apprentice breathed reverently. The boy’s mind was filled with images of towering piers, painted frescoes and gilded mosaics. They were building a masterpiece, the likes of which had never been seen before on this small and rainy island. His imagination overflowed with the myriad colours and textures of his native homeland. How these drab foreigners would flock to admire such an exotic creation. His dreams took on the colour of gold. The wealth and recognition such an endeavour would undoubtedly bring might just be enough to impress a certain dark-eyed beauty.

“Alessandro...Alessandro!” His master called impatiently, startling the boy from his thoughts. He opened his eyes and regarded the scowling architect with dazed confusion. The tall man cradled the distinctive rolls of parchment in the crook of one arm, whilst in his free hand he held a simple spade. “Stop dawdling boy. The foundations won’t dig themselves.” The boy reached for the spade. With a sigh of disappointment his shoulders slumped forward and he scuffed his feet across the earth. The spade was a painful reminder that he was not an architect yet. His young body was instead well suited to the labour of many hours hard digging. The master turned back to him thoughtfully, a knowing smile creasing his dark face.

“And Alessandro - This building has taken many years to create and will take many more to finish. In time it will be you who will be the architect to complete this great work. Dig well now and you will provide the groundwork on which to create something truly magnificent.” The boy felt purpose filling his very being and with new enthusiasm dashed towards the other labourers, spade resting purposefully over one shoulder.

The Hunted...

There was something curiously attractive about a woman who could knock a man off his feet – and he wasn’t thinking metaphorically.

“Keep down,” came the harsh whisper from the woman who had just sent him sprawling with a carefully positioned foot. From his quick glance at her appearance he was unable to ascertain her age or beauty. He noted only the sharp jut of bones thinly concealed beneath skin and the homespun tunic which flapped expansively about her. She crouched beside his prostrate form, her head slanted to one side as if she were straining to hear something.

“Keep your head down.” She hissed forcibly for a second time as her elbow dug into the back of his neck. There was unexpected strength in her small frame and he found he could not shake her off. With a sigh he accepted the futility of his struggle. As he ceased his frustrated movements he remembered the item he had been carrying. His hand slid surreptitiously to his chest where with some relief he registered that the item still lay concealed amongst his clothing. Finally he heard the not-so-distant conversation of men.

“They’re not your friends here to collect. It’s the King’s Men. So keep still.” Her words did not immediately elicit the suspicion they should have raised, instead he surrendered to her. He no more wanted to be discovered by the soldiers than she clearly did. If she was surprised by his sudden stillness or carefully muted breathing she did not show it. Instead her hand glided to the weapon at her hip, her fingers curling around the hilt. Her muscles were tensed and she looked perfectly ready to spring into action at the slightest indication that they had been discovered.

He wondered idly how much damage she would be able to inflict before they killed her. There were five mounted men passing through the clearing, heavily armoured and at least twice her size. She would perhaps have the benefit of surprise and desperation, but ultimately it would not make a difference. If he were a gambling man, and he regularly was, then he realised that only by working together to stay hidden would they stay alive.

Several anxious minutes lapsed as they waited for the patrol to leave and it was several more minutes after that before either breathed easily again. He flexed his toes in the worn leather of his boots, mildly surprised by the extent of his own unease. Unhindered he stood, replacing the cap on his head in a jaunty angle and brushing the twigs and leaves from his clothing. Despite the unpleasant interlude he began whistling cheerfully when he realised that he still had time to complete his business before enjoying that drink in his local tavern.

He stopped whistling however when he felt the sharp prod of a blade at his back.

“Did you really think I was going to let you go?” She asked softly.

“You can have whatever money is in my purse.” He said quickly. She chuckled quietly to herself. Her free arm encircled his waist and her hand crept upwards over his chest. Startled by the intimate position he forgot for a moment the knife at his back.

“Well if that’s what you really want.” He preferred a woman he could get his hands on but he was always willing to adapt his tastes. Besides she had probably saved his life and so it was his duty really to show his appreciation. His thoughts were interrupted by a gale of loud laughter. The woman shoved him away so that he nearly overbalanced again as he stumbled forward. He looked down at his unlaced jerkin but untouched shirt. He yelled suddenly when he realised what she had done.

“Give it back!” He turned around angrily. She clenched the document in one hand whilst the knife was held in the other.

“Why? It’s not yours anymore than it’s mine.” His eyes narrowed and he took a threatening step towards her. “I really wouldn’t if I were you.” Her soft tone was somehow more menacing than his approach had been.

“My friends will be here soon. You won’t be able to fight us all.”

“Your friends are not expecting you for several more hours and on the other side of the river.” She scoffed. For the first time he began to feel nervous. This was beginning to feel more and more like a trap, and less and less like a chance encounter.

“Look -” He began, trying to sound reasonable and flashing his most charming smile.

“I would seriously consider shutting that pretty mouth of yours, unless you want to find out whether the accusation that I murdered my husband has any truth to it or not.” She seemed totally calm, and the blade remained steady in her hand. He began to wonder whether he would have been safer with the King’s Men after all.