Monday, May 26

 We've woken up to a miserable day.  The sky is grey with low-lying clouds, the air is cold, and we've had rain overnight.  I can't think of any reason to go out although Marilyn is hinting that she might need something from the shop.

There is one thing we've been discussing which will necessitate a bit of research.  I've been finding it more and more difficult to get out of my comfortable chair in the loungeroom.  It's connected to my on-going back problem.  Since much of our world now revolves around our lounge-room and we spend more and more of our time sitting in our chairs, the problem is becoming more and more evident.

I've been putting off doing something about it but it's becoming clear that something will have to be done sooner or later.  There are chairs, of course, that have electric motors to shove you up on to your feet.  Smokey Dawson used to advertise them.  Several stores in Launceston sell them and you can buy them on-line from places like Kogan and even Temu.  They come with one motor or two but I don't understand the difference.

Anyway, Jamie has offered to take me to have a look.  It's a bugger getting old ... and expensive too.

Here's a little story I wrote in an attempt to produce a love story:

VICTORIAN LOVE STORY                                                               JULY 24, 2024

Beatrice straightened her pinafore, tugged at her pigtails and drew a big breath.  At 16, she needed to give some serious thought to marriage. Her mother often said as much, hinting broadly that her father could not be expected to continue feeding her forever.  The few pennies she brought in from helping old Miss Parsons with her chores around the house made very little difference to the family expenses and Father’s income had been reduced following his accident at the Squire’s colliery. 

She looked again at her reflection in the shabby, stained mirror which hung on a nail over the kitchen sink.  She didn’t think she was a particularly pretty girl but she knew that the boys of the village turned to look at her when she passed by.  Her mother would be ashamed if she knew that Beatrice often deliberately swayed her hips when she knew that the boys were watching.  Sometimes, she heard whistles from them and that gave her a sense of satisfaction.  She drew in a deep breath as she thought about that feeling of power.

Marriage?  What would that be like? Almost every adult in the village was married but the only marriage that Beatrice knew anything about was that of her parents.  Even though other girls at the village school giggled about what it meant to be married, Beatrice knew that it was just nonsense they were talking.  If she ever married herself, she hoped her husband would have more idea of the situation than the silly girls at school.  If her parents’ marriage was any guide, it seemed to be about the man going off to work to earn money, and the mother staying home to look after the house and the children.  It didn’t seem to be anything to giggle about.

When she told some of the other girls what she thought about marriage, they just laughed and she still didn’t understand why they were giggling.

Her steps had brought her to the little, stone hump-backed bridge over the Mill Stream. At this time of the year, after the recent rain, the stream was flowing strongly and Beatrice knew that the miller would be taking advantage of the flow to grind as much of the grain as he could.  Mr Miller worked hard but Mrs Miller seemed to spend most of her days visiting her many friends. Beatrice knew that the miller and his wife didn’t have any children and they were able to employ a maid and a girl to help around the house.

Beatrice could feel her heart leap in her chest as she noticed the figure on the bridge.  As she had hoped, James, the son of the Vicar of the little church in the village, was spending his afternoon fishing in the stream.  Any fish he caught would only be small but would be as welcome in the vicar’s house as any in the village.  A country parson’s stipend was tiny, and the small takings from the collection plate each Sunday reflected the relative poverty of his congregation.  When James turned a little and caught sight of Beatrice, his face lit up.  His voice, although he was clearly delighted to see her, gave no hint of the pleasure he felt.

“Hello, Beatrice. What brings you here?”

“Hello, James,” she replied. “It’s such a nice day, I thought I would take a walk to see whether there are any new ducklings on the river.  But I can see that none of the eggs have yet hatched.”

“I’ve had no luck with the fishing, either so I’m ready to set off for home.  Would you like to walk with me, you can say hello to my mother and father and there might be some fresh milk that we could share?”

“That would be lovely, James,” she replied.  “I hoped I might see you here and I was looking forward to seeing how many fish you had caught.”

James laughed. “I don’t come here to catch fish,” he said.  “I come to think and dream.”

Think and dream, Beatrice thought as they walked along together.  Occasionally, as they walked, their hands inadvertently brushed together and Beatrice was surprised at the feelings of pleasure each touch brought.  If I have to be married, she thought, I hope it will be to someone I like as much as I like James.  The next time their hands brushed, she impulsively grasped his fingers in hers and they walked on hand-in-hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world.