Happy Christmas to you! Please pardon my lack of posting - an ill habit I have fallen into of late due to this thing called "Life" which keeps intruding on my (perhaps not too successful) attempts to produce gems of twenty-first century literature. (Ahem. Anyway.)
The following is a bit of historical fiction - the first I've ever really written, as far as I recall - and as such it (obviously) does not pretend to be a strictly true story though it attempts to give a glimpse of a very real man. The beauty of historical fiction is, though, that something very like this
could have happened. And who knows? Maybe it did.
+JMJ
The Red Kerchief
By Caitlin Clancy
Copyright 2012
John
Adam Davidson stood on the corner, watching the pigeons across the street. He looked, by his mother’s declaration –
and his own agreement – just about
as smart and proper as any boy could look. With his jacket and suspenders and grey trousers, newly acquired
from his brother Paul, together with a fine little watch that his uncle had
gifted him for his last birthday, John Adam was the picture of perfection. The high-minded lad nodded sharply,
bobbing his driving cap approvingly as he thought over again how his aunts and
mother had admired him that morning.
Yes, he had to admit it – for a precocious young gentleman of six years
he was a very fine specimen indeed.
John Adam scampered back to the park a few yards behind him as the
traffic on the road increased and the pigeons scattered. He scrambled up onto a wrought-iron
bench and kicked his legs thoughtfully as he contemplated the bustle of the London
streets, the tea his mother would serve in half an hour (and which he would not
be there for if he could help it – an afternoon running in the park was much
superior to an hour of being made to sit still while listening to women’s talk),
and the large sign above the grocer’s which shouted to the busy city in bold black letters, “WHAT PRICE CHURCHILL?” And it was a very fine sign indeed, John Adam thought, if
for no other reason than because he,
John Adam, could read it. But it
was better than that, he supposed upon reflection. It was not at all like those horrid little smudgy letters in
his speller at home. Instead it
was big and brave and did not care what people thought. It did not cower in the corner of the
page, half-unreadable, as his school lessons did. He returned to the roadside for a more precise examination
of the advertisement in question.
Really, he thought, it was more like –
“John
Adam!”
The
boy halted for a second, glanced over his shoulder to see nurse hurrying to
catch him up, and then suddenly grinned.
He spun on the heels of his old black shoes and darted down the road
with a look on his face that could have rivaled the expression of the infant
Hermes when the child-god stole his divine brother’s cows. Now this, John Adam thought, running,
was real fun. This was cleverness itself. This was, in fact, adventure. Where the idea had come into his head
from he was not sure, but neither did he care. He ran through the crowded streets, dodging and ducking and
weaving, all the while waving a kerchief – a little red one he had appropriated
that morning from his sister’s drawer – above his careless head and shouting
“What price Churchill? What price
Churchill? What price Churchill!”
as loud as he could for no reason at all.
He
turned a corner and dashed up the block, passing houses and shops until he came
to the Horse Guards Parade. The mischievous
child made to speed by the Admiralty buildings, still shouting to the skies,
“What price Churchill! What price
Church – oh!” Reaping the
fruits of his unwary escapade, the boy now found himself staring up into the
face of the big bald man whom he had run into full-force as the latter came
around the side of a building.
“Well,
what price Churchill?” the man asked, his eyes twinkling and a smile tugging at
his mouth. John Adam stood and
stared for a moment, dumbstruck.
Then, at last:
“Tupp
– tuppence, sir? I’ve only got so much.”
The boy uttered his remark quietly and rather shamefacedly, producing
the last of his birthday money from a trouser pocket. The man laughed warmly and asked, “Will it buy us victory?” John Adam shrugged.
“Might,”
the child admitted very quietly, not really sure what to make of the
question. He backed away a little,
kerchief clutched tightly in his hot fingers, still looking up at the
stranger. Just then, however, he
felt a firm hand on his shoulder and suddenly his ears were full of his nurse’s
scolding tones. What her words
were, though, he did not know. He
was absorbed in watching the bald man, who had turned and was now walking over
to the Houses of Parliament. There was an air about him; something grand that left
an impression. And yet he seemed –
sad. That was the word. Sad. What price Churchill?
John Adam wondered.
Two
days later, in the wee hours, the man was sitting in an office. It had been a difficult night and,
unable to make further progress in his work, he intended to leave now and go to
bed. It was late – or, more
properly, early – and in the darkness of a very black morning he felt both
tired and discouraged. He took up his
hat and, donning his coat, made to head for home. Stepping out into the duskiness and chilling silence of the streets,
he sighed. He reached behind him
to close the door, but, as he did so, trod on something that crackled like
stiff paper. He looked down and,
to his mild surprise, found that someone had tried to jam a stuffed, squishy
envelope under the door. Curious,
he picked it up and carefully opened it at the excessively wetted paper
corner. Into his hand fell two
pence, and a red kerchief on which was inked in a childish scrawl, “TupHenS foRe cHurChiL! cHurcHiL fUr
VikToRy!!!” The bald man smiled.
