Date Posted:19:14:45 05/14/10 Fri Author:debikm Subject: I enjoyed it the first tiem I read it and it's still got my attention. In reply to:
Fi
's message, "Part 1 (word count 1402) >>>" on 14:31:53 05/12/10 Wed
Your dialogue is believeable, your imagery real and the random little-boy thoughts are so good. I can just imagine a kid spitting in the water and thinking something like that. hell, a lot of adults too, for that matter. Good stuff.
All comments in boldface. Anything that I recommend to be omitted I will put inside brackets [ ]. If I suggest a replacement word, phrase, or punctuation, that will follow the bracket.
Galway, Ireland. 1663.
Thin sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating silver threads in the man's dark curls.
“You're Kate Flaherty's son?” Mr. Joyce asked, placing his quill tip-down into a jar on the desk. He wore an indoor gown of rich brocade[,] and there were ink dots on his white cravat.
“I am,” said Richard, breathing in the oak-and-paper dust. “Richard Mahon is my name. Son of Kate Flaherty and Joseph Mahon.” ---Awkward, no one talks like that. Also, in this situation, I wouldn’t expect Richard to volunteer information. He’s far too shy and nervous.--- His knees felt knocky, his empty stomach gurgled, and he wondered again why his Ma had sent him to this rich man's place. ---His stomach is actively doing something, would it not be better for his knees to be knocking together?---
“How old are you, boy?”
“[I'm] ten, sir.”
Mr. Joyce fingered the embroidered fringe of the handkerchief that Richard had given him. The man's nails were trim and his hands smooth; he'd obviously never worked on a fishing boat. But there was something oddly familiar about the shape of his face and the quizzical look in his blue eyes.
“And when will you be eleven?”
“Next March, sir.”
“By Jesus, of course you will.”
Richard was puzzled. “Mr. Joyce?”
“Did your mother have any other message for me?”
“Just that you'd know her and do right by her.” He frowned. He wasn't sure what that meant either. It sounded like begging, which [his] Ma would normally forbid him to do [on pain of sore ears or arse]. Yet, ---add a comma--- when he'd queried her on the message,---Seems out of place that he’d “query” his mother. Instead, I suggest you have her response to a confused look he gives her.--- she'd sighed and said he'd understand later. And there was another part of the message that made even less sense. “She said, --add a comma--- also, ---add a comma--- that you'd remember the bluebells.”
“The bluebells. Of course.”
The man looked again at the handkerchief, and Richard wondered what was so special about it. It might have been white once, but plenty of snot had been washed out of it over the years and it was now a faded, ---add a comma--- [buttermilk colour.] the color of buttermilk.
“Your father?” Mr. Joyce asked. “John, did you say?”
“Joe.”
“He's a fisherman?”
“He was. He's.... his boat went down.”
You were supposed to say “God rest him” when someone mentioned a dead person, but this man just kept staring from Richard's face to the handkerchief and back again.
“God rest him,” Richard added.
“Of course, God rest him. And your mother, she's well?”
“She is. Misses Da, of course.”
“Surely she does.”
“Mr. Joyce,” Richard cleared his throat. “How do you know my Ma?”
The man sighed, a frown mark creasing the bridge of his nose.
“From before you were born, during the time of Cromwell.”
Richard spit reflexively on the floor at hearing the hated name[,] and Mr. Joyce smiled.
“Those were hard times, I'm sure you've heard, and made strange allies.”
“[My] Ma says Cromwell is roaring in Hell now.”
“I'm sure he is. Are you keeping well, boy?”
Richard shrugged. “I am.” Apart from the scratch of hunger in his stomach.
“It can't be easy, with your father gone, God rest him.”
“We're not the worst off. [My] uncle---Capitalize "Uncle", it is his title and titles are capitalized.--- Jack is good to us.” After he's fed all his own children.
“You have brothers? Sisters?”
“Two younger sisters, Nora and Eily.”
The man kept nodding and staring. Richard, in an attempt to escape from the gaze, looked at the leather-bound books lining the shelf on the wall.
“Can you read?” Mr. Joyce asked.
What a silly question! “I can't, sir. My Da was a fisherman.” ---This comes across as sounding impertinent. Unless you mean it to, I suggest changing it simply to “No, sir.”---
“Of course, of course.”
****
Richard dawdled as he passed over the bridge. The sky was clear, but the river was swollen from last night's rain. On his left were the walls of Galway city---Should “city” be capitalized?--- and the masted ships ---Is “masted” a word typically used to describe ships? It sounds odd. Not even sure that “masted” is a word.--- bobbing at the quay---Awkard description. One usually thinks of boats bobbing in the water not at something.---. He spit into the water and watched the glob swirl around in one eddy, then another, before rushing towards the mouth of the river. He wondered vaguely if his spit would be swallowed by a fish or if it would just break up to become part of the sea.
He crossed the river to the right bank and made his way towards the church spire and the huddled thatched roofs of [the] Claddagh, the fishing village that was his home. The smell of turf filled the air as he met his mother and auntie---Capitalize Auntie, it is her title and titles are capitalized.--- Peg, along with two of his older girl-cousins.
“Thanks be to God for a calm day and a good catch!” said Peg. “And how is young Richard? [Your uncle]---I’m assuming Peg is married to Jack, also, this makes it seem that Jack is Kate’s uncle, or is Peg not addressing Kate here?--- Jack said that you'll be big enough soon to help him on the boat.”
“The time will be soon enough,” said Kate. She readjusted the woolen shawl around her head, taking care not to tip out the salmon that she carried in the upturned fold of her apron. Peg and the girls excused themselves and Richard followed his mother home.
“So, what did he say?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Mr. Joyce, of course. Did you see him?”
“I did.” Richard frowned, wondering which of the many words his mother wanted. “He asked after you. And Da.”
He followed his mother into their own cottage, shooing the chickens out of his way. Inside, the fire burned low on the hearth, smoke filling the room with a pleasant, warm fug. The grey cat caught whiff of the salmon and shimmied around Kate's skirts.
“Are you seeing him again?”
She upended the fish from her apron to the wooden table and threw her shawl over the stool. He was tempted to say “who?” again but bit his tongue. She had taken out the gutting knife and looked serious.
“He asked me for supper next Sunday.”
“Well, that's something.” She sliced off the head of the salmon and the cat went demented, curling itself in and around her skirt. She looked at the fish, then at the cat, then at the fish head again and shook her head. “Not the head, puss, I can make soup from that. Have we any potatoes left, Richard?”
He peered into the sack and lifted out a handful, all that was left. “Not many.”
She sighed, slicing through the belly of the fish. “Enough for tonight, anyway.”
“Why did you send me to Mr. Joyce, Ma?” Richard dumped the pebble-sized potatoes on the table beside her. “Why does he want to meet me again?”
“We can't depend on my brother forever.” She pulled out the fish's guts, and the cat headbutted ---Correct spelling is with a hyphen: head-butted.---- her ankle. “He has his own mouths to feed, and plenty of them.” It was true there were a lot of Flaherty cousins; Peg would scarcely’ve weaned one child when her belly would swell again.
“I'll be old enough to fish soon. I'm old enough to help out now, if you'd let me.”
Kate threw the fish guts on the floor and the cat lapped them up.
“Not if I can help it. I've lost too many men to the sea already[.]: [M]my father, my husband. Not my son, if I can help it.”
Richard scowled. Did she think he would not be strong enough to brave the ocean as Claddaghmen had done for generations? Did she think he would be a child forever?
“I'm not a baby, Ma! My cousin Sean was out on the boat before he was eleven.”
She wiped the bloodstained knife on her apron, ignoring him.
“Why is a rich man interested in me anyway?” he demanded.
“Let's say he owes me a favour,” she said.
They were interrupted as his two little sisters rushed through the door. Six-year-old Eily leaned her head against her mother's hip, giving her brother the usual greeting by popping out her tongue. “Did you get any money in Galway?”
Eight-year-old Nora put hands to hips. “Eily, he wasn't selling anything today.”
“Why did he go there, then?” the younger girl asked.
Richard shrugged, and Kate handed her older daughter a potato.
“Nora, start peeling. Wait, there's some eating in the skins: don't peel them, scrub them. And Richard, throw a few more sticks on the fire.”
He took a handful of twigs from the pile and added them to the hearth; the flame licked and crackled some more. He doubted that he would get any more answers today.
Final Thoughts:
Intriguing beginning. I, too, am rather curious about Mr. Joyce's response to Richard. Inviting him to dinner is NOT the expected response at all as men of his class do not typically dine with children, especially poor ones.
debikm