Diary entry of a 1st Class passenger

After reading Titanic Detective Agency by Lindsay Littleson https://lindsaylittleson.co.uk/book/the-titanic-detective-agency/, I was inspired to write my own Titanic themed diary entry. Unlike Lindsay`s, this was not based on real passengers. 

April 10^th, 1912

Dear Diary,

Mother has requested I dress in my finery (and of course I didn’t refuse!) My fair ringlets fell down to my waist. I admired them in my dressing table mirror as a cool breeze swept through my open window. Miss Altson (my governess) had insisted I wear a light smattering of lip-gloss and you don’t refuse Miss Altson. Anyway, I kind of wanted to. I went to get ready. My satin blue dress with frilly turquoise bows, red patent shoes, white tights, new fur lined coat and velvet lilac hair bows seemed suitable for this occasion. Dancing down the spiral staircase, I saw Miss Altson, mummy, daddy, and Tojo (my Pomeranian) waiting at the door for me. Miss Altson frowned, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” she questioned. “Pardon?” I replied. “Your gloves Miss Lillian,” she sighed. “Ah!” I pulled on the satin gloves with lace frills and turned to mummy. “Ready?” I asked. “Yes darling.” she replied.

Running towards the automobile, I rattled the door trying to open it. It was locked. “Open up!” I yelled. “Yes ma’am.” A butler came and unlocked the car. The boot and carriages of my entourage were jam packed, but thankfully I had plenty of room inside. Porters had been loading the car all day and now, I was leaving my country mansion with it’s old antiques and crawling ivy up the outside wall forever. I was going to America as a first-class passenger on the biggest ship in the world and I wasn’t coming back! We drove out of the avenue steadily but not before I glanced back at my house. Tojo who was sitting on my lap, licked my face lovingly. His golden fur was rubbing my cheek tentatively. At least one hour or so later, though it felt like an age, we arrived at Southampton docks. The massive outline of Titanic loomed in front of me. I slipped Tojo’s lead and collar over his muzzle as Manuel (my personal butler) opened the door with a graceful bow. Hopping out of the car whilst holding Tojo proved difficult but I managed anyhow. “Ola mademoiselle!? Como estas? “Err?...” Manuel is still trying in vain to speak English, though unfortunately he could only say, “Where is a book you little swine?” Of course, he does not understand what he is saying. “Hello.” I said uncertainly. He smiled and gave another low bow before departing to unload the luggage.

The busy docks were packed with excited people hustling and bustling and saying their farewells. I followed mummy, daddy and Miss Altson with Tojo trotting happily by my side. As we reached the top of the gangway, I looked down over the railing. My car was being loaded on to the ship, it’s red paint gleaming in the sunlight. But another thing caught my gaze. People in scruffy clothes were being searched for something, their matted hair being pulled roughly aside. “Daddy?” I said, “Who are they?” I asked. “Steerage passengers having their health checks no doubt.” came the reply. “How uncivilised.” I muttered, silently scolding them.

We went inside and were met by none other than Captain Smith himself! He spoke to daddy before turning to me. “Would you like a little tour?” he asked. “Yes please!” He showed us a lot of dull things at first and, sensing my lack of enjoyment, he decided to show us the grand staircase. I rubbed my gloved hand across the lavishly polished oak balustrade that was shining grandly. The red carpeted floor beneath my feet made me feel like my favourite film star, Dorothy Gibson who is also supposed to be travelling on Titanic. We were impressed by the enormous gymnasium with high windows and exercise machines (just like daddy’s one at home!) Seeing the parlour suite with a nursery just for me has, so far, been my upmost favourite.

My bed is a giant four poster queen sized, with velvet pink curtains, and a silk quilt. Though you may not believe it, there is about a hundred toys! There is soft dolls with gently smiling faces and a big golden rocking horse stationed in the middle of the room. His saddle is bright red. I love them all. A delicate stained-glass window stands grandly in the corner, sending a crescendo of colours flying everywhere. I wish I could write more but I fear mummy’s calling and I don’t want to be badly in trouble by ignoring her!

Write later! 

The Soldier's Pool

 I like to take inspiration from the people and places that I know, so once again, I have written a historical fiction piece about a local place that I love - the 'Soldier's Pool', near Crawick.

(photo by S. Hastie)

The Soldier’s Pool

The winter sun shone through my window. This morning was most definitely the time for a winter walk in the beautiful Crawick landscape. I pulled my hat firmly down over my head and stepped outside. Miraculously overnight, the once apple green ground had turned to pearl white. Still moving tentatively over the snowy ground, I began to descend Miller’s Brae towards the river. Beautiful icicles hung from the cliff that overlooked the Crawick water, ready to impale anyone who may get in their way.

Snowdrops bloomed everywhere I looked, like little angels in a bed of white feathers.

Before me was the copse where I would usually turn back home. Not today. Taking a deep breath, I willed myself through the small thicket of trees to find out what was on the other side. I stopped. Before me was a frozen pool covered by a perfect sheet of ice. Like a glass ballroom floor, it was willing me to dance. 


Lights, cameras, action! I was the star of Dancing on Ice, pirouetting from one side to the other, finishing off my routine to emanating applause crackling from the trees on my left and right. Beneath my feet…


Suddenly I was plummeting into the freezing water. The cold spread through my body seizing up muscles I never knew I had. And in an instant, strong hands gripped my sides hauling me back up into the fresh morning air.


I was gently placed upon the frozen ground immobilized by fear. A dishevelled man loomed into sight and with a heavy French accent said, “Bravo! Your dancing es manifique!” “Thanks.” I replied hoarsely. He was wearing jodhpurs and buckled shoes with only a scruffy shirt to cover his top. “You saved my life! Thank you.” “Oui, no problem, I’m here to serve!” he cried heartily as he turned his back. “I must go.” he said softly. He was on the verge of leaving when I shouted, “Wait! I don’t even know your name. Where do you live?” “Jean Baptiste, mademoiselle. I rest at the stables.” was the faint reply, as he continued walking away. I trudged home, soaked to the skin.


The next day I set out once again, this time avoiding the deadly pool, and headed for the old stables. As I knocked the door an old man came stumbling from the back of the house. “Excuse me, I’m looking for the Frenchman who lives here? He’s about 30.” I enquired. “No Frenchman here lassie. Not since the prisoners of war back in the days of the French Revolution. You’re a couple centuries late!”


As I walked away, I caught sight of a jagged stone erected in the ground. I moved closer. Words were engraved. It read, ‘In memory of Navy Lieutenant J.B Arnaud, age 27 years. Prisoner Of War on parole at Sanquhar. Erected by his companions in arms and fellow prisoners. He expired in the arms of friendship, 9^th November 1812.’ Scooping up a bundle of snowdrops, I laid them carefully at the base. “Thank you Jean Baptiste”, I whispered. 

Me laying snowdrops at the real grave of POW J.B. Arnaud, Sanquhar

Shot!

This short story is based around my home village of Crawick in Upper Nithsdale in Dumfriesshire, Scotland. The picture below shows a busy mill village and how the place may have looked during the 18th Century - the time period in which the story is set, and the so called Crawick witches ran a mock around the local area! I hope you enjoy reading this. 

Shot

Robert Stitt was looking forward to unwinding after a long shift at the Crawick Mill. Enjoying the peace and quiet of the warm summer’s evening, he nipped into his cottage to collect his musket, and walked towards the Holm Wood. Above him was a cloudless periwinkle, blue sky. As he stepped under the dense canopy of trees, he admired a large red kite flying above, also scanning the ground. “You know the Holm Woods as well as I, my friend.” he said respectfully.



Waiting for his prey, a raven cawed ominously from the drystone dyke at the entrance to the Holm. Being the engine driver at the Mill, meant he had an uncanny sense of hearing and sharp eyesight. Unlike most men, he could hear the rustle of a bush a hundred yards away.



He rammed the paper cartridge down the musket and lay in the long grass, motionless. But after forty-five minutes, he began to lose faith. Suddenly, a large athletic hare streaked out of a bush in front of him and darted towards another. He aimed and fired. Bullseye! He sauntered casually through the puff of white smoke and putrid smell of sulphur to the spot where the dead hare lay. But it had disappeared.



He searched high and low, without success. Dispirited, he turned to leave when, blinking in disbelief, he noticed a woman with heavily lidded eyes and curly black hair emerge from the thorn bush the hare had been shot in. Nannie, the infamous witch of Crawick, was pulling pieces of shot from her side with her taloned hands. Unfazed, she inspected one of the bloody ball-bearings. Robert just stood there, unsure what to do. Eventually, she turned and looked straight at him. She raised her dark eyebrows and tutted accusingly. A crooked finger waggled in his direction. She glowered for a minute more before turning around, pocketing the shots and walking defiantly towards the river.



Robert ran home, terrified. He flung open the back door and was about to shout to his wife, when he realised it would be pointless as it was Friday and she would be down at the river washing clothes. Trying to calm himself down, he went into the kitchen to smoke his pipe. But as Robert entered the lamplit room, he saw a sight that made the hairs on the back of his neck curl. Roughly fifty bloodstained shots lay on the wood carved table.

The Riddle

This story was written after my teacher - Mrs Phillips - asked me to set a scene of an abandoned house so I obliged by writing this and I added a bit more jazz. 😁

                                       The Riddle

Looking out my window, I saw yet another dog walker speed up as they passed the empty house on the corner. I’d watched enough of them to know exactly what to expect. A shiver would crawl down their spine and a familiar look of uncertainty would cross their face. That house unsettled everyone. Even in broad daylight. The dogs growled and barked when they saw it and I must admit, I often felt tense when passing as well. To top it off, I thought I heard purring coming from inside the house although I assumed it must be Rossi (Katie’s cat from next door.)

All the villagers warned against going near the house. You would often hear Wilma, a local lady who knows an awful lot about Crawick, telling anyone who would listen, that the house was haunted; while her husband, Doug, advised anyone who had sense, not to go near the house as it was guarded by evil spirits. I doubted both of these theories and one day decided to investigate for myself.

Walking along the deserted path in Crawick, with the sweltering midday sun beating against my back, I glanced quickly around to check no one was looking and snuck in the front door. Rotting planks of wood were balanced precariously above my head, creaking ominously under the weight of the roof. The mouldy essence of damp wood lingered in the air. I crept cautiously into the room beyond. A chink of light glowed in the darkness and through the gap between door and wall, I saw a sight that made the hairs on the back of my neck curl…

A sphinx prowled the room, teeth bared and staring straight at me. Finally, she spoke in a raspy, menacing voice:

 

 

“If you want to come out alive

Answer my riddles to survive.

If you are right I will let you past

If you are wrong it will be your last”

I stood frozen, paralysed by fear. Eventually, I shuffled nervously to the moth-eaten sofa and shakily sat down, waiting for further instructions.

“First think of the organ that you sorely need

The ticker that pumps life at great speed

Now give me the word for sores and pain

Don’t try and escape, it will be in vain

String them together, what did I say?

If you are wrong, with your life you shall pay.”

 

Completely dumfounded, I stared into the great almond shaped eyes for what seemed like a lifetime before finally answering. “Err, the first bit’s a heart, I think?” I said, tightly crossing my fingers behind my back. “Sores and pain…?” My mind drifted off, realising that was exactly what was going to happen to me if I didn’t get this right! With furrowed brows I eventually answered, “Is it possibly heartache?”

In a puff of blue and green smoke the sphinx vanished. Immediately the old dilapidated house was repairing itself! In the blink of an eye, I was no longer standing in a crumbling, shabby sitting room, but in a luxurious lounge. The chandelier glistening, wooden floorboards gleaming, I gazed around the transformed room. With a pang of understanding, I realised I must have broken the apparent curse the villagers rumoured about.

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