For those curious about Florence here’s her backstory. I know it’s a repeat but that’s what you get when you don’t pay your licence fees:
Florence Bousfield, maid of all works, is not indigenous to the island. She originally hails from Mablethorpe but left there under something of a cloud having spent her early teens running with the Lincolnshire razor gangs and organising protection rackets amongst the amusement arcades and gelateria.
She fetched up like a bad penny in the bustling metropolis of Norwich and for a while earned her crust in the Mermaid Fishe and Chip Shoppe and Payday Loan Specialists. For serving behind the counter, she was given two shillings and sixpence an hour and all the luncheon meat fritters and scraps that she could eat. This played merry hell with her complexion, and she would return home to her back street garret stinking of fat, and with a band of batter coating her lisle stockings at shin level from the basins stored under the counter.
Old man Kostas (he wasn’t Greek, just in the habit of assuming new names when his creditors came calling – he was working through the alphabet) was forever trying to persuade her into the cellar to see his spud peeler, but she was nimble and slippery as an eel, and had thus far evaded his attentions when sorting out the King Edwards.
The Mermaid was a cut price outfit, selling wormy pollock as cod and slices of Battered Mother’s Pride as plaice, and it was notably lacking in any investment into either deep fat fryer maintenance or fire precautions. One Saturday night the inevitable happened. Five gallons of black dioxin-laden tallow caught fire and Kostas, for want of a fire blanket or suitable fire extinguisher, deployed a basin full of wet batter to disastrous conclusion, burning fat exploding over the counter, floor, and igniting the filthy gloss-painted polystyrene tiles on the ceiling. Kostas, wearing as was his wont a cotton apron encrusted with one or two inches of DRIED batter, was largely armoured against personal immolation, although he did lose his eyebrows and toupee. Florence lost her employment, although it is arguable that the long-term health prospects of some of the local population increased.
Being short of money for rent Miss Bousfield ventured to the Post Office to withdraw the last of her meagre savings. As she got there, she spied in the window, amongst the standard issue wasp cemetery, a yellowed card bearing the following faded message in turquoise ink:
“Monsieur P requires personal assistant for ongoing journalistic project. Must be punctual, petite, and conscientious. (Florence noted the spelling mistake)
No tattoos.
Three shillings/hour.”
There was no indication of an address or telephone number on the front of the card, but on entering the post office (the bell above the door eliciting no response from the blonde, middle-aged post-mistress who sat behind the glass barrier gently snoring) she saw another message on the back of the card saying:
“Stoat and Ulcer, lunchtimes, ask for Roly”
That afternoon Florence found him in the snug of the pub, drinking his fourth Gold Label Barley Wine and watching the horse racing on a snowy TV in the corner. Once she’d explained to him that she was in need of a job he bought her half a pint of stout and introduced himself properly. His name was Roland Parsnip, and he was attached to the Norwich Gazette and Racing Post. He was a photographer and Illustrator (with a capital I) and it was his job to take his camera along to interviews conducted by the writers, photograph horses and greyhounds, as well as providing a weekly satirical cartoon entitled “Norfolk Piddock”.
Parsnip revealed that he was also a serious artist who produced photographs and drawings for a number of quarterlies and periodicals of a somewhat specialist and esoteric nature. He required a personal assistant to fetch and carry, make tea, answer correspondence, and run interference when invoices needed paying. He needed an employee who could begin immediately and although Florence didn’t have a resumé or references, seemed extremely keen on giving her a start. For her part she ensured that there would be holidays, negotiated an extra tuppence per hour, and the use of a bicycle for transport. They shook hands and Florence skipped home for a celebratory eccles cake.
The next morning saw Florence approaching a row of railway arches that had been converted into workshops and storage space. One, next to a canal that ran underneath the railway, had open wooden gates and a sign painted with the words “Alf Tupper – Welder”.
The gloom of the workshop was periodically lit up by the flash of a welding arc and she recognised the workman one of her customers from the Mermaid. He was a man in late middle years with a pronounced limp who would try to sell her copies of the Morning Star when buying his fish and chips. Known affectionately to his friends as “Lenin”, Alf had been something of an athlete in his youth before a ripped cartilage in his knee had put paid to his competing. Alf was a friendly chap but apt to latch on to his listeners and use words like “dialectic” which Florence had thought was medicine for the runs.
Writing experiment.
Because we are restricted to a small number of characters you can’t do much with respect to post poetry or prose so I’m trying out dropping it into alt text.
#writing #shortstory #prose #workarounds