The Folly: seventh arc

 

 


 

 

Push has come to shove, with the host and guest, and helpful friends gained along the way—popular author Virginia Keltenham, her secretary/publicist Trout, Colonel Llewellyn (against his will, but resigned to it), an agent in disgrace tasked with shouldering Llewellyn’s burden, and one or two from the Other Side—launching a campaign designed to menace and enrage the assassin Falco. At large, Falco has all Britain to traffic in. Each step he can be drawn towards destiny, however rash the proposal, limits the harm he may do to the innocent, while raising the chance of snaring him. Of course, the treasonous Atherleigh had been dealt with, to start the whole embarrassment. Falco may be, as well, to end it…
But then again, there remains the faithful Krug.

 

 


 

 

Storms and Fires
Heneglwys
The Irrepressible

 

 


 

 

Pencil drawing of folly on hilltop

Storms and Fires
(one)

 

The hearth, riddled so, complains

The host has taken on a task he might have seen

was never to be ledgered done

Business as usual, for a time…?

I don’t know, he answers the airless remark

of the guest, That I can write today

Nor can I. A game?

Waiting feels like the wireless announcer had said

We are at war

And each chore weighs as the provisioning

Of a little kingdom under siege

If I go to market, will I be the first

To snatch at every loaf of bread?

Can I safely carry off a hoard?

 

The spirit callers are, at war with one man

They have moved their vulnerable to a safer home

They have need, posthaste, of a drawing card

And that lies undetermined

 

The folly

Sited not so foolishly, if its builder’s mad idée

Were vision, and his letters on the threat of moon-men

A canny ruse to provide him solitude

And all the while he had thought of things

Of storms and fires, and ordered the ring of trees

Well-culled, keeping shorn the mound he’d raised

On which to stand his tower

 

One of us, the host observes, not lifting eyes

from the laying of the Ludo board

There are three of us, Virginia says

Shall we ghost-play the fourth?

One of us, of course…

…must declare, by some means

Hostilities, to Falco

He puts a finger to his lips, to shush the writer of romance

I am aware you have the courage of ten

But Virginia, this is not child’s play

Our offence must be minutely mapped

Before we dare advance

 

 


 

 

Pastel and ink drawing of figure before landscape

Heneglwys
(two)

 

Sir,

 

In my researches into the vanished tribes

Which predate the era of Coel Hen

Who, I need hardly tell you, is known

to the modern reader of the nursery rhyme

A prelate of that village which calls itself Heneglwys

Whom my fellow in this enthusiasm is, had I but made

acquaintance with his own…his own scholarship, that is to say

prior to learning of a minor curiosity

his recent death prevents him to me imparting

The housekeeper he had employed

was a woman of Italian extraction

who had arrived—it is a charming story

Or parts of it may be said fairly—

To engage…

Arrived, I say, to instruct the widower’s daughters in ballet

She had produced a son (which rather cut the project short)

 

The guest wonders if this last will not be edited out

He sits back pensive and finds he has no idea of it

What the Pembrokeshire propriety allows, in this year of 1934

He must appear quite fond, taking the Shakespearean sense

of the word, dodder on…

Though he himself, born 1900, ages with the age

At some point in this slumbrous peroration, he must insult

And with a deadly delineation

The face and shape, and wastrel life, the parentage

(which he has done)

Of the man Falco

 

I have a name in my notes (he adds), of one Colonel Llewellyn

And nothing to point me why I’d written it down

I suppose him a retired officer who must know something

 

 


 

 

Pencil drawing of two sisters

The Irrepressible
(three)

 

Jesmine, so much the counterpoint to her headstrong sister,

had kept to her tuffet by the fireplace, demure with her teacup.

Maude, as she would, spoke at once, the moment Mrs. Davenant rejoined them.

‘Oh, tell, Margaret! You can’t mean to leave us hanging!’

‘I ought not to have made the allusion,’ came the sensible Margaret’s reply.

‘Bad on you, then! But I understand these people aren’t…’

‘Anything to do with us.’ Jesmine finished for her sister, goaded to it.

‘For charity’s sake, they are, however,’ said Margaret Davenant.

‘And the son…? Some disgrace on the poor mother? But how can it be

when he fought at Second Marne and came home wounded?

Heroism, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, Maude! How young you are!’

‘How, wounded?’ Jesmine put in. Her curiosity, despite herself, was now genuine.

‘One doesn’t know such things.’

‘Please!’ said Maude. ‘One may not, but I’ll wager you do!’

Margaret sighed heavily. ‘The young man’s name was Tomaso. He enlisted as

Thomas, of course.’

‘Why of course?’ Jesmine asked, at the same time the irrepressible Maude

remarked, ‘A regular Tommy!’

It emerged, on the two young ladies’ further probing of their older cousin,

that Tomaso Falco’s mother and father had not been married; that he had

by deed poll changed his name to Thomas Hawk. And that the lasting

of his injuries had been the loss of an eye.

‘Discharged with a patch, but he seems at some point to have fitted himself

with a secondhand glass one. Rather sadly conspicuous, once spotted, although

that is not the reason…’ Margaret sank into an armchair. ‘Thomas has a vengeful

temper, by all accounts. He has taken against his mother receiving our support,

knocked her flat last time… Poor Mrs. Milburne hadn’t known him to be

in the bedroom.’

‘Gracious! And Tommy’s mummy wouldn’t have the bobby?’ Maude said. ‘Why,

if I had been Mrs. Milburne…!’

‘Never mind! Jesmine is quite right. It has little to do with us. We shall, naturally,

be to poor Mrs. Falco all the help we can.’

 

And on this note, part one, of ‘Maude and the Country Hens’, seems—

To Virginia Keltenham…not altogether. Fortunately, she is half-owner

of The New Woman’s Quarterly, and can publish an unsatisfactory thing

if she pleases.

‘But Trout, I say it needs punch. My cliff looks barely a bluff.’

He yawns. The hurly-burly has rendered him a more worldly creature,

a change not wholly to Virginia’s liking.

‘Time in the world to write the next. Have your Milburne rush in and say,

“Awful news!”’

 

 


Allied Forces

Charcoal and pastel drawing of thin soldier in capCalmacott’s Brother

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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