Goodbye Town
Jun. 8th, 2016 01:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
barefoot_bardTitle: Goodbye Town
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to actual persons, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Summary: A young man decides to go for a soldier. Farnham, Surrey, 1776.
Author's Note: Inspired by Lady Antebellum's 'Goodbye Town'.
The word was that the soldiers was leaving soon. Within the next few days, some said. Nobody, of course, knew where they were going or what manner of service they would undertake, but in the considered opinion of young Dan Tisdale, those were irrelevant details. To Ireland, America, the West Indies... he did not care. All that concerned him was that the redcoats were going somewhere away from here. He had heard also that new men were being sought. The recruiting parties were out in force. That alone confirmed all the rumours. The soldiers would be gone soon. With them would go his best chance of escaping this place. And beyond any doubt, he had to get out of here. The sooner, the better. To stay even another day here, with no hope of anything improving, was simply unimaginable.
If Lucy was still here, all would be well. Yet she was long since gone and in consequence, as routine a thing as walking to Pidgsley's Mill to enjoy a fine summer's afternoon made his heart ache most awfully. Nor could he go past the tavern on Borough Street without thinking of the time they had escaped from a brawl there, which he had inadvertantly started. Then there was the flower shop on Castle Street, where he'd first met her. She had just come out of the shop, her arms laden to overflowing with flowers. He had offered to help her deliver them, having sympathised with her plight and taken a liking to her pretty face from the start. In the days after, Tisdale had found innumerable excuses to be passing the shop, just to see her. To exchange idle talk while he dithered over the purchase of a single flower. To occasionally lend a hand around the shop if she needed it.
Eventually, he had worked up the nerve to ask if he could walk out with her. Even now, he found it easy to recall her light, bubbling laughter as she clasped his hands and gifted him with a quick peck on the cheek. That had been a perfectly acceptable answer to him! He'd delighted in everything they did together in the weeks afterward, though 'everything' chiefly consisted of evening strolls through Farnham Park or along the Wey or as far afield as Alder Holt Wood - the memory of that particular outing remained very dear to him. She had confessed an abiding fondness for the river so he had taught her to fish, which led to many an idle afternoon on those grassy banks, waiting almost always in vain for fish to bite. Then there were the dances at Hurley's, for Lucy loved to dance and Tisdale had taught himself to enjoy it enough to be a tolerable partner.
Some evenings, it was enough to simply sit in his broom-cupboard of a room at Mrs Duncan's and talk. She dreamed of being more than just a flower shop girl. He could understand that. He wanted more than the dreary existence of a bookseller's clerk. She'd always ask him to tell her tales, which he drew from books he read at the shop, and they would briefly escape from the confines of their ordinary lives. Swift was among his favourites but he found that Lucy preferred Manley, in particular The New Atalantis, a work he had never managed to bring himself to enjoy. They both favoured Smollett's Travels, however, and he regularly read from it, most often late into the night. Teaching her to read was a natural consequence of these evenings, which was an enjoyable challenge. It was only fitting that he should choose anoth er of his favourites - Defoe - for the purpose.
And then, suddenly, she was gone. His dear Lucy simply disappeared. Tisdale called around the flower shop one morning and learned only that she had not been there since the day before. At her lodgings, he was told she was working, but on being pressed, one of the other lodgers admitted that Lucy had left very early that morning, taking a stuffed valise with her. She had been in the company of, all people, a young man in sailor's clothes. The pair had boarded the stage to Southampton, according to the lodger with an apologetic shrug, and were by now well on their way there. The news was as shocking as it was unexpected. Gone. She was gone. He could not believe it, but he knew also it was cold truth. All of his hopes and dreams had crumbled to dust in that instant. How could such a lovely girl be so cruel? And to say nothing at all to him - to not even tell him goodbye? The tears had begun to fall before he reached the end of that narrow lane and he ran the whole way back to his room at Mrs Duncan's, where he remained for the rest of the day, trying without success to regain control of himself. She was gone.
The days after stretched unnoticed into weeks. Tisdale trudged through each day without devoting much interest to it. More than once, the bookseller had cause to snap at him for sloppy work and, when there was no discernible improvement, threatened to sack him. Even that had little effect. What difference did it make? The one thing that had mattered most in life had thrown him over and run away with a sailor. How did anything else even compare? Nothing did. That was the reality. Then word spread that the soldiers billetted in and around the village were leaving. They had only been in Farnham a few months - he had always ignored them and so could not be sure how long precisely they had been around - and would be gone. Soon. Nobody knew when or where they were go, but it made no difference to him. A tiny spark of hope, born of pure desperation, ignited within him as he realised the soldiers and their impending departure represented a very prime chance for him.
There was no earthly sense for him to stay here. He knew that. Everywhere he looked, everywhere he went, he was faced with a memory of Lucy. It was crushing his spirit and even he, in his downward slide, could recognise that. Something deep within him rebelled against that slide, despire the complete apathy toward life that had resulted from his broken heart. He had to get out of Farnham. The sooner, the better. There was nothing here for him anymore. So, with only a small sack of necessaries over one shoulder and wearing his best clothes, Dan Tisdale left his broom-cupbard room at Mrs Duncan's and went off in search of the recruiting officer. He would volunteer. He'd take the King's shilling and leave this wretched village behind, without any thought of a goodbye on his mind.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to actual persons, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Summary: A young man decides to go for a soldier. Farnham, Surrey, 1776.
Author's Note: Inspired by Lady Antebellum's 'Goodbye Town'.
The word was that the soldiers was leaving soon. Within the next few days, some said. Nobody, of course, knew where they were going or what manner of service they would undertake, but in the considered opinion of young Dan Tisdale, those were irrelevant details. To Ireland, America, the West Indies... he did not care. All that concerned him was that the redcoats were going somewhere away from here. He had heard also that new men were being sought. The recruiting parties were out in force. That alone confirmed all the rumours. The soldiers would be gone soon. With them would go his best chance of escaping this place. And beyond any doubt, he had to get out of here. The sooner, the better. To stay even another day here, with no hope of anything improving, was simply unimaginable.
If Lucy was still here, all would be well. Yet she was long since gone and in consequence, as routine a thing as walking to Pidgsley's Mill to enjoy a fine summer's afternoon made his heart ache most awfully. Nor could he go past the tavern on Borough Street without thinking of the time they had escaped from a brawl there, which he had inadvertantly started. Then there was the flower shop on Castle Street, where he'd first met her. She had just come out of the shop, her arms laden to overflowing with flowers. He had offered to help her deliver them, having sympathised with her plight and taken a liking to her pretty face from the start. In the days after, Tisdale had found innumerable excuses to be passing the shop, just to see her. To exchange idle talk while he dithered over the purchase of a single flower. To occasionally lend a hand around the shop if she needed it.
Eventually, he had worked up the nerve to ask if he could walk out with her. Even now, he found it easy to recall her light, bubbling laughter as she clasped his hands and gifted him with a quick peck on the cheek. That had been a perfectly acceptable answer to him! He'd delighted in everything they did together in the weeks afterward, though 'everything' chiefly consisted of evening strolls through Farnham Park or along the Wey or as far afield as Alder Holt Wood - the memory of that particular outing remained very dear to him. She had confessed an abiding fondness for the river so he had taught her to fish, which led to many an idle afternoon on those grassy banks, waiting almost always in vain for fish to bite. Then there were the dances at Hurley's, for Lucy loved to dance and Tisdale had taught himself to enjoy it enough to be a tolerable partner.
Some evenings, it was enough to simply sit in his broom-cupboard of a room at Mrs Duncan's and talk. She dreamed of being more than just a flower shop girl. He could understand that. He wanted more than the dreary existence of a bookseller's clerk. She'd always ask him to tell her tales, which he drew from books he read at the shop, and they would briefly escape from the confines of their ordinary lives. Swift was among his favourites but he found that Lucy preferred Manley, in particular The New Atalantis, a work he had never managed to bring himself to enjoy. They both favoured Smollett's Travels, however, and he regularly read from it, most often late into the night. Teaching her to read was a natural consequence of these evenings, which was an enjoyable challenge. It was only fitting that he should choose anoth er of his favourites - Defoe - for the purpose.
And then, suddenly, she was gone. His dear Lucy simply disappeared. Tisdale called around the flower shop one morning and learned only that she had not been there since the day before. At her lodgings, he was told she was working, but on being pressed, one of the other lodgers admitted that Lucy had left very early that morning, taking a stuffed valise with her. She had been in the company of, all people, a young man in sailor's clothes. The pair had boarded the stage to Southampton, according to the lodger with an apologetic shrug, and were by now well on their way there. The news was as shocking as it was unexpected. Gone. She was gone. He could not believe it, but he knew also it was cold truth. All of his hopes and dreams had crumbled to dust in that instant. How could such a lovely girl be so cruel? And to say nothing at all to him - to not even tell him goodbye? The tears had begun to fall before he reached the end of that narrow lane and he ran the whole way back to his room at Mrs Duncan's, where he remained for the rest of the day, trying without success to regain control of himself. She was gone.
The days after stretched unnoticed into weeks. Tisdale trudged through each day without devoting much interest to it. More than once, the bookseller had cause to snap at him for sloppy work and, when there was no discernible improvement, threatened to sack him. Even that had little effect. What difference did it make? The one thing that had mattered most in life had thrown him over and run away with a sailor. How did anything else even compare? Nothing did. That was the reality. Then word spread that the soldiers billetted in and around the village were leaving. They had only been in Farnham a few months - he had always ignored them and so could not be sure how long precisely they had been around - and would be gone. Soon. Nobody knew when or where they were go, but it made no difference to him. A tiny spark of hope, born of pure desperation, ignited within him as he realised the soldiers and their impending departure represented a very prime chance for him.
There was no earthly sense for him to stay here. He knew that. Everywhere he looked, everywhere he went, he was faced with a memory of Lucy. It was crushing his spirit and even he, in his downward slide, could recognise that. Something deep within him rebelled against that slide, despire the complete apathy toward life that had resulted from his broken heart. He had to get out of Farnham. The sooner, the better. There was nothing here for him anymore. So, with only a small sack of necessaries over one shoulder and wearing his best clothes, Dan Tisdale left his broom-cupbard room at Mrs Duncan's and went off in search of the recruiting officer. He would volunteer. He'd take the King's shilling and leave this wretched village behind, without any thought of a goodbye on his mind.