-- sailing ships and sealing wax [monty]

[heaven grégoire]

HARD PLASTIC CREAKED under Heaven’s thighs, groaned in feeble protest to their movement, their shifting of one against the other, bewailed the burden of their weight. To spite them – to spite her – the plastic of the chair clung to their flesh as she tried to move them, stuck to it as plastic is so prone to stubbornly do in times of heat and humidity. She winced briefly, sucked in her cheeks as she lifted her legs free, the same way one would when peeling off a Band-Aid. She settled down again, more comfortable now, and it was over. Just a small spike and a resurgence of sentiment in what had otherwise been a monotonous afternoon of pure, unbridled flat-lining.

She let out a sigh, long and soft, flicked over the yellowed page - number 173 - of her book and winced once more. Sharp and stinging, duly unpleasant : the sliver of a paper cut on the side of her index finger. Quickly, out of inborn reflex, she brought her hand up to her mouth. Her lips, sticky from strawberry-scented balm, pressed to it gently, sucked on it lightly, and at once, she delighted at both the momentary relief and wondered at the salty, metallic taste. It was then, on what was possibly the sixth occasion in the past hour, that it became painfully evident to her that she had to find something – anything – to do. These were days of summer, and counted that they were, young that she was, she ought to be making better use of them than reading House of Sand and Fog yet another time. At the very least, she conceded, quietly so, that if she were to read, it would no doubt have to be done outside. She could use the fresh air; her father was always telling her so.

Her reluctance had been steady, had been strong earlier on, but the day was long, and the dorm, uninteresting; Heaven was bored, in every sense of the word. If she stayed still much longer, even one minute more, she was almost certain the room would start to sing with ennui, would commence in a potpourri symphony of dripping taps and squeaking floorboards; she’d start hearing things. She lowered her eyes, and tugged at her socks, pulled at the soft cotton until it reached as high as it could go above her knees, then sighed once more. Boredom as a product of barely hours of solitude was something she was unaccustomed to, and ordinarily, solace could be sought for her in the sanctity of her own bedroom. A twinge of annoyance flickered within her at her discontentment with an activity that would have otherwise pleased her, and she wondered what had brought about this foreign restlessness, which, understood or not, would invariably not go away without being dealt with.

One hand reached blindly beneath her chair, groped the floor in search of a handle, cloth, some part of her bag, and then snatched it up greedily once it’d been found. In went the well-worn copy of House of Sand and Fog, out came a pair of Ray-Bans – bright yellow with deep sepia lenses – to be neatly perched on her nose, and Heaven slung the tote bag over her shoulder with ease. It was what followed that proved to be difficult. She needed motion, needed to shake it up, but she didn’t know how, and she didn’t know where. For once, it occurred to her how vast the school’s grounds really were, how far their breadth spread, and how much there was to see. Despite former feelings she may have harboured, at one point or another, of being too sheltered, too gated, too tightly bound in, she felt as though the campus had suddenly become too large to house her. As though she hadn’t yet grown into the school’s space. It was entirely ridiculous, when she thought about it for a moment; she’d been here for many years now, and the place was by no means unfamiliar. She’d found her favoured niches, staked her well-loved spots. Why did it now seem so difficult to go to one ?

She wasn’t sure. At any rate, this felt as though, one way or another, this would prove to be an absurd afternoon.

Heaven shuffled her way out, idly ambling her way to who-knew-where. Hands jammed into the deep pockets of the over-sized lilac cardigan she’d chosen for the day, and her thumbs absently flicked at the teal varnish on her nails. Picked at it. Scraped at it. She would’ve felt badly, just a touch of guilt, for having tampered with the perfection of a neat set of nails, if not for the fact that it was an old job and her index fingers had already lost their seamless finish. A flick once more, she was out the door, onto the fields, strolling through the grass. Blue eyes, downcast, watched the grass go by as she pushed ahead. One step, a second, a third, another too, and still the grass went on. She wondered for what might’ve been a millisecond if perhaps the greenery were infinite, without end. She wondered if it’d lead her anywhere, if she chose to follow it long enough. But such thoughts were silliness, so she dismissed them straight away, and instead turned her attention to the tangible proof that the grass was, in fact, wholly finite.

This, it was a welcome, wanted distraction, and it served its purpose on many a lonely afternoon. It would do well to do the same today too, if not for the fact that Heaven realized, if she were to stay here, her time spent wouldn’t be so lonely after all. There was a dab of royal blue, and a shock of ginger hair that told her she’d have company yet : the Doctor was in. It might’ve been better to say he was out, all things considered, but the intent was the same : Monty was here. Heaven’s fingers felt around in those same deep pockets, brushed against the smooth plastic of her candy heart box, and she took a step toward him, gave a nod, called out, “Monty.” A pause, and more steps still ensued. She shifted her weight slightly, from right foot to left, felt her socks inch down just a little bit in turn. Her eyes studied him carefully, though briefly as well, “What are you doing here ?”

[torquil montagu-scott]

An elephant seated for dinner with a mouse. A dragon wearing a crown. The Leaning Tower of Eiffel. A giant shoe with the teeth of a piranha. It really was quite remarkable the number of images that were brought to mind simply by staring up at the cotton wool clouds against the expanse of blue. The college over the summer before the majority of the students really was quite idyllic, even if the weather wasn’t always the warmest of things in the world. But that suited Monty rather well. As much as he loved the great outdoors – and he really hated being cooped up inside for any great lengths of time – he always had to be somewhat careful where he situated himself. Sunlight and red hair invariably didn’t mix well, and this was most definitely the case for him. Fair skin gained more freckles before finally turning bright red and remaining in such a way. No tan. Just a rather spectacular impression of a lobster straight from the boiling pot. Scottish summers, therefore, suited him down to a tee, and hours spent lazing in the shade of the trees by the lake even more so.

Sighing slightly, contentedly, Monty shifted his grey-green gaze to another patch of sky, his arms lifting to act as a pillow beneath his head. Here the blue was unmarred by cloud – enough blue to make a sailor’s uniform form, as his grandmother was so keen on saying. It was likely to be one of the last afternoons in which he was able to simply sit here and do nothing. Term would be starting next week and the grounds would once again be overrun with the children of the great and not so good of the world. Another week or so and the weather was likely to turn, making cloud watching and other such activities most unpleasant indeed. Which was exactly why the young lord was so determined to enjoy it while he could.

Rolling over onto his front, Monty picked up the book that had been set aside, removing the old train ticket that stood in lieu of a bookmark as he opened the yellowed and dog eared pages to where he’d last been. Et in Arcadia Ego – A lovely little memento mori– Even in paradise I am. Fitting, it would seem, for the first part of the book he was reading for the umpteenth time. The first part recalling the beginning of a friendship for the ages – of trips to the country and extravagant nights drinking wine. A heading of foreboding – that even in the paradise of those early days there was always something there ready to mar it. The enjoyment of the wine turning to something so much more sinister. Evelyn Waugh had long since been one of his favourite authors – Brideshead Revisted one of his favourite books – the era evoked through the man’s writing so very appealing, one Monty he himself felt he would have liked to have been a part of. Instead he would settle for getting lost in the world for an afternoon, utterly oblivious to the rest of his surroundings.

It was in such a position – on his front, book on the ground beneath him, glasses [glasses he’d actually remembered to bring back to Paris with him – something oft forgotten] perched upon the bridge of his nose, one elbow bent as his head rested in his hand – that Monty found himself falling asleep. The utter stillness of the vicinity coupled with the pleasant warmth of the sun upon his back lending themselves perfectly to drawing the young student into the Land of Nod. Head dropped downwards, the book becoming a pillow, arms folded beneath him, glasses falling into the grass, it was highly likely that he would have remained in such a state for the rest of the day were it not for a gentle intrusion into indeterminable dreams waking him up.

The voice was not that of someone who called with the intent of waking another. It wasn’t the soft but persistent call of his mother rousing him to get ready fro school when he’d been younger. It wasn’t the clipped tones of his nanny when he’d snuck beck to bed for an extra five minutes. Whoever it was clearly hadn’t realised that Monty was away with the sandman. Be it their intention or not, however, the result was still the same. He was roused, his head turning to locate the one that had called out. When he did, Monty couldn’t help but give a small smile. ”Hello Heaven.” A yawn was stifled as he moved to sit up, one hand running through his hair, red waves sticking up every which way. At her question, he nodded towards the now rather crumpled book before meeting her steady gaze once more. ”I was reading. What brings you down here?”