Sixth January Blog. 25-1-15
“”A sharp cold wind blew around the corner of the village street. Mary’s voluminous dress billowed around her knees showing worn shoes that had seen much better days. Hurriedly, she tackled her skirt, pushing it back down around her ankles before a neighbour spied her distress. It was against the Law to show flesh outside the home. Mary had no wish to be taken to the Judiciery and made to pay a fine she could not afford.
Many of the wifery were already against her, indicating it was high time she accepted John Tovery’s marriage proposal. She had been a widiow far too long.
Pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders, Mary Broadmalt stepped faster along the street. She had spotted faces at several tiny windows, watching her closely. She needed to be back in her small home at tne end of the road.
Rain began to fall, lightly at first, her feet sped faster, stepping into newly formed puddles; dirt and detritus marring her shoes. Where would the money come from? Her husband’s coinage was almost gone.
A feeling of menace followed her every step: watched as she fumbled with her key. The lock needed greasing. With no man around now, she often forgot little details like putting a few drops of fat into the lock to keep it from sticking. Before closing the door behind her, she peeped back the way she had come. One or two heads quickly dipped back into their own doorways. ‘I knew it,’ she thought, ‘busybodies!’
Dorsel, her cook come maid was singing in the back room. ‘Happy enough,’ Mary thought, ‘but not for much longer, when there is no food in the house!’
Divesting herself of her outer raiments, Mary went inside to the food preparation area to help Dorsel. Not that there was much food left. Hanging over a meagre fire was a small cauldren of pottage. There was still some wood outside the back door, for this winter, at least. If they were still there before next winter began, they would have to foray in the woods, just outside the village. Lay in stores, she hoped. Though, they may have her married before then.
She had nothing much against John Tovery, it would just mean that she would once again, have to bow to a man’s will. Her deceased husband had been very strict. Chosen by her father, it was not a love match.””
Just an idea, needing something to hook onto. It may be nothing, go into nothing. Does anyone else, when not settled into a current project, start milling aound with ideas, not knowing quite what to do with them?
I often start things, when my regular muse has gone bye byes, temporarily. It has to be partly the cold weather settling into my bones,p. Or a wanderlust in my head that sends me on wild goose chases, hoping that something immortal will blossom through, take me to a new heights. Who knows?
If you are reading this and getting some inspiration, then I am not alone.
Be careful out there.