Moonshine Man
His charm is like no other, his style from an era now obsolete. Not a single man-made mark on his skin, or trending garment on his form, nothing apart from a white-collared shirt and button-up trousers, with a ring of gold and crimson on his index finger.
It is foolish of me to follow him, but curiosity has captured me so, and I find myself walking in his footsteps, shadowing him on his daily routine. How gracefully he walks through his garden, tending to his roses even as evening falls. How his eyes shine in the library, when his gaze chases words of Austen, Donne and Wilde. How serene he looks sipping a black tea in our local café. I sit behind him, a table away, watching him - love and obsession entangled.
“You could sit and chat with me, like a normal human,” he suddenly speaks as he sips, quietly enough for only me to hear.
I look around the café for a moment. It’s quite empty, and the others here are tucked into the cushioned booths in the corner.
“I- I’m sorry, are you talking to…me?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
He’s looking at me- not directly at me, but at the sheen of the dark glass wall in front of him. It’s funny, but his clothes almost blend into the darkness.
“Who else would I be chatting to?” He chuckles, turning around this time, facing me.
There are only a few feet between us. Being this close, I get a detailed glimpse of his brunette curls, his curved lips and deep eyes, brimming with intensity and focus. I find myself momentarily stunned, his pale features and chiselled face holding my gaze.
“Well? Are you not going to sit with me?”
His voice cuts through my hypnosis. I can’t understand why, after all this time of confidently watching him, I suddenly feel a surge of nervousness run through me at his direct approach.
“S-sure thing.”
I find my legs walking over to his table without much instruction from my brain. Is this a good idea? Can I sit calmly in front of a man I have literally stalked? My internal struggle is silenced as I take the seat across from him, his lips curving into a smile as he puts down his cup.
“You really thought I wouldn’t notice?”
A lump catches in my throat. That’s it, he knows I’m a stalker. He probably got me this close to study my face, to know how to detail my features when filing a police report for clear harassment.
“Notice… what?” I say, mentally preparing myself for the punchline. But it never comes.
“That you and I are neighbours,” he says with a smile. “Honestly, I was wondering when we’d become formally acquainted, considering I’ve been in this town a few weeks now.”
I don’t know what to feel, what to say. But by some miracle, my behind is saved. I won’t be labelled a stalker by this man or by anyone else. According to him, I am his oblivious neighbour, which maybe, I am.
“O-oh… well, yes we are. I’ve seen you in your garden a few times but” - I stop myself from giving too much away - “I didn’t want to bother you.”
He takes a napkin from his breast pocket and dabs his mouth as if stifling a chuckle. “Bother me? Not at all. Getting to know my neighbours is… helpful. Especially in this maze-like town.”
I don’t know how to react. I don’t even have anything on the table to calm my hands with. My posture starts to tremble; how can I tell him I didn’t approach him because I’m an introvert, or more accurately- because I prefer to spy on beauty from a distance. In the end, I follow his line of conversation, secretly wanting to drag this interaction out longer.
“Well, I suppose this town can be quite maze-like. But it’s quiet and pretty, especially on campus.”
Seeing me fidget, he calls the waiter over. Suddenly, I have no choice but to order something, with both the gaze of the waiter and the gaze of my neighbour on me. His eyes- the shine in them, somehow they remind me of the moon.
I end up ordering an Earl Grey with lots of sugar and milk, quite the opposite of his tastes. He orders himself a black coffee this time, and I wonder whether that’s because he doesn’t want me feeling awkward, or if he thinks he’ll need the extra caffeine to keep up conversation with me.
“So, you’re in university? What are you studying, if I may enquire?”
Weirdly enough, he talks like a professor, or maybe an English teacher who’s far too well-read on Victorian classics.
“I’m studying literature. I’m in my final year, actually.” I try to sound smart, but maybe I come off a bit sarcastic.
“Literature? Tell me, what’s your favourite book?”
He seems keener now, like having a conversation about books is the most riveting thing that’s happened to him in a while. Wondering how I got from admiration, to stalking, and now to deep conversation, I actually feel joy in being questioned.
“That’s a hard choice. Hmm… I’d probably say Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, or Stoker’s Dracula.”
He chuckles suddenly, almost ironically. “A fan of tragedy and the gothic, eh? I can’t say I blame you.”
His eyes are full of interest now, but time is running out. Only a few sips remain in our cups, and once they are gone, so will our excuse for conversation. But then again, we are neighbours - I could use that to my advantage.
“I wouldn’t say it’s the tragedy that draws me to them, more the romance of it all. There’s something… eternal about these stories, something I can’t explain.”
He seems to shift at my words, his smile flickering for a moment, but I can’t read him the way I can read a book.
“Eternal? Like all the otherworldly creatures in the books you love.”
He drinks the last of his black coffee and stares at me with that unwavering intensity.
“Well yes… the creatures themselves make the book more interesting. Werewolves, vampires and the like.”
He looks amused, that curved smile only growing, “Tell me, do you believe in such creatures? The ones romanticised in literature?”
I swirl the rest of my cold tea in my cup, a bit caught off guard.
“Well, no. Of course not. It’s just fun for the imagination. Though I suppose, stories are based on some truths.”
He smiles to himself. “You’re opening another can of deep conversation. I do hope we’ll be able to pick it up sometime.”
Time runs out. He smiles at me and pays for our drinks, despite the guilt gnawing at me to refuse. He excuses himself - something about going to the antiques dealer before he closes, and I am left at the table, his table, wondering where the line between obsession and love ends.
*
It has been a few weeks since my neighbour (who, for some reason, I have code-named Moonshine Man) and I had our run-in at the café. Since then, we’ve had chance encounters at the museum, the library, and even in the park as the sun was starting to set. He seems to like his evening walks.
He invited me out to continue our riveting talk on books at La Morsure, a fancy place I’d never have the confidence to go to alone. The whole night felt different from before, as if he actually desired my company. I even asked if he wanted to go to the local zoo afterwards, but he said he wasn’t too keen on animals – or maybe going to a five-star restaurant followed by a noisy zoo was underwhelming for him.
Just when I thought Moonshine had tired of me, he showed up at my doorstep, just as the sun began to set.
“I hope you don’t mind me disturbing you so late, but I just had to give you this.”
He held out a book, a special edition of one of Wilde’s classics. I feel my cheeks rouge; he’s gone through so much trouble for me.
“You really shouldn’t have,” I say, gesturing for him to come in, but he doesn’t. He just sort of hovers in the threshold, the purple glow of the sky illuminating him.
“It was my pleasure,” he replies, though somehow it sounds impatient.
“Please, come inside, won’t you?”
As I say this, that familiar curved smile returns to his face and he steps inside.
“So kind of you,” he says, making himself at home.
*
It doesn’t take long before I’m giddy from wine and at having such charming company. The more time I spend with him, the more handsome he becomes, the more I lose my sanity. I find my lips pressed against his. I’m not sure how we got here, but it is far more exhilarating than stalking him. As he wraps his arms around my waist and kisses me by firelight, the moon shining through clouds that have nowhere to hide, I think I must be dreaming.
“Is this just like your romance novels?” he pants between kisses.
I can only blush harder. “You’re such a charmer”-
Suddenly, I catch myself looking past his frame, at my mirror. I am there, slightly bowed and gawking, but he… he is not.
He follows my gaze to the mirror, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. He doesn’t move to conceal it.
“And now you know, my dear… just how much truth there is in mere stories...”
Trapped between fear and intrigue, I lie in the arms of a creature, otherworldly. His eyes like the moon, his teeth shining for what they really are. I cannot say what he will do next. I just know I cannot look away from him. Moonshine Man.
The Young Mistress
My father was hosting another gathering at the manor today. Lady Charlotte was there, Earl Brandston, Mrs Figg who ran the sewing circle for the ladies, and Grandfather Cornelious, who wasn’t really anyone’s grandfather – just old and wise enough to be so.
A lot of children were there, but none unfortunately as young as me. Why was that so unfortunate, you ask? The bigger you were, the taller, the brawnier your stature, the better you could reach the dining table, and the better treats you got. I watched as Philip and Finnian towered their plates with buttery mash and roast vegetables, fishing out the best cuts of beef and stuffing iced tarts with cherries on top into their coat pockets - all while the grown-ups weren’t looking, of course – they were much too busy dancing and drinking strange bubbly juice out of long crystal glasses that I weren’t to breathe near.
Finally, after Gloria and Dorthy had packed their plates with crispy pork and roasted apples, I pulled myself up onto a chair and found… nothing! Apart from the off-cuts of meat, floppy vegetables, and crumbs of poundcake, there was nothing else for the taking! It would be another hour before the second course would be served and judging with the way my tummy was rumbling, I wouldn’t last without fainting. I could have asked my mother, but she was playing piano in the parlour. I doubt my father would have been much help either, since he was playing pool with the other gentleman downstairs. There was only one option; to go hunting for food myself.
I had heard from my parents that that’s what the working folk did, ‘hunted’ for their food – I imagined it like in my storybooks, where men in great long coats clutching shiny firing sticks, found fluffy rabbits and deer with big wispy horns. But I’d never eat a rabbit or a deer. I really wanted to eat something like-
Porridge! As I wandered into the manor’s kitchen, I found servants running in and out, not even noticing as little old me made my way to the table. There it was, a great hearty bowl of porridge, slathered in cream, with a big jar of strawberry jam open next to it. I whipped my head around and the chef and maids had gone to pick up all the dirty crockery. This bowl of porridge couldn’t be that important if it were left here alone… I thought to myself as I push a stool closer to the table.
The kitchen glowed with the faint evening light, the particles of flour and cinnamon flying past my little nose – the smell making me even hungrier. I took a nearby wooden spoon, grasping it in my palm and shovelling a great big heap of jam onto it. I swirled it into the porridge until it looked like a whirlpool. The first bite made my eyes light up – it was warm and creamy, sweet and tart. I couldn’t imagine why someone would leave perfectly good food lying around.
Suddenly the turnspit hounds, Whisky and Albert, ran past me and ducked under the table, whimpering softly. Before I could react, I felt a tight hand on my wrist.
“What do you think you’re doing!”
I turned to see Lily-May, my mother’s scullery maid, standing with a red face behind me.
“What a little brat you are! That was my supper!”
I swallowed quickly, the spoon still in my hand.
“I’m very sorry, I only took one bite out of it.”
“One bite? You expect me to eat this contaminated rubbish? It’s already been in your grubby, childish hands.”
Outside the door, the butler stood silent- listening to the maid scolding his young mistress.
“I despise brats like you! Do you think servants can simply fetch another!”
Lily-May came forward and struck me across the face, making me drop the spoon on the floor. Porridge and jam splattered across the tiles and it was almost as if I heard a gasp from beyond the kitchen door.
Lily scoffed, “Now look what you’ve done! I’ll have to clean this awful mess you’ve made.”
The maid grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me off the stool. I couldn’t control my tears or my trembling lip.
“Don’t you even think about going to your daddy with those bluffing tears, or I’ll tell him how naughty you’ve been.”
The maid left out the backdoor, storming off toward the orchard.
I finally let myself cry and sniffled out of the kitchen. I ended up bumping straight into my butler, Lucious. He looked at me with sorrowful eyes.
“Oh, my young lady,” he put his arms around me, hugging me gently. My face burned from the slap and I rested my cheek against his tailcoat.
“Lucious, my cheek hurts- Miss May struck me too hard- I didn’t know it was her supper, honest.”
“It’s alright, my dear girl. Everything will be alright,” he said, patting my head.
I didn’t know if everything was going to be alright, just that I was starving and now shaking with upset...
*
Over the next few days I saw less and less of Lucious, he didn’t have time to stop to play chess, or to help me with my reading. It all seemed so strange to me... I saw him writing notes in the library, practicing the type of writing that felt slightly dainty compared with what I was used to reading. Then he went out to the pharmacist. I asked if he had Father's cough, but he smiled and tucked a little brown bottle deep into his coat before telling me not to worry. I saw him digging holes for new apple saplings, though he didn’t let me help – said evenings were for little ladies to rest and butlers to toil.
Then strangest of all, I overheard my parents talking about how Lily-May ran away with a secret admirer. There was a note left in her room telling them she had had enough of being a servant and was happy now. My parents were furious, but with no sign of her return, they put Lucious in charge of all her old duties, including running the kitchen.
*
My father hosted a garden party today. As usual Lady Charlotte and Earl Brandston drank cider. Mrs Fig showed off her new embroidered shawls, and Grandfather Cornelious played Croquet with the gentleman.
Philip and Finnian piled their plates with cucumber and cheese sandwiches, and stuffed their pockets with butter biscuits. Gloria and Dorthy took the last pork pies and poppy-seed muffins, leaving me again, hungry. Only this time my face prickled, remembering the sensation of getting slapped for taking food. I suppose my ‘hunting’ days were over and I’d simply have to wait for the next course to be served.
Suddenly, Lucious called my name and bowed, “Pardon me, young mistress, but I have prepared something for you.”
I was unsure of what to say until Lucious stepped aside to reveal a table under the apple trees. Sat on a cloth of ruby silk, was a plate of apple pie, dusted with crumble and a dollop of ice-cream.
“It won’t do for the young mistress to go hungry in her own home, now would it?” he smiled this time, the sort of smile that is shared between people who have endured pain.
I finally smiled and sat on the chair. I swirled my spoon in the ice cream and chunks of apple. The first bite; it tasted so raw, so sweet and fresh. Me and Lucious look up to the treetops swaying lax in the breeze.
That year, the apples grew bigger and juicier than ever before…
House of Memories
The house is just how I remember it. The same vintage furniture, the same oak floorboards, the same mellow sunshine pooling-in from the patio. The substance hasn’t changed, although that faint damp smell and the withered colour of the place is a dead giveaway on its real age. My husband pats my back. It’s an uncomfortable pat, as if he is afraid of what he is witnessing. We have stepped back through time; outside these walls the world has evolved, but in here we are the past. I walk by my dad’s leather chair and a frown falls upon me. He used to sit here with his magazine, with a branded cigar in his hand. He would watch me from time-to-time, watch me studying with my legs crossed- observing my expression. He would say ‘You better get an A’ and I would nod slowly. I did get A’s; I hope that made him happy.
My husband calls out to me, he is standing in the doorway. His form is half visible in the sunshine, and half obscured because all the other windows in the house have been covered with yellowing tarps. I take his hand and give it a little squeeze. The hallway is considerably colder than the living room, cold enough that a slight chill tickles the nape of my neck. I look at his lips, they curve in uncertainly. I sigh to myself for being inconsiderate. This space doesn’t belong to him… my handprints are on the walls, my footsteps are etched into the carpets, this space is mine, or that’s what I told myself.
“Be careful on the stairs.” I whisper.
He keeps a hold of my hand as we walk up the stairwell. We’re both mindful not to touch the railing or the wall, both are covered in black mould and cobwebs. The wallpaper is filled with air pockets and damp bubbles that make it look like its breathing- like the house is alive. We pass three framed photographs as we reach the second floor. One: a photo of my grandparents, two: a painting of a pair of travellers sitting in a train car, and three: a picture of me and my dad. All the faces are covered in a sickly brown wax, their eyes scribbled with dirt… apart from my dad’s. His eyes are as clear as day, a look of stringency in them. I stare at it and feel my heart sink. This photo was taken on my 13th birthday. I was distraught because my friends didn’t show up. I recall my dad putting a firm hand on my shoulder, telling me that friends were a waste of time, and how it was such a marvellous thing they didn’t come. I frowned again and caught up with my husband.
He was in my old bedroom, looking at the empty bed frame and scattered bits of paper on the floor. The dust was thicker in here, the particles more feral. I felt if I inhaled too vigorously, then the ancient diseases contained in this room would consume me, gnaw away at my insides. I swatted some of the dust away and watched it settle to the floor, I realised a post-it note was stuck to the bottom of the bed frame. I plucked it gently and felt nostalgic when I read over it.
‘Don’t lose this! – 7596 047668’
“Is that my phone number?” My husband looked amazed.
I nodded shyly.
“That must at least be 15 years old!”
He still looked amazed, but then a playful smile crossed him, “Remember how many times we kissed here?”
He pursed his lips and mimicked an enthusiastic kissing gourami. I wanted to smile at him, but I couldn’t. I wanted to remember those sweet memories, but I couldn’t. I cried in this room more times than I laughed, I hid away here, and tried to pretend everything wasn’t so fucked up. I spent countless days practicing my façade in the mirror, I became the master of playing pretend. My dad caught me once, he was furious. ‘It’s unacceptable to cry!’ he scolded. I ended up crying more, my tears flowing consciously. I remember how the creases on his forehead moved in a certain rhythm, the way his eyebrows furrowed into angry arches, the way his nostrils flared up. ‘Just stop being a cry-baby! You’ll never get anywhere in life with tears!’ Those were the last of his words I truly remembered.
“Should we check in your parent’s room?”
There was momentary static in my head.
Check my parents room…?
Before I knew it my husband was walking down the hall, past the bathroom, to the back of the house. I followed, though I needed to lug myself there. I stood in the doorway and instinctively brought a hand to the door. I quickly pulled away, stopping myself from knocking. Unlike my bedroom, my parents room had nothing on the floor. The whole bed was left behind as well as set of draws.
“It feels different here.”
I watched him run a hand through his brunette curls, his eyes catching a ray of light. He was right. It did feel different here, not as heavy, not as suffocating. I was lulled to the draws, like something dormant was whispering out for me to free it. There was a withered flower curled up inside, ready to fall to pieces if I dared touch it. I opened the second draw and closed it just as quickly. It smelt like rotting confectionary, chocolates and raisins that had expired ages back and were hungry for revenge. I cast a glance back at my husband. He gave me a wry-smile, and jutted his head as if telling me to get on with checking.
I opened the last draw to find nothing in it, at least I thought nothing was in it. I bend down on my ankles and noticed a slip of paper was wedged into the back of the peeling wood. It was another photograph. A picture of me and my dad on my 18th birthday. For some reason I didn’t remember posing for this picture, but I was surprised to see that I was smiling. There was still something odd about it… I turned it over and gulped. It read:
‘You are 18 today, you have grown. Forgive me for being so harsh on you, but I didn’t want you to become a washup… like me. I’m not worried about you anymore my dear girl… he’s a good one.’
I gripped the photo tightly, my fingertips turning white.
“But he…I thought he…” I caught a lump in my throat.
My husband’s features twisted into a sudden look of concern, “Darling…”
I couldn’t speak. My lip quivered; my eyes were burning, but I couldn’t do anything. My body had forgotten that vital function, the necessity of release, of how to let go. I felt my husband’s arms wrap around me. He pulled me into his chest and gently stroked my raven locks.
“He always loved you… he just didn’t know how to show it.”
I swallowed and heard myself stifle a sob.
“It’s over now. Everything is alright… I’m here.”
When I felt him cup the back of my head, I could finally let go, I was free. I cried, my tears hot on my cheeks. I gripped onto the back of his shirt and stood there, weeping in the middle of my parent’s ghostly bedroom. For an instant I thought I heard my dad mummering, but there were only the two of us here. We stood in our eternal embrace, frozen in time like two time travellers looking for something that was long-since lost but right under our noses.
Teacups and Bonbons
“You’ve done quite well for yourself, Charles.”
“Thank you Richard, but I couldn’t have accomplished such a thing without the help of your confectioners.”
Both men, Charles Ethel and Richard Randal, analysed the teashop, nodding on occasion, admiring their handy work.
As the name rightly implied, Ethel’s Tea House belonged to Charles. It was handed-down to the man by his father, Finley. But as the frail gentleman was nearing retirement he had no choice but to entrust the business to someone who was more able. Losing his sense of taste was also fatal for Finley whose livelihood depended on his ability to critique different teas and sweets. Fortunately, Charles was quite gifted when it came to sampling products. He could match the delicate flavours of tea with just the right sweet treat with ease, but when it came to the actual creation of the food, he lagged significantly. This is where Richard stepped-in. Having his own branches in the art of confectionery and baking, he was more than qualified to help Charles’ business thrive.
“I only need five percent,” Richard said.
His serious façade broke and the two men began to chuckle. The reason for their amusement flew right over their children’s heads, who were looking up at them with confused faces. Charles’ daughter, Paula, was a dainty little thing who was a spitting image of him. On the other hand, Eric, Richard’s son, didn’t share much of his father’s looks, yet he did possess the same eager spirit.
Eric watched as Paula’s curious eyes scanned the rows of cakes and jars of boiled sweets. The boy tugged on his father’s sleeve and pointed to the jar of strawberry bonbons.
“Do you think we should treat them?” He turned to Charles.
“By all means. They have been rather patient,” Charles smiled warmly.
Richard tipped a scoop of bonbons into a decorative bag.
“Here you are, my boy.”
He placed the goods in the palm of Eric’s hand, then continued his discussion with Charles. Eric waddled-up to Paula and offered her a sweet.
“They’re really tasty,” he said quietly.
Paula popped the sweet in her mouth, her cheeks turning a happy shade of pink when the mild strawberry flavour hit the back of her tongue. Eric hesitantly lifted a hand to the girl’s face and gently prodded the blush.
“You look like a strawberry bonbon… are the sweets magic?”
Just as Paula’s whole face turned red, the shop bell rang and caught both children off guard.
“Good morning, my lords.”
A woman in a feathery hat and a little boy wearing a miniature cravat entered the shop. The boy acknowledged the presence of the other two children in the room, but didn’t say anything until his mother spoke.
“Lady Stitch, how lovely to see you,” Richard gave a slight bow.
“I’m so pleased you arrived early,” Charles said.
The lady put a hand on the little boy’s shoulder.
“You can thank my dear Archie for that. He’s been pleading me to buy him some of your teacakes all morning,” she laughed.
Charles knelt down to face Archie.
“You have good taste, my boy.”
The man ushered Archie’s attention to the glass counter which was protecting the treasures he sought: shelves and shelves of round cakes, pound cakes, stodgy puddings, chocolate rolls, and of course, teacakes. Archie gulped in anticipation.
“Well sweetheart, which cake do you fancy?”
Prompted by his mother’s enthusiasm, Archie picked out a chocolate roll.
“That all?”
The boy looked at his mother than acknowledged the other two children again. He noticed the bag of pink bonbons in the other boy’s hand and the sweet expression the girl was wearing.
“Can I have a slice of strawberry sponge as well?”
“I don’t see why not,” his mother smiled.
Mrs Stitch and Charles made an exchange, a slice of strawberry sponge and a creamy chocolate roll for five pennies. Archie rested the cakes on a pretty cloth, then waited for his mother to strike up conversation. Just as he hypothesised, as soon as Charles put the pennies in the register the three adults started talking again. It must have been something terribly boring because Archie’s ears prevented him from hearing any of it.
The boy treaded carefully with his cakes and approached Paula and Eric.
“My name is Archie. That must be your father or uncle, right?” Archie discreetly pointed to Charles.
Eric laughed, “The man with the brown jacket is my father. He made the cake you’re holding.”
Archie took a bite of the chocolate roll, eyeing the boy. Eric stuffed his sweets in his pocket and held out his hand.
“My name is Eric by the way. I’m going to be in charge of my father’s business when I’m all grown up, then I’ll make all sorts of cake.”
“I see.”
Archie took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the sides of his mouth, before shaking Eric’s hand.
“And you?” He stared at Paula.
Paula was usually quite shy. But perhaps that shyness was more toward adults, not children and so, she answered quickly.
“My name’s Paula, and my father owns all the Ethel tea houses in London.”
“Ah, so you two aren’t siblings,” said Archie.
“No! Of course not.” Eric huffed.
Archie smiled, “My mistake.”
He stepped closer to Paula and held out the strawberry sponge.
“Care for some, Miss Paula?”
The girl stuttered, “I c-can’t… that would be impolite of me.”
“Well, my mother says when two people get acquainted it’s nice to share something.”
Archie broke the cake in two and handed the slice with more jam and sugar powder to Paula. She took a bite. It was delicious, not too sickly, not too dry, it was nice and balanced. Suddenly, she understood why her father sang Mr Randal’s praises.
“It’s delicious. Thank you, Archie.”
Archie and Paula grinned at each other. Eric huffed again, making sure Archie noticed.
“Sorry, I thought you wouldn’t want any. Your father makes these all the time, right?” Archie patted the other boy’s shoulder.
Eric furrowed his brows and took the bonbons out of his pocket. He dipped a hand in the bag and realised all that delectable strawberry powder had been smeared all over his fingers. Curse this shop for being so stuffy, and these sweets for being so sticky, and curse Archie for appearing at the worst possible times, he thought.
He looked down at his hands again, frowning as he knew he would be scolded for covering himself in deep strawberry red stains…