Decried and Prejudiced

Continuing my very therapeutic list of pet hates:

* 4. Period Dramas *

No. Not the monthly set-to in the household, as the lunar forces struggle to realign ovulation.

It's the nation's fascination with these pieces of television that I don't get - I loathe them with a passion deeper than the voice of that stallion-bound, jodhpurs-wearing, chivalrous, Mr. Arty-Farty or whatever his name is.

To me, they are simply tales of morality dressed up in a historical fashion.

Like watching Aesop's fables - albeit with the Fox wearing brushed tunic; the Dog in a ruff; the Wolf in quality sheep's clothing; the Goat wearing half a beard; the Horse exhibiting a thick flowing mane; the Shepherd sporting lambchop sideburns; and the Milkmaid squeezing into a corset.

Don't ask about the Cock and the Crabs. - Or the Thrush.

Such a simple premise for a screenplay, it led me to question whether or not I could write a story that could be adapted into one.

So I set out to do so, this afternoon.

I decided to write my own short story using character names taken from the villages and hamlets found around the market town of Shrewsbury in rural Shropshire. Why? Well with names like Much Wenlock and Little Bolas on the map, you really can't go wrong in a Dickensian type way.

May I suggest you read the following short story by candlelight in front of a roaring log fire?

If you are sitting comfortably, then I'll begin.

The Heartwarming Tale of Preston Brockhurst

'Twas a bitter, winter's night in Salop.

Christmas had passed and the New Year had been welcomed. For the residents of the quiet village of Picklescott, this evening was perhaps the coldest they had ever experienced. Many families were tucked up inside their cottages - underneath patchwork quilts, fireside for warmth. Everyone else was at the Ant & Dove - drawing false heat from the liquor and ale provided by Ruyton Moss, the portly landlord of the inn.

Everyone else, that is, excepting orphans Preston Brockhurst, and his younger disabled brother, Lee. - For they were lying underneath a wagon in a barn on the outskirts of the village. Wearing rags last washed during Advent, they huddled together to share what little body warmth they had left. Preston was only 15 years in age, but he knew that they would not survive the night without help and shelter.

"Come!" he instructed his younger brother. "We must try and gain proper shelter, or else we will be frozen rigid by morning tide."

His 8 year old sibling duly emerged, and rose - still unsteady on his caliper clad leg; his breathing shallow and still strained as a result of the tuberculosis infection a year earlier.

He looked at his elder brother through his one good eye, and whispered, "I d.d..do not have the s.s..strength to walk far. Where can we g.g..go?"

Preston reassured, "We shall first try Bicton Heath; then Moreton Corbet. If they cannot help us in our plight we shall try Felton Butler as our last hope. Hurry, now."

The brothers staggered through the snow covered lanes on their planned route. The weather was horrid - the snow, which had started off as tiny flakes was now cascading and in danger of becoming a blizzard. They crossed Montford bridge, and passed Anns croft - and with each step they weakened.

There was no answer at the cottage of the chimney sweep Mr. Heath, nor at the simple dwelling of farmhand Moreton Corbet. They wearily trudged for a further three parts of an hour, through Myddle Wood and up Grins hill, until they finally came upon the imposing wrought iron gates to the entrance of Twemlows: A hall and stately home of Felton Butler, a Lord and second cousin to the Earl of Frodesley.

Preston somehow found the energy to vault the dry stone boundary wall, whilst Lee squeezed through the gate railings - such was his slight of frame. A furlong later they arrived at the doors to the hall and pulled the frosted bell rope. Smethcott the butler promptly answered, within three rings, and escorted the boys to a reception room. Even though there was no fire ablaze, they were both so happy to be indoors at last - and out of the biting windchill.

Within five minutes, the boys were shivering in front of a Lord. Felton Butler was a squat man - not what Preston had envisaged. He was smartly dressed, but then he had money and land - lots of both. He addressed the boys whilst looking down his rather bulbous nose through a pair of half-spectacles.

"So what can I do for you..... you pair of skinny urchins?"

"Please Sir, we need some shelter." started Preston. "My brother will not survive another night under the stars in this weather, and we are very hungry. Could we beg of you a bowl of broth and a blanket under which to warm?"

"Good heavens!" exclaimed the Lord. "What do you think I am? This is not the poorhouse! If I were to assist you in your plight then my rooms would soon be full of all kinds seeking my charity and goodwill!"

Preston pleaded, "But please Sir! We would not be of any bother. All we are asking is for a ro..."

"SILENCE!", bellowed the Lord. "I will not hear another word! Here - take this Werthers Original and suck it between you. Now, please excuse me, I have a glass of port waiting for me in front of my fire."

- And with that Lord Felton Butler exited the room, and the boys lives.

The weather was no better as they started back down the arrow-straight driveway. The icy wind chilled their ears as they walked, making hearing difficult. Yet they did hear the distant cry from behind them. - From the way she was dressed, the shout appeared to have come from one of the serving maids at the hall. They turned back and met the young girl in uniform, halfway.

"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with my master. I have but a small living space in the hall. Servants quarters, that's all. Not big enough for three. - But you are welcome to rest your heads tonight in the stable block. My fiance Acton Reynald is a coachman for my Lord, and he can get the key."

"That would be most gracious of you...", Preston prompted for a name.

"Hope. - Hope Bowdler" she replied, and curtsied as a matter of etiquette.

"Th..th..thank-y.y..you" shivered Preston.

"Th..th..thank-y.y..you" stammered Lee.

Hope was true to her word. The boys slept soundly in the hayloft until the cockerel crowed it's dawn alarm. They were warm and safe for the first time in, well... a long, long time. Okay, they both smelled, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

The morning brought even greater surprise. - They were summoned by Hope back into the hall.

Thinking they had been found out, the boys walked sheepishly in the back door, through the scullery and parlour, and into the kitchen where they met with three officious looking figures whose dress sense conveyed great importance. They each wore a woollen suit of three pieces and a fob watch.

Hope could not contain her excitement. So she went to the cloakroom.

She returned, beaming. "These three gentlemen are solicitors... from the Shrewsbury practice of Berrington, Farley and Arscott." She continued, "They have some good news!"

The tallest of the three men questioned, "Are you Preston Brockhurst? Orphaned son of the late Sidney and Ellerdine Brockhurst?"

"...Yes" replied the tallest of the boys, nervously.

"Well that being the case, it is my duty to inform you of an inheritance from your late father's brother. The sum involved is not trivial. Perhaps you should rest your feet."

Both boys sat at the kitchen table, anticipating.

Mr. Berrington resumed, "Your uncle has no other surviving inheritors. Therefore in accordance with his last will and testament, you two boys are to receive his entire estate. That estate is worth in excess of fifty thousand pounds."

With that statement, the boys lives changed forever.

- As did Hope's.

Preston and Lee might only have been young, but before their untimely demise their parents had instilled in them both a sound work ethic; moral responsiblity; and high principles.

Philanthropically giving away ten thousand pounds to Hope and her fiance the following week, in recognition of her own charitable actions on that coldest of nights was nothing.
After all, they were always taught that one good turn deserves another.

Aaaarrrggghhhhhh!!!! What a load of bollocks.

You see... five minutes of your life wasted reading that. Telling you what you already knew: To try and live your life by a sound code of ethics and principles, no matter who you are.

There's no need to dress up to preach that to me.

That's why I hate Period Dramas.

Oh!... and here's another lesson from that story:

Don't start typing whilst you've got oven chips cooking. :-(

Until next time.