fanfic and original writing by ar (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
witticaster) wrote2010-02-08 12:07 am
witticaster) wrote2010-02-08 12:07 am
0117
A slightly later Woolfverse story, completely unfinished because I am useless tonight. Martha brings home a boy.
"Dad? Tharkay?" Martha called from the front hallway. She and George had run off somewhere straightaway after school, promising to do their homework over the weekend, and that they'd be back by five.
Tharkay checked his watch. Four forty-five.
"In here," he called back from where he was lounging on the sofa in the living room. With two deadlines met early, Tharkay declared the rest of the afternoon a bonus, and had been alternating between the newspaper and television. "Dad's getting groceries."
"Oh." She came into the living room, trailed not by George but by a boy Tharkay recognized by sight but did not know. "I was hoping Dad would be here, too."
"And why is that?" Tharkay asked, folding up the newspaper. The boy in front of him looked as though he was tempted to run away at any moment, and Martha was chewing on her lower lip with some trepidation.
"Because I wanted to announce it to both of you at once," she finally said. "But I guess I can tell Dad later. Tharkay, this is Morgan Gully. Morgan, this is my father."
Morgan held out his hand, and Tharkay shook it. "Pleased to meet you, Mr--" and he trailed off.
"Tharkay," Tharkay filled in.
"Mr Tharkay," Morgan finished, looking slightly less nervous. Giving Martha a sidelong glance, he added, "You call your dad by his last name?"
"Only this one," she said brightly. "Tharkay, we are going to be married."
Tharkay found himself thankful for the ability to keep a straight face in all but the most unusual of circumstances, as he suspected Martha wouldn't take well in response to her declaration. With the blandest expression in his arsenal, he inquired, "Married?"
"Yes," as though this ought to be quite obvious, since she'd already said it once. "And after we are, I'll be Martha Laurence-Tharkay-Gully, and he'll be Morgan Gully-Laurence-Tharkay."
"You didn't say I had to take your name," Morgan protested.
"But joining up surnames is how you do it, or no one would know you were married at all." Before her apparent fiancé could offer a rebuttal, Martha pressed on. "We thought we should ask permission before we were officially engaged. So can we?"
Tharkay made show of thinking it over--namely, he tapped a finger to his chin and otherwise looked exactly the same--while really attempting to recall where it was he'd last set the camera. On his desk, perhaps? Atop the latest issue of International Falconer and a set of stationery Manchester United had sent to him (and who knew why) sounded about right. "When were you planning to hold the big event?"
"Oh, not until after uni. But we thought you should know right away." Martha was clearly in her element at this point, and the boy, though not quite as enthused, didn't look too miserable at the idea. "Please, Tharkay?"
"If Dad says you may get married, you have my permission," Tharkay told them with all the gravity required when delivering such a pronouncement to a pair of eleven year olds. "Have you secured Mr. Gully's parents' blessing?"
"We were going to ask them next." Martha paused. "Can we do that now? I know it's almost five, but I won't be gone too long..."
"I think," and Tharkay stood up, "that I'll have to have a photo of the two of you before you go. You'll want something to publish in the papers when you make your engagement public."
"And then it can be announced in the banns!" Martha's eyes lit up; Morgan looked blank.
"We'll see about that." This was what came of Will's owning (and regularly watching) every film from the last three decades that even mentioned the Napoleonic Wars; the twins had a working knowledge of the period that proved absolutely useless in most situations. (It was amusing nearly as often, though--and, combined with Will's boyish delight for movies-about-ships, was reason enough to keep Tharkay sitting through endless period pieces.) "Starting with the naval academy newsletter might be wiser."
The camera, it turned out, was next to the stuffed hawk George and Martha had given him for Christmas some years back. When Tharkay returned to the living room, he found Martha and Morgan arranged upon the couch, wearing serious expressions and holding hands. He snapped a photo, and called after them as they scrambled out the front door again, "Straight home once you're done, Martha."
-
George was the next to slink into the living room. He flopped down on the couch next to Tharkay without a word and fixed his gaze on the television's blank screen. As he said nothing, neither did Tharkay, who continued on with the comment section of the paper.
"Did you really tell Marthy she could marry Morgan?" George finally asked, spitting out his future brother-in-law's name with some venom.
"Do you have an objection to her taste in husbands?" The column he was reading was little more than infuriating commentary on dole queens anyway; Tharkay folded the paper up once more.
"She's too young to get married," he answered. "And Morgan is stupid."
"Dad? Tharkay?" Martha called from the front hallway. She and George had run off somewhere straightaway after school, promising to do their homework over the weekend, and that they'd be back by five.
Tharkay checked his watch. Four forty-five.
"In here," he called back from where he was lounging on the sofa in the living room. With two deadlines met early, Tharkay declared the rest of the afternoon a bonus, and had been alternating between the newspaper and television. "Dad's getting groceries."
"Oh." She came into the living room, trailed not by George but by a boy Tharkay recognized by sight but did not know. "I was hoping Dad would be here, too."
"And why is that?" Tharkay asked, folding up the newspaper. The boy in front of him looked as though he was tempted to run away at any moment, and Martha was chewing on her lower lip with some trepidation.
"Because I wanted to announce it to both of you at once," she finally said. "But I guess I can tell Dad later. Tharkay, this is Morgan Gully. Morgan, this is my father."
Morgan held out his hand, and Tharkay shook it. "Pleased to meet you, Mr--" and he trailed off.
"Tharkay," Tharkay filled in.
"Mr Tharkay," Morgan finished, looking slightly less nervous. Giving Martha a sidelong glance, he added, "You call your dad by his last name?"
"Only this one," she said brightly. "Tharkay, we are going to be married."
Tharkay found himself thankful for the ability to keep a straight face in all but the most unusual of circumstances, as he suspected Martha wouldn't take well in response to her declaration. With the blandest expression in his arsenal, he inquired, "Married?"
"Yes," as though this ought to be quite obvious, since she'd already said it once. "And after we are, I'll be Martha Laurence-Tharkay-Gully, and he'll be Morgan Gully-Laurence-Tharkay."
"You didn't say I had to take your name," Morgan protested.
"But joining up surnames is how you do it, or no one would know you were married at all." Before her apparent fiancé could offer a rebuttal, Martha pressed on. "We thought we should ask permission before we were officially engaged. So can we?"
Tharkay made show of thinking it over--namely, he tapped a finger to his chin and otherwise looked exactly the same--while really attempting to recall where it was he'd last set the camera. On his desk, perhaps? Atop the latest issue of International Falconer and a set of stationery Manchester United had sent to him (and who knew why) sounded about right. "When were you planning to hold the big event?"
"Oh, not until after uni. But we thought you should know right away." Martha was clearly in her element at this point, and the boy, though not quite as enthused, didn't look too miserable at the idea. "Please, Tharkay?"
"If Dad says you may get married, you have my permission," Tharkay told them with all the gravity required when delivering such a pronouncement to a pair of eleven year olds. "Have you secured Mr. Gully's parents' blessing?"
"We were going to ask them next." Martha paused. "Can we do that now? I know it's almost five, but I won't be gone too long..."
"I think," and Tharkay stood up, "that I'll have to have a photo of the two of you before you go. You'll want something to publish in the papers when you make your engagement public."
"And then it can be announced in the banns!" Martha's eyes lit up; Morgan looked blank.
"We'll see about that." This was what came of Will's owning (and regularly watching) every film from the last three decades that even mentioned the Napoleonic Wars; the twins had a working knowledge of the period that proved absolutely useless in most situations. (It was amusing nearly as often, though--and, combined with Will's boyish delight for movies-about-ships, was reason enough to keep Tharkay sitting through endless period pieces.) "Starting with the naval academy newsletter might be wiser."
The camera, it turned out, was next to the stuffed hawk George and Martha had given him for Christmas some years back. When Tharkay returned to the living room, he found Martha and Morgan arranged upon the couch, wearing serious expressions and holding hands. He snapped a photo, and called after them as they scrambled out the front door again, "Straight home once you're done, Martha."
George was the next to slink into the living room. He flopped down on the couch next to Tharkay without a word and fixed his gaze on the television's blank screen. As he said nothing, neither did Tharkay, who continued on with the comment section of the paper.
"Did you really tell Marthy she could marry Morgan?" George finally asked, spitting out his future brother-in-law's name with some venom.
"Do you have an objection to her taste in husbands?" The column he was reading was little more than infuriating commentary on dole queens anyway; Tharkay folded the paper up once more.
"She's too young to get married," he answered. "And Morgan is stupid."
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/types up the notebook-y stuff and goes to bed nnnnngh
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flkjgdgfsg they are adorable, poor Tharkay.