The Silver Razor: Spithead
Oct. 18th, 2012 08:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anteros_lmcTitle: The Silver Razor: Spithead
Author: Anteros
Characters: Archie Kennedy
Rating: R
Notes: Continuing the story of Archie's silver razor.
Archie squinted at the small thick package in his lap, there was just enough dim light in the hold to make out the precise regular script. It was two years since he had seen his father’s writing. The last letter that bore his hand had been addressed to Captain James Keane, His Majesty’s Ship Justinian; a letter of introduction recommending his son Archibald Kennedy Esq, soon to be mustered as Mr Abld Kennedy, Boy, First Class.
Since then, nothing. Not that he had expected his father to commence a regular correspondence, not after he had sent him packing. His mother and sisters had written regularly, still did. Even his brothers wrote occasionally. He no longer replied, often he didn’t even open their letters. He had learned the hard way that it was inadvisable to be caught reading letters from doting siblings in the crowded midshipman’s berth. Jack had made great sport of them. Now Archie buried the letters, most unopened, at the bottom of his sea chest. And occasionally, if Jack was dead drunk, or ashore, or engaged in tormenting some other poor unfortunate, Archie would carry one of the precious letters down to some quiet corner of the hold where he could read undisturbed. It pained him beyond measure to read his sisters’ fond wishes, his mother’s anxious concern. Was he well? Had he enough warm clothes? Was his allowance sufficient? And why, dear Lord, why did he not write? But Archie did not write. How could he? He could not bring himself to lie, but what could he tell his mother, his sisters, that would not cause them greater pain and grief than he had caused them already? No, he would not write. Archie’s life before Justinian seemed little more than a distant memory now. A rosy dream of childhood indulgence. Only his father’s cold wrath seemed real.
So, why had he written now? Archie’s heart was hammering. Perhaps his mother…or one of his sisters…He started to tear into the package, then he stopped himself. No. The fact that the parcel had arrived merely weeks after his sixteenth birthday could not be a coincidence. More likely it contained formal notice that he had been disinherited, cast off lest he sully the family name further.
Archie slid his hand into the parcel, but instead of finding a sheaf of papers, his hand closed on something smooth and hard. A box. Even before he withdrew it from the envelope he knew that it was. His fingers instantly recognised the worn leather surface of his father’s razor case.
He pulled the box from its oilcloth wrapping. Still the same. The case had once been fine blue calfskin, now worn and rubbed grey in places, and the red velvet lining was bald and fraying. The catch was broken, it always had been, but the sprung brass hinges held true and the lid still opened and closed with a satisfying snap which instantly took Archie back to standing knee high to the wash stand in his father’s dressing chamber. Archie had been fascinated by the razor as a boy. His father had allowed him to trace his fingers reverently over the worn silver engraving of the handle, but never, never, upon pain of death, was he allowed to open the lethal blade. “When you’re older,” his father had admonished, ignoring his petulant pleas. “It will be yours soon enough. When you’re sixteen. I doubt you’ll need it before then.” His father had patted his smooth round cheek. “I’ll show you how to use it properly, so you don’t slice off that nose of yours. Your mother would never forgive me.”
Carefully, Archie lifted the razor from its case. It felt so familiar in his hand that it brought a catch to his throat. It seemed unreal to feel the familiar smooth curves here in Justinian’s foetid hold, with the rats scurrying past his feet. The silver razor belonged to another world. Archie found himself strangely reluctant to open the blade. The prohibition had been drummed into him so often as a boy that even now he felt that to open the blade would be a transgression. Stupid. He was no longer a boy, he was a man now, he carried his own dirk, he knew how to handle a cutlass and a brace of pistols. Why be afraid of a simple razor? Archie drew a deep breath and pressed gently on the smooth curved tail of the shank that protruded from the end of the handle. The blade opened easily, with just a little resistance in the hinge, before it clicked into place with a satisfying snick. Open, the razor was an entirely different entity, alive almost, it’s weight and balance changing noticeably. On a whim, Archie lifted the razor on its hinge. It seesawed wildly before settling, perfectly balanced on its own axis on the tip of his finger. Archie couldn’t help smiling. He opened and closed the razor again and again, each time balancing it easily on one finger, then he tried the blade on the edge of the package, it cut clean, straight and true.
Archie ran his hand over his cheek, feeling only the slightest downy rasp. His father had been right, he had little need for razors yet. He only shaved occasionally, more for show than necessity, using the blunt bone handled blade that was the common property of the gunroom. The silver razor might be old, its case worn and tracery rubbed almost smooth in places, but it was still fine enough to draw attention. Jack would be certain to levy such a pretty piece in no time. Regretfully, Archie closed the bright blade and stowed it back in its case, before wrapping both case and envelope in a dirty scrap of sail cloth. The silver razor would take its place among the unopened letters and fond wishes at the bottom of Archie’s sea chest.
Maybe one day.
Author: Anteros
Characters: Archie Kennedy
Rating: R
Notes: Continuing the story of Archie's silver razor.
Archie squinted at the small thick package in his lap, there was just enough dim light in the hold to make out the precise regular script. It was two years since he had seen his father’s writing. The last letter that bore his hand had been addressed to Captain James Keane, His Majesty’s Ship Justinian; a letter of introduction recommending his son Archibald Kennedy Esq, soon to be mustered as Mr Abld Kennedy, Boy, First Class.
Since then, nothing. Not that he had expected his father to commence a regular correspondence, not after he had sent him packing. His mother and sisters had written regularly, still did. Even his brothers wrote occasionally. He no longer replied, often he didn’t even open their letters. He had learned the hard way that it was inadvisable to be caught reading letters from doting siblings in the crowded midshipman’s berth. Jack had made great sport of them. Now Archie buried the letters, most unopened, at the bottom of his sea chest. And occasionally, if Jack was dead drunk, or ashore, or engaged in tormenting some other poor unfortunate, Archie would carry one of the precious letters down to some quiet corner of the hold where he could read undisturbed. It pained him beyond measure to read his sisters’ fond wishes, his mother’s anxious concern. Was he well? Had he enough warm clothes? Was his allowance sufficient? And why, dear Lord, why did he not write? But Archie did not write. How could he? He could not bring himself to lie, but what could he tell his mother, his sisters, that would not cause them greater pain and grief than he had caused them already? No, he would not write. Archie’s life before Justinian seemed little more than a distant memory now. A rosy dream of childhood indulgence. Only his father’s cold wrath seemed real.
So, why had he written now? Archie’s heart was hammering. Perhaps his mother…or one of his sisters…He started to tear into the package, then he stopped himself. No. The fact that the parcel had arrived merely weeks after his sixteenth birthday could not be a coincidence. More likely it contained formal notice that he had been disinherited, cast off lest he sully the family name further.
Archie slid his hand into the parcel, but instead of finding a sheaf of papers, his hand closed on something smooth and hard. A box. Even before he withdrew it from the envelope he knew that it was. His fingers instantly recognised the worn leather surface of his father’s razor case.
He pulled the box from its oilcloth wrapping. Still the same. The case had once been fine blue calfskin, now worn and rubbed grey in places, and the red velvet lining was bald and fraying. The catch was broken, it always had been, but the sprung brass hinges held true and the lid still opened and closed with a satisfying snap which instantly took Archie back to standing knee high to the wash stand in his father’s dressing chamber. Archie had been fascinated by the razor as a boy. His father had allowed him to trace his fingers reverently over the worn silver engraving of the handle, but never, never, upon pain of death, was he allowed to open the lethal blade. “When you’re older,” his father had admonished, ignoring his petulant pleas. “It will be yours soon enough. When you’re sixteen. I doubt you’ll need it before then.” His father had patted his smooth round cheek. “I’ll show you how to use it properly, so you don’t slice off that nose of yours. Your mother would never forgive me.”
Carefully, Archie lifted the razor from its case. It felt so familiar in his hand that it brought a catch to his throat. It seemed unreal to feel the familiar smooth curves here in Justinian’s foetid hold, with the rats scurrying past his feet. The silver razor belonged to another world. Archie found himself strangely reluctant to open the blade. The prohibition had been drummed into him so often as a boy that even now he felt that to open the blade would be a transgression. Stupid. He was no longer a boy, he was a man now, he carried his own dirk, he knew how to handle a cutlass and a brace of pistols. Why be afraid of a simple razor? Archie drew a deep breath and pressed gently on the smooth curved tail of the shank that protruded from the end of the handle. The blade opened easily, with just a little resistance in the hinge, before it clicked into place with a satisfying snick. Open, the razor was an entirely different entity, alive almost, it’s weight and balance changing noticeably. On a whim, Archie lifted the razor on its hinge. It seesawed wildly before settling, perfectly balanced on its own axis on the tip of his finger. Archie couldn’t help smiling. He opened and closed the razor again and again, each time balancing it easily on one finger, then he tried the blade on the edge of the package, it cut clean, straight and true.
Archie ran his hand over his cheek, feeling only the slightest downy rasp. His father had been right, he had little need for razors yet. He only shaved occasionally, more for show than necessity, using the blunt bone handled blade that was the common property of the gunroom. The silver razor might be old, its case worn and tracery rubbed almost smooth in places, but it was still fine enough to draw attention. Jack would be certain to levy such a pretty piece in no time. Regretfully, Archie closed the bright blade and stowed it back in its case, before wrapping both case and envelope in a dirty scrap of sail cloth. The silver razor would take its place among the unopened letters and fond wishes at the bottom of Archie’s sea chest.
Maybe one day.
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no subject
Date: 2012-10-18 09:18 pm (UTC)And I love the description of the common use razor. I am sure it was so. (My father once took a trip with an uncle to explore The Great Dismal Swamp, he stopped at a hotel where they had a tooth-brush on a string for the use of the guests! This would have been about 1925.)
And I feel in my heart, as before, that Archie's father does love him. It is a confused and sore love, but it is there. The little boy who was told not to open the razor, and the dad who tweaked his nose, are still there-- way underneath.
Thank you. I shall climb out of my own dismal swamp and get to writing!
(Really sounds like something out of Pilgrims Progress-- but it is real. Starts in North Carolina.
no subject
Date: 2012-10-18 11:12 pm (UTC)The description of the case, blue but worn, and the velvet inside bald, so real. Perfect.
For some reason I have a very, very vivid image of the razor case, I think it may have morphed from a jewellery case my grandmother had when I was a kid.
I think you're right about Archie's father. He does love him, very much. That's why he is so bitterly angry with him. It's hard to get past such intense love and anger, it's easy for it to become insurmountable. Horatio will learn that later.
My father once took a trip with an uncle to explore The Great Dismal Swamp, he stopped at a hotel where they had a tooth-brush on a string for the use of the guests!
Well, it my fic made your day, your story made mine! I don't know what delights me more, the fact that The Great Dismal Swamp exists, or the fact that there was once a hotel there with a toothbrush on a string! Are you sure this isn't a Thurber story?!
Hope you've managed to extricate yourself from the swamp and get some writing underway :)
no subject
Date: 2012-10-18 11:41 pm (UTC)It does sound like a Thurber story.
I have actually been through the Great Dismal Swamp. on a train. It is a good place for people who can see beauty in muted colors and shades of grey. Very serene. And it has vultures.
no subject
Date: 2012-10-19 09:57 pm (UTC)I spent quite some time last night night googling The Great Dismal Swamp. I am entranced by such a place!
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Date: 2012-10-19 07:11 am (UTC)That may make no sense outside of my head...
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Date: 2012-10-19 09:36 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2012-10-20 04:40 pm (UTC)that investing of history as our own and what is special to us is movingly portrayed - it is another thing that for too much of his life has been Archie
this wsa grand and I am going to read it all again now for the better gleaning of gems...
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Date: 2012-10-23 09:08 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2012-10-23 08:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-21 10:21 pm (UTC)He has it. Most of what was in his sea-chest had to go, to preserve the illusion, but Horatio took that, and his volume of the sonnets, when he thought it was to remember him by.
So he has it. And still shaves himself with it, rather than leave the job to his valet.
He doesn't shave Horatio any more, not the way Mr. Bush saw. It doesn't seem so easy to get away with in a London town house as it was belowdecks. Horatio has his own, and the handle is ivory.
But Archie still has his silver razor.
no subject
Date: 2012-10-23 09:03 pm (UTC)This particular razor had a rather different fate...
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Date: 2012-10-23 10:07 pm (UTC)You don't do Live Kennedy, I know. You tell your story, I'll tell mine. :-(
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