Fic: Sands' Gold II: All The Pretty Marigolds (1/1)
Title: Sands’ Gold II: All The Pretty Marigolds (1/1)
Author: BradyGirl_12
Pairings/Characters: Aunt Primrose, George Crabtree
Fandom: Murdoch Mysteries
Series Notes: This series will take place during and after World War I. The entire series can be found here.
Genres: Angst, Drama, Historical, Slice-Of-Life
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Summary: George's fears about the Great War come to light.
Date Of Completion: February 21, 2022
Date Of Posting: february 26, 2022
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, Shaftesbury Films and the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation do, more’s the pity.
Word Count: 1061
Feedback welcome and appreciated.
Little boy,
Little boy,
Skipping down the lane,
Look at all he pretty marigolds
Glittering from the rain.
Little boy,
Little boy.
How does
Your garden grow?
With silver bells
And cockle shells
And pretty lads
All in a row.
Little boy,
Little boy.
Where have
All the flowers gone?
They were shot away,
One terrible day,
And now all the lads’
Are gone.
Captain Trevor Devonshire
Canadian Expeditionary Force
“The Garden’s Gone”
1918 C.E.
“There ya go, Georgie. Pull out them weeds!”
George’s Aunt Primrose was on her knees a few feet away, her capable hands pulling out a patch of stubborn weeds. Her faded housedress was patterned with sunflowers, appropriate for working in Flower Hill’s spectacular garden. In these waning days of September, the garden was a glorious mix of zinnias, marigolds and chrysanthemums. Gold, orange and red were the predominant colors, with purple peeking through the autumn show.
“John and Henry seem to have taken to Flower Hill.” Primrose said. She was neither stout nor thin, more like a teener of weight, as those who were no longer children but quite yet adults were called, George thought jauntily.
“They find this place a nice change from Camp Collinwood.”
The straw hat Primrose wore shaded her broad face as russet curls escaped her hat in tendrils. The sun was pleasantly warm today.
George dragged his gardening-gloved hand across his brow. He thought it was close to lunchtime.
“Keeps a body busy, and it’s good for the mind, eh?” Primrose said.
“Yes, ma’am.” George tackled a new tuft of weeds. “We have been working hard in camp.”
“They want ya trained up right.”
“Yes, and I do appreciate it, though it is a bit harsh.”
“Ah, well.” Primrose tugged on a tall weed. “Better a little harshness if it serves ya well in France.”
“Oh, most assuredly.” George leaned back, resting his hands on his knees. “I suppose it’s a bit like police training.”
“There, ya see? Ya know that.” She realized that George’s silence seemed fraught. “What is it, Georgie?”
George looked down at the bright chrysanthemums. “Aunt Primrose, I don’t know if I can kill.”
Primrose stopped tugging and brushed off her gardening gloves. “Ya faced such situations as a copper.”
“Yes, but you are trained to keep the peace as a policeman. As a soldier, you are trained to do just the opposite.”
“Georgie.” He looked up at her, brown eyes troubled. “But didja prepare for possible killing as a copper?”
“I…suppose so.”
“And ya were prepared to defend yourself against criminals ready to kill ya and your comrades?”
“Yes,” George said quietly, remembering the jolly and earnest Constable Jackson and his sacrifice in the line of duty years ago.”
“So what makes ya think ya won’t do the same for your fellow soldiers?”
George’s tone was tinged with despair. “It’s just…different.”
“I don’ think ya will let them down. When push comes to shove, you’ll shove.”
George smiled faintly. “You are a wise woman, Aunt Primrose.”
“Of course, Georgie,” she said cheerfully, and tackled the tall weed again. One mighty tug, and she uprooted it in a shower of dirt. “Take this weed. Strong and stubborn.”
“Are you calling me a weed?”
She laughed. “You’re more like a marigold, Georgie-boy: bright and cheerful.”
He blushed slightly, pulling out small weeds. “I am glad that I joined with the lads from the station house. Good to know who you can count on.”
“There, ya see? Bet your Inspector Brackenreid approves.”
“He does.”
Primrose dumped the tall weed into the wheelbarrow next to her. “He ought to know. Ya said he served in the Afghan War for Queen and Country?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So there ya go.” Primrose pulled off her gloves and laid them on the grass. “Your inspector’s a good man, dearie. You have good people around you, and of course there’s your Effie.”
George smiled at the mention of his wife. “We had a nice send-off in Toronto: bands playing, flags flying, people cheering…I think we might get the same thing in St. John’s when we sail for England.”
“Ya can be sure of the entire Flower Hill lot there, Georgie. When d’ya think that might be?”
“Could be in a few weeks, as the rumor goes, but then, there are always rumors in the Army.”
“You’ll be sailing for England instead of France?”
“Yes, but just for a short stopover.”
“Hope ya get to see Paris.”
“We might. It’s a sure thing that the Germans will drive for Paris, just as they did in the Franco-Prussian War.”
“Well, now, you’ll enjoy Paris. City of Lights is a good moniker for it.”
“Ah, yes, you were there years ago, if I recall.”
“Yes, I was.” She winked. “Learned me trade there.” George cleared his throat. And if ya get there, go to Notre Dame. Do your soul good.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
Primrose adjusted her hat. “I’m gonna need a new one. Remember your trips to the millinery shop for me?”
“Oh, I remember.” George smiled. “Actually, those trips gave me knowledge that stood well with me with the ladies I courted over the years.”
“Splendid, dearie!” She touched a swollen knuckle on her hand. “I read that these new weapons might mean soldiers will never meet face-to-face.”
“Then why do we need to be summoned a’tal?”
“Tradition? I don’ know, Georgie-boy. Guess you’ll find out.” Primrose smiled at George and got to her feet. “Now, let’s go collect John and Clematis from the vegetable garden and see what your friend Henry is up to as a helper in the kitchen.”
“Oh, dear! Are you sure it’s safe to let Henry in the kitchen?”
Primrose laughed. “He may surprise ya.”
“Hmph.” George clutched his stomach as he rose to his feet.
“Well, maybe we’ll give ya a chance at Sunday dinner tomorrow before ya return to camp.”
“Much better. As a finalist in the Madison Fine Beef Culinary Challenge, I accept.” George frowned. “Though come to think of it, that sounds a lot like K.P.”
Primrose smiled sweetly. “Arm, Georgie.”
George presented his arm and Primrose took it. They strolled toward the vegetable garden, and George hoped his aunt was right. Maybe this war could be quick and endured without a sea of blood.
He would dearly love to see Flower Hill again.
This story can also be read on AO3.
This entry has been cross-posted from Dreamwidth. Comment on either entry as you wish. :)
Author: BradyGirl_12
Pairings/Characters: Aunt Primrose, George Crabtree
Fandom: Murdoch Mysteries
Series Notes: This series will take place during and after World War I. The entire series can be found here.
Genres: Angst, Drama, Historical, Slice-Of-Life
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Summary: George's fears about the Great War come to light.
Date Of Completion: February 21, 2022
Date Of Posting: february 26, 2022
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, Shaftesbury Films and the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation do, more’s the pity.
Word Count: 1061
Feedback welcome and appreciated.
Little boy,
Little boy,
Skipping down the lane,
Look at all he pretty marigolds
Glittering from the rain.
Little boy,
Little boy.
How does
Your garden grow?
With silver bells
And cockle shells
And pretty lads
All in a row.
Little boy,
Little boy.
Where have
All the flowers gone?
They were shot away,
One terrible day,
And now all the lads’
Are gone.
Captain Trevor Devonshire
Canadian Expeditionary Force
“The Garden’s Gone”
1918 C.E.
“There ya go, Georgie. Pull out them weeds!”
George’s Aunt Primrose was on her knees a few feet away, her capable hands pulling out a patch of stubborn weeds. Her faded housedress was patterned with sunflowers, appropriate for working in Flower Hill’s spectacular garden. In these waning days of September, the garden was a glorious mix of zinnias, marigolds and chrysanthemums. Gold, orange and red were the predominant colors, with purple peeking through the autumn show.
“John and Henry seem to have taken to Flower Hill.” Primrose said. She was neither stout nor thin, more like a teener of weight, as those who were no longer children but quite yet adults were called, George thought jauntily.
“They find this place a nice change from Camp Collinwood.”
The straw hat Primrose wore shaded her broad face as russet curls escaped her hat in tendrils. The sun was pleasantly warm today.
George dragged his gardening-gloved hand across his brow. He thought it was close to lunchtime.
“Keeps a body busy, and it’s good for the mind, eh?” Primrose said.
“Yes, ma’am.” George tackled a new tuft of weeds. “We have been working hard in camp.”
“They want ya trained up right.”
“Yes, and I do appreciate it, though it is a bit harsh.”
“Ah, well.” Primrose tugged on a tall weed. “Better a little harshness if it serves ya well in France.”
“Oh, most assuredly.” George leaned back, resting his hands on his knees. “I suppose it’s a bit like police training.”
“There, ya see? Ya know that.” She realized that George’s silence seemed fraught. “What is it, Georgie?”
George looked down at the bright chrysanthemums. “Aunt Primrose, I don’t know if I can kill.”
Primrose stopped tugging and brushed off her gardening gloves. “Ya faced such situations as a copper.”
“Yes, but you are trained to keep the peace as a policeman. As a soldier, you are trained to do just the opposite.”
“Georgie.” He looked up at her, brown eyes troubled. “But didja prepare for possible killing as a copper?”
“I…suppose so.”
“And ya were prepared to defend yourself against criminals ready to kill ya and your comrades?”
“Yes,” George said quietly, remembering the jolly and earnest Constable Jackson and his sacrifice in the line of duty years ago.”
“So what makes ya think ya won’t do the same for your fellow soldiers?”
George’s tone was tinged with despair. “It’s just…different.”
“I don’ think ya will let them down. When push comes to shove, you’ll shove.”
George smiled faintly. “You are a wise woman, Aunt Primrose.”
“Of course, Georgie,” she said cheerfully, and tackled the tall weed again. One mighty tug, and she uprooted it in a shower of dirt. “Take this weed. Strong and stubborn.”
“Are you calling me a weed?”
She laughed. “You’re more like a marigold, Georgie-boy: bright and cheerful.”
He blushed slightly, pulling out small weeds. “I am glad that I joined with the lads from the station house. Good to know who you can count on.”
“There, ya see? Bet your Inspector Brackenreid approves.”
“He does.”
Primrose dumped the tall weed into the wheelbarrow next to her. “He ought to know. Ya said he served in the Afghan War for Queen and Country?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So there ya go.” Primrose pulled off her gloves and laid them on the grass. “Your inspector’s a good man, dearie. You have good people around you, and of course there’s your Effie.”
George smiled at the mention of his wife. “We had a nice send-off in Toronto: bands playing, flags flying, people cheering…I think we might get the same thing in St. John’s when we sail for England.”
“Ya can be sure of the entire Flower Hill lot there, Georgie. When d’ya think that might be?”
“Could be in a few weeks, as the rumor goes, but then, there are always rumors in the Army.”
“You’ll be sailing for England instead of France?”
“Yes, but just for a short stopover.”
“Hope ya get to see Paris.”
“We might. It’s a sure thing that the Germans will drive for Paris, just as they did in the Franco-Prussian War.”
“Well, now, you’ll enjoy Paris. City of Lights is a good moniker for it.”
“Ah, yes, you were there years ago, if I recall.”
“Yes, I was.” She winked. “Learned me trade there.” George cleared his throat. And if ya get there, go to Notre Dame. Do your soul good.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
Primrose adjusted her hat. “I’m gonna need a new one. Remember your trips to the millinery shop for me?”
“Oh, I remember.” George smiled. “Actually, those trips gave me knowledge that stood well with me with the ladies I courted over the years.”
“Splendid, dearie!” She touched a swollen knuckle on her hand. “I read that these new weapons might mean soldiers will never meet face-to-face.”
“Then why do we need to be summoned a’tal?”
“Tradition? I don’ know, Georgie-boy. Guess you’ll find out.” Primrose smiled at George and got to her feet. “Now, let’s go collect John and Clematis from the vegetable garden and see what your friend Henry is up to as a helper in the kitchen.”
“Oh, dear! Are you sure it’s safe to let Henry in the kitchen?”
Primrose laughed. “He may surprise ya.”
“Hmph.” George clutched his stomach as he rose to his feet.
“Well, maybe we’ll give ya a chance at Sunday dinner tomorrow before ya return to camp.”
“Much better. As a finalist in the Madison Fine Beef Culinary Challenge, I accept.” George frowned. “Though come to think of it, that sounds a lot like K.P.”
Primrose smiled sweetly. “Arm, Georgie.”
George presented his arm and Primrose took it. They strolled toward the vegetable garden, and George hoped his aunt was right. Maybe this war could be quick and endured without a sea of blood.
He would dearly love to see Flower Hill again.
This story can also be read on AO3.
This entry has been cross-posted from Dreamwidth. Comment on either entry as you wish. :)