Historical Flash Fiction

A Christmas Wedding

Elizabeth ran her hands over her grey woollen skirt. Butterflies danced in her stomach and she dismissed them; foolish, at her stage of life. John was a good man. There weren’t many who would take on a widow with five children. And he helped with young Henry when others averted their eyes, unwilling to take in the boy’s enlarged head, laboured breathing, or the fact he could not sit properly despite being three years of age.

She glanced at the small gathering. Pastor Lelean had been kind to give up his home on Christmas Day, of all days. He held Robert in his arms, the lad squirming to get down and run around with the other children now he’d finally found his feet. Mrs Downey held Henry, and Elizabeth’s heart warmed to see her son was managing to hold his head up today. Lizzie, Sarah and Thomas were running around with the Downey children.

“Are we ready?” The Pastor asked.

Elizabeth nodded, and the group moved inside to the parlour, where the Pastor conducted the ceremony.

It went by in a blur, first John and then Elizabeth repeating their vows of honour and commitment.

When it was done Mrs Downey wrapped Elizabeth in a congratulatory hug. Miss Westwood shook John’s hand. Only Thomas stood back, a frown on his face.

Elizabeth reached out an arm to him, and he raced over, burying his head in her shoulder.

“I know you miss your da,” she said. “And John won’t ever replace him, but he’s a good man. He’ll look after us, and we need that now.”

Arthur Gordon

Charles returned to the house, Dr Armitage hot on his heels. May sat by the window, staring vacantly out onto the road, leaving little Arthur listless in his cot. The two older children were nowhere to be seen.

“I sent ‘em off to play,” May said. “They don’t need to see another death.”

Charles frowned. “We don’t know that-“

“Your wife is correct, Mr Tilley.” The doctor interrupted. “Arthur is suffering from Marasmus.”

Charles glared at him, still standing in the doorway. “Speak plainly!”

“Malnutrition.”

“You can’t tell from there. Attend to the boy.”

Dr Armitage refused to budge. “I’ve told you before. Look at him. Your son is near six months old, yet he is little larger than a newborn.” He shook his head. “I’m very sorry Mr Tilley, there is nothing I can do.” He nodded to May.

“My condolences, Mrs Tilley.”

She watched him leave.

“I told you we never should’ve come ‘ere.” May turned to Charles. “Three children in five years, and not one of ‘em made it to their first birthday. Should’ve stayed where we were. This place is cursed.”

Charles shook his head and moved to sit with Arthur. The boy just needed some sustenance, that was all. If May’s milk hadn’t dried up so early… He shook his head. There was nothing to be done about that. He’d hoped desperately this child would survive. That Arthur would be the one to bring joy back to May’s eyes. He picked up the lad, barely strong enough to move his eyes to look at his father. The boy blinked, his eyelids heavy, then sighed. His head lolled backwards.

He was gone.

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I am particularly fascinated by the past, the way people lived and the struggles they experienced. These short snippets are based on true events, pieced together from birth, death and marriage records, and old newspaper articles, with a bit of guessing as to how the characters may have felt at the time.

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These stories have been previously published:

A Christmas Wedding, in ‘Deloraine Write-In Group Zine’ Issue 2, December 2016

Arthur Gordon, in NanoZine Edition 5, Tasmanian Gothic, March 2017