Sunburnt Speculations

Another Novakovich “Fiction Writers’ Workshop” Exercise

My Mother never went down to the end of the town without consulting me. But as you may know—if you have read Mr A.A. Milne’s poem—James’ Mother did.

James James Morrison Morrison Wetherby etc. etc. that is. She did go down to the end of the town, and quite the kerfuffle it caused. King John even put up a notice and all that. But what did she do there? That’s probably what you’re asking yourselves and I suppose you’re asking me as well. Was she lost or stolen or strayed? We aren’t told. Though here is what I heard—and I have it on good authority from one of the bounty hunters, who had hoped to claim the reward but who, when he saw what she did there could not bring himself to claim it. That’s why I believe him and that’s why I’m telling you—not just because Mr Novakovich has asked me to write a few lines about what my Mother never did; though perhaps she did, and I just never knew it.

But this is about James’ Mother, isn’t it? So, I had better tell you and without any more delay.

The end of the town is a dreary place—down past the smithies, slaughterhouses, and tanneries. The air is not so sweet as it is up here. The water pools in oily puddles and smoke of coal fires lies heavy in the lower parts. It is a sad and unhealthy place, where children do not get enough sunlight and often grow up twisted and sometimes do not grow up at all.

But on days when the sun would come out, James’ Mother would hurry down to the end of the town with a basket of fresh bread and a large bottle of raspberry cordial. She would gather such of the children as were out for play and lead them to a sunny spot on a small rise. “Picnic Rise” they called it and it was a place of joy for there they would partake of the bread and cordial. The children thus refreshed and revived, James’ Mother was wont to produce a wooden flute, which she played for them whilst they danced and sang and listened to the stories she told them.

Now I don’t know if it was the bread, the cordial, the dance, the songs, or the stories —or just because of the good sunshine and cheer—but those children who gathered to picnic with James’ Mother began to thrive and, in time, they grew in strength and health and hope.

This is how I received the report from my informant and it was “for kindness,” he said, that he could not claim reward.

So now you know. I believe him. I hope you do too.