Austen on a Wednesday

The butterflies of Blue Gum loop-de-loop roundabout were quite perturbed this particular Wednesday afternoon as Miss Abigail Breeze stormed past them in a tumultuous rage. In fact, they were more than perturbed, they were downright offended. See, every Wednesday afternoon for the past eight weeks Abigail had come skipping around the tunnel bend to the place where the sunbeams met the fern leaves in a brilliant-speckled array. It was this which had first caught her eyes, but it was the twirling butterflies which kept her coming back week after week. The butterflies were not used to such attention, for most passers-by were simply that, and so, to show their appreciation, the winged beauties took it upon themselves to prepare the most splendid of performances for her enjoyment.

But on this day, Abigail did not stop. She did not even glance in their direction. Had there been another tired uni-goer on their way home, they would have been treated to disgruntled mumbles of “that is my voice” and “what would he know?” echoing about the tunnel. However, the path was empty but for Abigail and so, her agitations fell to no one but her now sulking butterfly friends.

The Wednesday afternoon class from which she was returning was an introductory course in fiction writing. This had been her week to present her first piece to the class.

She had first felt the absence of sound welling beneath her feet as she’d stood, awkward and vulnerable, willing someone, anyone, to speak. But the sensation had soon swirled all around her, almost swallowing her up. Her toes twitched rhythmlessly inside boots which only then seemed much too small. She’d wanted to turn her head, to catch any glimpse of her audience’s reaction. Had they simply all been stunned into silence by her brilliance?

“Well, Miss, uh…” a man’s voice had eventually squeezed itself out. He glanced down, “Miss Breeze was it?”

Abigail gave the slightest nod. She was not sure that the man had noticed, but she dared not move again.

“What an…interesting concept,” he’d continued, rifling through the thoughts in his head as though the perfect response was post-it-noted somewhere in there, “might I ask which sorts of authors you read?”

“I…um…”

“Let me rephrase,” Abigail could hear the smirk sneak onto his face and settle, “you read a fair bit of Austen, don’t you?”

“Actually no,” she’d wanted to say. Wanted to tell him that, of course, she had read Pride and Prejudice, but she wouldn’t exactly categorise that as ‘a fair bit’. Wanted to look him directly in those smug eyes and ask what exactly was he trying to insinuate?

She nodded.

“As I thought,” he held out the paper for her to collect, “I’m afraid you’ll need to find your own voice if you want your submission published in the class portfolio. No one wants to read another Jane Austen copy-cat.”

And thus, Abigail’s afternoon huff had ensued.

Upon arrival home, Abigail stormed through the door and headed straight to her room. Her mother and sister knew better than to ask what was wrong. They allowed her time to unload her backpack, stamp her feet, scream into a pillow, and finally emerge with a grumble of contentment. It was only then that they proceeded with the question. The rant lasted a mere ten minutes. The first time. Abigail said her piece at a decibel level not entirely damaging to the ears and simply left the room.

And then came the double back; “I just find it funny how…”

That rant lasted much longer.

Eventually, her mother managed to get a word in.

“But what did your classmates think?” Gloria placed a hand over her daughter’s.

“Not much. As if they’d disagree with him!” Abigail’s tone was initially harsh. She took a deep breath and continued, “they all wrote some feedback. I couldn’t look”.

She left and returned moments later carrying a small pile of papers. Together she and her mother rifled through them. She was right. Most people had either written nothing or had copied her lecturer’s comments verbatim. She was just about to set out on rant number three when some particularly elegant handwriting caught her eye.

“How about some chamomile?” Gloria asked, she had seen the look on Abigail’s face and was preparing for the next outburst.

Indeed, a cup of tea would be perfect to calm, perhaps even soothe, her disgruntled spirit. But this feeling was no longer disgruntlement. No. This was vindication.

“I’ll take a double strength coffee thanks, mum.”

Gloria was met with an exquisite mess as she pushed open the door to her daughter’s bedroom the following morning. She had awoken at 2 am and noticed the lamplight still trickling underneath the doorway accompanied by the faint tap-tapping of a keyboard. It was a familiar sight. By now the lamplight was enveloped by the mid-morning glow mounting behind the curtains and illuminating the scene below. Papers were strewn across the floor; some scrunched and thrown away, and others pushed to the side as though a thought had come mid-sentence and just had to be written down immediately. There were pages with only minor edits, pages with most of the sentences crossed out, and others with simply lists of words.

At the centre of it all, slept Abigail; her legs spread in the most uncomfortable looking directions, her hair plastered to her face, and her hand resting upon an open laptop. Gloria stepped into the room, trying her very best to avoid crushing any papers. She pried the laptop from her daughter’s hand and double-tapped the spacebar. The screen jumped to life. She pushed her glasses firmly onto her nose and read:

The Arch of Sunset: An Original Story by Abigail Skye

Chapter One: The Comings and Goings of Henrietta Hambleton

Gloria did not need to read it all. She had edited and re-edited this piece just days ago before Abigail’s class. Although she presumed from the mess, Abigail had made some substantial edits of her own. The chapter had been published to a small writing community website which Abigail had often talked about, but which her mother had been cautious of. Gloria squinted. It had received 20 odd likes overnight and a few positive comments – a good result, she thought. Her daughter would not agree.

“A package arrived for you,” Gloria began as Abigail finally emerged from her bedroom some hours later, “I think it might be your textbook”.

Abigail seized the package and ripped it open. It was not a textbook. Rather, a small note lay atop a mound of confetti. She read:

$20,000? The second chapter? Abigail picked up the box and tipped its contents onto the bench. Her mother, looking over her shoulder, gasped. Sure enough, two thick bundles of $100 notes fell onto the benchtop. Abigail too gasped. She wasn’t sure whether this was because of the money or her mother’s tightening grip on her shoulder. She knew what was coming.

“I’m not sure about this honey,” Gloria said in a whisper.

“Of course you’re not,” Abigail sounded harsher than she had intended.

“You don’t know who this person is – they could be dangerous.”

“Or they could be harmless. Anyhow, it’s not like I can give the money back.”

“You could turn it in.”

Their back and forth continued for what felt to Abigail like hours – precious time she could be using to write. Gloria only gave in when Abigail’s father poked his head in and said that there could hardly be any harm in at least letting her write the second chapter.

And so, a second night-full of scribbling and tap-tapping ensued.

The following morning brought forth a very similar scenario. Lamplight. Scattered papers. And another delivery. Gloria woke her daughter immediately and a bleary-eyed Abigail entered the kitchen moments later. Abigail seized the package, opened it, and pulled out a little black book. It was leather-bound with an antique style clasp, and a note attached. She read:

So, it began. Abigail would handwrite each chapter in the little black book and leave it in her letterbox for her mystery person to collect. They, in turn, would write notes in the margins, and then return the book to the letterbox within a few days. Their notes were never deprecating or haughty, but rather helpful edits and ideas such as…

Or…

Or sometimes they would simply circle a word or two and suggest alternatives. The first time they did this Abigail made all the suggested edits word for word and sent it back. She was shocked to receive the next reply:

Abigail smiled.

The back and forth between the pair went on for months. Abigail attended her classes at the university, handing in assessments which she couldn’t stand to read but which she knew her lecturer wanted. But the true magic happened inside that little black book. When both parties were happy with a chapter, Abigail would type it out and upload it to the website alongside the first. With each upload her little following grew and grew – and so did her confidence. At first, Abigail would wait for the all-clear from her mystery editor, but eventually, she remembered what they had said:

So, she did.

It was nearing the new year as Abigail moved into the final chapter. She knew it was naturally drawing to a close, but she was worried. What would happen when she finished? Would everything just…stop? She didn’t like to think about it – so she just kept writing.

One hot and sticky summers morning, Abigail approached the letterbox to receive the edit for her final chapter. The pavement burned beneath her feet and the grass provided no relief as she jumped to it, only to receive a foot full of bindis.

As she opened the letterbox, her heart sank to her stomach. No book. She had left the book in there for her mystery editor to collect four days ago. An edit had never taken this long before. The rational side of her brain told her that of course, this chapter would take longer – it had to be perfect. But the conspiracist side was working in overdrive – maybe this was their plan all along; wait until it’s finished, keep the final copy, and claim it as their own. Abigail shook the image from her head.

She spent most of that day pacing the house and doing little else. Three or four times she went out to check the letterbox – just in case. Nothing. She checked a final time, just as the sky was beginning to darken. Still nothing. As she re-entered the house, she noticed her father was watching the news. She usually hated that he would, but today she wanted a distraction.

The reporter was out the front of the local hospital, red and blue lights flashing behind her.

“Local crime kingpin Alfie Stephanatoli is in critical condition but is expected to pull through following a shooting in the early hours of the morning,” the reporter was saying.

“The shot, which otherwise would have been fatal was remarkably slowed by a little black book in Stephanatoli’s breast pocket.”

Abigail’s father turned his head. Her mother poked hers in from the kitchen.

“Authorities, who have been after Stephanatoli for some years now, hoped, somewhat optimistically, that the book would contain the mob leader's ledger,” the reporter continued, “alas, it appears to be some sort of novel in the works.”

“Doctors are calling it the story that saved his life.”