Mid-Monday fiction... finally.

Sorry to all of you who have been waiting for the story - I was sidetracked by the White Rose Centre.
On a separate note, my Advent Box gift today is superb; a hand-stitched brooch in wonderful colours!

Difficult to know what to give you, today - it's so near Christmas but I don't have anything suitably festive...
This story was written after a discussion of which invention has been important to me and got me thinking about possible unseen repercussions...

‘The Writers’ Friend’

‘Good evening, Bethan.  And how has your day been?’

Bethan turned from her battered Davenport to smile at her brother.  He stood in the doorway of the parlour, one hand still on the door handle, waiting to be invited in.

‘A strange mixture of exciting and dull,’ she told him.  ‘Are you coming in, David, or not?’

‘For a moment only,’ he said, coming to perch on the arm of the sofa near where she was seated at the Davenport. ‘I’m off out again. How’s the hand today?’

Bethan gave a grimace of frustration as she massaged the heel of her right hand and her wrist.

‘Painful, I’m afraid.  It slows me, and makes my handwriting so atrocious as to be almost illegible! Why, I had a letter this morning – let me read it to you – which begins, ‘My dear Stone’, - you see, he thinks I am Mr John Stone, rather than Miss Johnstone -  however, ‘My dear Stone’…’

‘Wait a moment.  From whom have you been receiving letters?’

‘That’s the exciting part of the day – you know I told you I had sent a little something to the offices of ‘The Reader’s Frende’ for publication – well…’

‘Bethan? You have not had your piece accepted? But…’

Bethan cleared her throat and once more began reading from the letter before her.

‘…I am writing to express my appreciation for your story, ‘The Quiet Street’, which I am sure our readers will enjoy…’

‘You have! Well done, Bethan! I knew you were good enough!’

Bethan smiled warmly up at him.

‘Thank you, David! He will have more of my work, he says, if there is some.  But…’

‘But your hand still pains you. Well, it will heal if you keep on with your exercises.’  David dropped a fraternal kiss on the top of her head.  ‘I must be off – Lucas has promised me a tour of his new business!’

The problem of Bethan and her writing was still with him when he knocked on the shiny black door of his friend’s new venture, a steam-powered printing press (‘I won the deeds in a card game, please not to tell Father,’ Lucas had confided).

‘It’s all very wonderful!’ David said, looking about him at the great, black beasts of machines hissing and snorting like mechanical dragons all about him.  ‘What will you use it for?’

‘Humbert – you remember Humbert? – he has a broadsheet he wants me to bring out. And several publishing companies are already our clients.’  Lucas pulled a sheet of impeccably-printed typeface from the top of a pile.  ‘Every one the same and every one perfect!’

David frowned in thought as he followed Lucas around the rest of the premises.

‘You’re very quiet today, old fellow.  Anything wrong at home?’

‘Hmm? Oh, no, no… well, m’sister’s hand… I was wondering… can these contraptions of yours print off just one of something?’

‘Well, of course it could! But it would be rather wasteful; we can make more than a hundred copies an hour, you know…’ 

David laughed. ‘Of course, of course! But there’s my sister with a damaged wrist and desperate to write, and here are you with these wonderful things!’ He dipped his hand into a tray full of tiny, backwards letters.  ‘If there was just some way Bethan might put these letters onto her page instead of a pen…’

Lucas grinned.

‘If you promise to invite me to supper so I can meet the lady, I’ll see what I can do…’

It was some weeks later that a knock at the front door brought Lucas and a large, heavy box into David and Bethan’s parlour.

‘Lucas! You’ve never done the thing?’ David exclaimed, surprise and delight in his voice. 

‘Come, take a look.’ Lucas, eyes bright with anticipation, beckoned his friend over. ‘Miss Johnstone? This may well concern you closely, so…’

‘In what way can it concern me? David?’

Lucas unfolded the sides of the box to reveal a large, heavy block of wrought iron with dozens of levers and buttons and keys.

‘My dear Miss Johnstone. When your brother told me you required a way of writing without having to use a pen, I took it upon myself to make this machine, which I hope will be of service to you… if you care to see…’

Lucas fed some paper into the device by twirling a large wheel at the side of it, clipped it under a restraining wire, and began hitting buttons in sequence. With a click and clack not dissimilar to someone dropping cutlery, levers moved keys and small, neat lettering began to appear on the paper.

‘But this is marvellous!’  Bethan exclaimed.  ‘How wonderful!’

‘Lucas, this is really the very thing I was looking for!’ David put in. ‘Is it difficult to operate?’

‘No, not at all,’ Lucas straightened up.  ‘In fact, if Miss Johnstone would be willing, I would be happy to teach her the rudiments.  I call it my ‘Automatic Handwriter’.

‘But that’s an abominable name!’ Bethan protested with a laugh.  ‘I shall call it my Writers’ Friend’!’

‘Well, then, Miss Johnstone,’ Lucas said.  ‘If it will be convenient for you, I shall be here in the morning to give you your first instructions.’

Bethan was a quick learner, and under Lucas’ patient tuition, was mistress of the Writers’ Friend within a week (although Lucas still kept calling, just in case, as he put it, the Writers’ Friend should be in need of alteration.

One morning, some six weeks after he had delivered his first tutorial, he arrived at the Johnstone household to find it in some confusion; David was striding about the parlour muttering imprecations under his breath whilst Bethan, looking pale and not a little distraught, tried to calm him and compose herself.

‘But, my friends! Whatever is the matter?’ Lucas asked.

The siblings exchanged glances.

‘Bethan has had a letter, David said.  ‘From that confounded publisher of ‘The Readers’ Frende’.  After having led my poor sister to believe he would willingly publish any more of her work that she chose to share with him, he has now taken it upon himself…’

‘If you will let me read the letter,’ Bethan suggested.

‘Please do – if it will not distress you too much?’

With a sigh, she shook her head and began to read.

‘‘My dear Miss Johnstone,’ she began. ‘ ‘Firstly, I wish to apologise for having addressed you, in error, as Stone in our previous correspondence.  This was due to an error on my part, a misreading of your handwriting’ – it was true,’ Bethan interrupted herself, ‘that it was particularly bad at that time due to my injury – ‘but now that I know I have been corresponding with a lady, I feel it is my duty, as a Christian and a father, to point out to you the impropriety of a young lady such as yourself attempting to seek payment for publication of literary works. To this end, I must regretfully decline your enclosed story, ‘The Green Garden’ and implore you to take up more ladylike pastimes in the future.

‘I remain, etc, etc…’