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Happy Birthday, Princess Anne The Princess Royal. Hip Hip Hooray!

The Sergeant Major barks more commands. This is a full-bore Military event. There are no civilian dignitaries present, although there are plenty of civilians.

       The Princess Royal is not going to inspect troops. She stands in silence, looking at a stand of trees and masses of people. Fred wonders what she is pondering. She thinks it has something to do with hearing ‘God Save The King’. The Princess Royal has helped bury two of them – and a Queen.

       “Sergeant Major?”

       “Ma’am.” The Sergeant Major is startled, but never too startled for words.

       “Put them at ease.”

       Even a Sergeant Major can not be prepared for everything, but the Sergeant Major acts immediately to the unexpected and strange request. He bellows his exact and time-worn orders, and both troops and band return to at-ease positions.

       “Fred, let’s take a look at this Memorial.”

       “Yes, Ma’am.”

       The Princess Royal gestures for both her Aide-de-Camp, and the General waiting in the wings, to accompany them. Fred knows HRH desires this event be as simple as possible, but she doubts local officials anticipated anything this simple. Even the couple thousand standing on the grass, walkways, and among the trees, sense this is a unique event. There is barely a murmur.

       Winnifred Mayhew Cudgel feels that something should be said. They should be seen to be talking. Such silence is, quite frankly, weird.

       “This is all for a horse?” Fred knows the answer, but doesn’t know what The Princess Royal really thinks.

       “Oh, so much more.” She looks at Fred. “A horse of hope. At war’s end, a horse of triumph.”

       Fred now knows what is going on. The horse, named Princess Louise after the regiment that found her, had been wounded on a battlefield in Italy. It had been found in a field standing beside its dead mother. Members of the regiment, so many of them farm boys from the country, spirited the horse away. Tended to its wounds. Fed and watered it. Put it into an enclosed truck and took it wherever they went.

       Officers pretended to know nothing.

       At war’s end, Princess Louise, alive and healthy, was put on a ship and ended in New York. From New York she was transported to Saint John, and from Saint John twenty miles away she ended her trip in Hampton, where she got a bale of hay, a bag of oats and was made a ‘naturalized Canadian’. She was given the “. . .  God-given right to trample and eat from any and all vegetable gardens.” She died at 29 in 1973, and is buried at The Princess Royal’s feet.

       “A mascot,” says Fred.

       “And, I think, a friend.” The Princess Royal chuckles. “They say she liked some whiskey and beer.”

       “Sounds like a good life.”

       “Eventually – yes.”

       The Princess Royal’s Aide de Camp approaches, accompanied by an older man.

       “Your Royal Highness, this is Mr. Finton. He looked after Princess Louise the last years of her life.”

       “I’d call her Lou.”

       “Hello, Mr. Finton.” The Princess Royal extends her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

       “But always Princess Louise around other people.”

       “I understand.”

       “She was special.” Mr. Finton glances at Fred, glances at the Aide de Camp. “There was always respect paid.”

       “That is appreciated.”

       “I have something for you.”

       “Oh, yes?”

       Fred and the Aide de Camp look far more surprised than The Princess Royal. This was not part of any plan. Winnifred Mayhew Cudgel likes to create surprises – likes to spring them for effect – but she doesn’t enjoy them.

       “I understand you like horses.”

       “I do.”

       “Then Princess Louise would feel good if you have this.”

         Mr. Finton reaches toward an inside pocket of his jacket. Fred notices members of the Security Detail tense up and move closer. The Aide de Camp immediately puts himself between The Princess Royal and the man. Fred remembers that she is to duck and cover. Endeavour has told her often enough. And to roll. He has even made an interesting game out of it.

       Mr. Finton takes out a hand-sized package, wrapped in brown paper. There is twine around it, tied into a neat bow at the top,

       “I hope that you will like this, your Royal Highness. I think you can get nothing more personal.”

       Unexpected gifts are not to be given, and certainly not to be received. It could be dangerous. It could be insulting. It could be embarrassing. The Princess Royal does not hesitate to take it in her hands.

       But then, she gives it directly back.

       “Perhaps you will undo it.”

       “Yes, your Royal Highness.”

       Mr. Finton retrieves the package without looking at her. He is slow to untie the knot, but pays attention to no one around him. Perhaps he has forgotten them. The hundreds of people have gone silent. The only sound is the breeze through the trees.

       Holding the twine in one hand, he hands back the package.

       “I apologize for any inconvenience.”

       “Think nothing of it.” She looks directly into his eyes. “These gloves were not made for untying string.”

       The Princess Royal takes the package and opens up the brown paper. Inside is a commercial blue jeweller’s box, with a store name and the image of a diamond imprinted on it.

       “Are we to be engaged?”

       Mr. Finton is momentarily at a loss, then barks out a deep laugh.

       “Lord love a duck.” He shakes his head. “No, no, no.” He covers his mouth as another laugh escapes. “It’s the only decent box I could find.”

       “My husband will be glad to hear that.”

       The Princess Royal shifts her shoulder bag, then opens the box.

       “My God.” The Princess Royal laughs. “Straight from the horses’ mouth.”

       “It was one of her favourites.”

       The Princess Royal takes it from the box. She shows it to Fred.

       “It’s a mullen.”

       “Ma’am?” Winnifred Mayhew Cudgel is at a loss for words – an unusual state for her to be in. She has seen nothing like the object in her life.

       “A horse’s bit, held inside the animal’s mouth to control the reins.”        “I tried a number over a co

of years.” Mr. Finton rubs the metal. He glances at Fred and then looks at The Princess Royal. “I could tell this was the most comfortable.”

       “Did you ever ride Princess Louise, Mr. Finton[?’

       “I wasn’t supposed to.”

       “But?”

       “I was to exercise her every day. She was stabled out at a farm, some miles from here. Big pasture. Just walking seemed to be a bore.”

       “For you?”

       “Well – yes.” Mr. Finton pauses. “But, I think, for both of us.” He speaks quickly. “And I knew some of the soldiers had ridden her in Italy, when she was healed.”

       “Did she like it?” Fred is curious.

       “Yes.” Mr. Finton turns to her. “Absolutely.” He looks back to The Princess Royal. “Always gave me a nudge every day after that.” He has a smile on his face. “Always a gentle ride, mind. She was no filly.”

       “My mother liked to keep riding.” The Princess Royal smiles. “She was no filly, either.”

       “She was a great woman.” Mr. Finton bows his head.

       “Yes.” The Princess Royal puts the mullen back into the box. “She was.”

       The Princess Royal steps forward a few steps to look closely at the memorial. She has complete interest in what she reads, but this is also the signal that the event is coming to a close. Her Aide de Camp and the security detail prepare to leave. Discrete orders are spoken into microphones. Some car engines start on the street.

~ Dale Estey

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How Does Kafka Feel When He Becomes A Dead Man Walking?

In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in **missing** diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. It is estimated Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote. I am as accurate as I can be in my timeline

11 August 1917

              I went to the office as usual. I was still coughing, and took extra handkerchiefs. The Director asked if I had a cold, and I told him I wasn’t sure. That certainly was true – I wasn’t sure what I had. When I met Max in the afternoon, he was horrified when I told him what had happened to me. And angry with me – genuinely angry. He told me that I was stupid.

     I’m sure it’s a word he has never used in relation to me. Stupid.

     I was astounded, and my surprise was such that I started coughing again. This made Max propel me all the more rapidly to the doctor. I feel that doctors are never really to be trusted. But sometimes, they are necessary. There had been so much blood.

I suppose that is what woke me – the coughing – or else I might have choked on it. Or even drowned in my own blood.

     I had to sit on the edge of the bed and grope for the light cord, to find out what this wetness was on my face and hands. Even then, I was more surprised than startled. I was wondering more how to stop the mess, than anxious about its cause. Blood from my throat, pumping out of my mouth. I slipped off the pillowcase, and tried to use it as a gag, coughing and spitting into it while trying to wipe my face. This gushing stream from my mouth did not seem to be stopping however, so I warily made my way to the sink. Even the usually chattering maid was subdued this morning, as she tried to scour the porcelain and the walls.  “Herr Doktor,” she said. “You don’t have long for this world.”  But at the time, the minutes had certainly seemed long when I had been leaning over the sink, one hand steadying myself against the wall while my gasping and spitting seemed to turn everything red. It was a relief to finally get to sleep. I felt I had really earned it.  

     Of course, this afternoon the doctor took his time prodding and peering, asking the most obvious questions while Max fretted like a parent. And took the doctor seriously. The questions about the blood seemed to disturb him. And the doctor was full of questions – wanting to know about the pain, and the amount of blood, and its duration. Had anything like this happened before? Any incidents in my family? Had I received any recent blows to the face or neck? Had I tried to eat or drink since it happened? Was I dizzy, or short of breath? Did I have headaches? Actually, this was the only time he seemed to take an interest in my answers. I mentioned that after the incident had happened, a headache which I had for days finally disappeared. I was able to sleep peacefully the rest of the night.

     He then rattled off words like thoracic dual apices, hemorrhage, and catarrh, and gave me two bottles of medicine to take at alternate times of the day. And that was that. Examination over and we’re out in the street. Max also expressed some reservations about the diagnosis, and suggested I should see a specialist. As he walked me back to work at the Institute, I at least had reason for not taking an active part in the conversation. I noticed that one prominent word was prominently absent from all discussion.

     Tuberculosis.

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Kafka Hauls Ass Out Of Vienna, A City He Had A Deep Hate For

In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in **missing** diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. It is estimated Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote. I am as accurate as I can be in my timeline. On these July days in 1917, in reality, he travelled to Vienna. He filled in no diary entries, but I have him express opinions he mentioned elsewhere.

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17 July 1917

            Vienna – a city which I hate. The forced gaiety of the people is as cloying to me as the rich desserts which gag my mouth. They live on the borderline with death, and their sweat reeks of terror. It drips onto their ghastly cakes as they peer across the table to see what their companions have. “Shit in; shit out,” as my father would say.

18 July 1917

           I took a night train from Vienna. Not only was it the quickest conveyance available, but I did not have to look at the wretched city in the dark. It’s not a place of dreams, but of nightmares. But, perhaps it was foolish to flee, since my destination is a nightmare.

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Kafka Goes On The Road To See Death

18 February 1917

               A drive to the country, to see the dying.

A man from my childhood. We could have been porters in the station, with other people’s luggage, so little did he care.

There was no pretence at conversation, he did not even feign an interest. He had gone into himself, and death patiently awaited his return.

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How Will Kafka Fill In The TIME?

In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. It is estimated that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote. 

Here Franz contemplates his long days to fill, after his beloved sister, Ottla, fled their parents house in Prague for a farm in a village.

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01 July 1917

           A weekend which stretched endlessly. Long walks, but without Ottla. I would like to avoid the places where we went – but there would be little walking left to me. Instead I take a long walk into the country, and am at least a few kilometres closer to her.

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Will Kafka Save His Sister From Their Father?

In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. It is estimated that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote. 

In this entry, Franz’s father, after vicious opposition to his daughter moving out of the family house, asks Franz to help coax her back.

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29 June 1917

           Felice is insistent. The heat is intolerable. The Institute drags me in like a bad novel, and smothers me in verbiage. 

          Max threatens to walk out on his wife. Of course, it is to me he gives this threat – I doubt he would ever tell her. 

          Father, with time to think about it, has declared Ottla is too thin and weakened. He was right, he says, the farm work is too much for her. We must all band together to get her back into Prague. “Isn’t that right, Franz?” No `Herr Son’ when he wants something. 

          Bring her back to Prague? After she has escaped? No and never. 

          I would attempt to free the vilest creature crawling in the sewers of Prague.  

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Will Kafka Have Some Success on Father’s Day?

In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. It is estimated that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote. 

On this day from Kafka In The Castle, Kafka spent the afternoon with his father – an unusual event. And he even had a beer – he was not much of a drinker. But his estranged sister, Ottla, was coming to visit. Her parting with her father months before had been vicious. Kafka hopes to make her visit passable.

***************************************

25 June 2017

We are rarely alone with each other, and the strain was palpable. I wanted to act as normally as possible, but since my usual conversation is what generally infuriates him, that seemed unwise. 

We read the newspapers, and I managed enough comments about the articles, and elicited his tiresome opinions about the war, and didn’t argue with him too much, that the afternoon – although slow – passed with little rancour. 

I even had a beer with him, and he showed his surprise. And, I even enjoyed it – but then, I had earned it.

In fact, it may have been the unaccustomed alcohol which lessened the shock of seeing Ottla enter the apartment with mother. Father stood from his chair, the newspapers falling at his feet. “Ottla has an hour before she must catch her train,” said Mother. “I have asked her in for some tea.” Father glared at her for an excessively long minute without speaking, managing however to give me an occasional menacing glance. He then abruptly sat again, gathering his papers and holding them in front of his face. “Don’t give her too much,” came his voice from behind the pages. “Too much tea can make a long journey uncomfortable.” I knew that he had already read the pages he held, and I wondered what he was thinking.

About ten minutes passed, and then mother came back and asked if we would like any tea. “Yes,” my father answered, but instead of waiting for it to be brought to him, as is his usual practice, he followed mother into the dining room. 

And I followed him. 

Ottla didn’t look up, but he did manage to ask some questions about the farm, and she delivered some cautious replies. She stayed another twenty minutes, then I walked her to the station. It had been mother’s idea to come home, and Ottla had not strongly resisted. I know that she and father will never apologize to each other, but at least they now speak. 

Once we were out of sight of the house, she gripped my hand and held it until we reached the train. 

“How can I love that monster?” she asked from the train as it pulled away. 

“How can you not?” I replied. I hope the noise from the wheels drowned out my words.

26 June 1917

Fight and you die. Surrender and you die.

27 June 1917

Live and you die.

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Is Kafka Correct About The Dead?

In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.

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17 June 1917

            I am told that you can’t lose people, that “…they will always be with you in memory.” Max is heavy with this type of comment – as if the hand of sentimentality brushed off his coat before he set out on each day. Both the intelligent and the slow of wit seem to be struck dumb by this nonsense. Emotion, I suppose  – hope, I suppose – has no place for reason among its folds. But, if you can not touch, or have expectation of being touched, then the people and places are as gone as yesterday. There is no way to travel back, and the future beckons with only an empty gesture and a hollow laugh. Bowing low at the open doorway to usher you in, but the room is empty. And will remain ever so. When they are no longer there to hold their hand out to you – well, then they are no longer there.

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Since Kafka Writes So Many Letters, Does He Become A Bore?

   In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.

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10 June 1917

           I find I am writing the same letters. Saying the same things. Even using the same words. Perhaps to prove that they are the same thoughts. Over and over like a child hawking his newspapers on the street. Yet, he has more success, for I can not sell. I can not even give away.

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