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charleygirliansmomesq will probably remember this one. A rare foray into deliberate humour for me! :)Title: The Secret Diary of Phylida Mason
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG, for some language
Type: Gen, humour
Characters Involved/Pairing: Mrs Mason, Maria, Hornblower, Bush, Pellew, Styles
Summary: Mrs Mason's thoughts during Loyalty and Duty
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters - they belong to CSF/A&E. I just play with them from time to time.
Author's note: Mrs Mason was christened Phylida by Barbara Flynn.
MONDAY
What was I drinking last night? I should never have mixed my drinks. Guinness, rum and Ribena and Babycham are a lethal combination! Head feels like the
Found out that Mr H has been visiting the pawn shop again. Sneaked a look in his sea chest - nothing there besides some old underwear, a shirt that needs darning and a rubber duck. I'd wondered why he wanted a bath so often. What do you mean, a landlady should respect her lodgers' privacy? How else am I to know when I'm likely to be paid?
Mr H owes me fifteen shillings, so nobbled his chest as security, not that it's worth much.
Kept the rubber duck.
Note to self: must get Maria to buy some more booze - that barrel of gin's never going to last until the weekend.
TUESDAY AFTERNOON
Maria forgot the grog, stupid girl. Sent her out again, this time with a note and the money attached to her mittens and securely threaded through her sleeves on a piece of string.
Return of Mr H, after mooching around town all day. Brings a little friend with him this time (I didn't realised he had any, but there you are, it takes all sorts), and declares, bold as you like, that his guest is going to stay the night! Oh-ho, so it's like that, is it? Not under my roof, sonny Jim - had quite enough of that with Mr Mason. He may have claimed that he didn't realise the girl called Deirdre - six foot two with veins like anchor cables - I caught him with at the Lamb and Flag was a man, but what about that tattoo on his arm, the one that said 'Phillip'? Dyslexic tattoo artist my *rse!
Get a proper look at this 'friend' of Mr H's. Holy Moly, he's gorgeous! What the hell's he doing hanging around with Mr Scarecrow here? And wonders will never cease - he says he doesn't mind paying in advance! Lovely deep voice, speaks just like a proper gentleman, too. I try the 'shilling for the bed, can't wash the sheets for less', and lo and behold there's a shilling in my hand. And look at those fingers - wouldn't mind them running through my...*ahem* Try to catch them but he's too quick for me. Damn. Good looking and pays up front - you could be onto a good thing here, Phylida my girl! Wonder if he likes older women? I mean, he's hardly a stripling, but you are just a few years away from the big 4 0, you know.
Put on my most seductive smile and offer to show him upstairs. Once there he thanks me and shuts the door in my face.
Git.
TUESDAY EVENING
Maria's out at here evening class - tonight's subject is 'Speed-knitting For Beginners'. Decide to see if Mr B would like to join me for a little drinkie in the parlour. Annoyed to find that he's already gone out with Mr H. Knew I should have kept an eye on Mr H - too clever by half. What Maria sees in him I'll never know. Feel sorry for myself - down half a bottle of scotch and a quart of gin, just to take the edge off.
TUESDAY NIGHT/WEDNESDAY MORNING
Am woken from a quite pleasant stupor, during which I was happily imagining Mr B with his kit off, by the slamming of the front door.
They're back! Right, that's it, they're for it now. What time do they call this? Find all four of them in the hall, having a right old giggle about something. It's obvious that they're p*ssed as newts. So they've got money to spend on drinking, but not on their rent, have they? That's what they think! I have overheads, you know!
Of course they take affront at my scolding. One of the Mr Bs called me drunk! Drunk! Me!! Such insolence! I haven't even started yet!
Tell them Mr M would throw them out - not strictly true since he'd be the first with his head down the privy, but it sounds good. None of them are impressed with that.
Maria appears, the silly cow, and tries to tell me off. I tell her where to go. Then to my amazement, one of the Mr Hs gives me a handful of money! What the hell did he have to pawn to get that? Look to check all his limbs are present and correct and wonder what a pawnbroker offers for a kidney these days. Wait, it's more than he owes...oh, sh*t, he's giving me a week's notice! Hang on, if you're going to pay like that -
One of the Mr Bs tries to persuade his friend to leave. Gives me the evil eye and gets all growly, which, although he's being rude to me, is actually quite a turn on. I bet he's a demon in bed. Better than Mr M, at any rate, who never once took his socks off in thirty-one years of marriage.
It's all over in a few minutes - Maria talks the object of her affection into staying. He's a pushover - oh, hell, please tell me he's not gooey over her! It's bad enough watching one mooning around like a lovesick calf!
Watch the Mr Bs climb the stairs. God, I bet there's a couple of nice arses under all that fabric! Why do men wear so many clothes? Are they scared of women ogling them or something? Take 'em off! Take 'em all off!
Maria offers to put me to bed. No, thank you, miss! I know who I want in my bed!
Creep up to the attic room when everyone's gone to sleep only to find they've locked the door.
B*gger.
WEDNESDAY MORNING
Wake up at the foot of the stairs with a pounding head and a mouth that tastes like the floor of a stable, just in time to see Mr B coming down. He's got his coat over his arm, and he's carrying his bag - he's leaving then. Don't cut a very dignified figure sprawled on the floor with a bottle in my hand - he gives me a disdainful look from on high. Jesus, he's gorgeous. Why couldn't Mr M have looked like that, instead of the back end of a donkey?
"Good morning, madam," he says in that wonderful voice, full of contempt. I would say something cutting to bring him down a peg or two, but I'm too busy getting an eyeful of that fine arse as he steps over me. Oh, I knew it was there, and very nice it is too.
The door bangs shut behind him, but I don't care. He'll be back. He won't find a cheaper lodging house in
Now, where's the gin?
SATURDAY
At last! Finally getting Maria out of the house! Never thought I’d get her off my hands – any bloke she’s brought home has for some reason never been heard of again. No idea why – maybe they just can’t handle my scintillating wit and fascinating conversation. Their loss.
Start planning a party for when Maria’s gone. Wonder if I can persuade Mr B round on the pretext of asking him to put up those shelves in the bedroom that Mr M promised he’d do fifteen years ago, and which are still standing in the corner catching on my skirts. Not that they’ll get anywhere near the wall if I have my way…
Maria tells me that since Horry (as she’s begun to call him – must try it myself, can see how much it annoys him) will be going back to sea straight away they won’t have time to go house hunting so she’ll be coming right back home. No honeymoon, either.
B*ll*cks.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
Church is half empty. Being such a popular and outgoing person, I naturally have so many friends it was always going to be difficult to fit them all in, but as for my soon-to-be son-in-law…sheesh! Couldn’t he have made some sort of effort? Dragged a few people in off the street? Even some of his smelly sailors would do, but this is embarrassing! As we walk in he looks as though he’s about to make a run for it. Give him a smile of triumph as we pass – ha! Gotcha now, my boy, you can’t back out!
Make eyes at Mr B while the vicar drones on and on. Unfortunately he’s not looking in my direction, probably trying to remember what he’s done with the ring. He’s looking a bit worried, at any rate. Looks very smart and dashing in that uniform and as for the length of his sword…
Ceremony’s over, and Maria’s hitched herself to the idiot. And he is one, too, even if he is a captain. Have to remind him to kiss his bride, for Pete’s sake! Honestly – men!
Appropriate Mr B’s arm on the way out of the church. He mutters something about having to see to a ‘guard of honour’ outside, but once I’ve got hold of him I’m not letting go. Take a tight grip so he can’t slip away. Good strong arm muscles – might get him to put up those shelves after all.
Turns out the guard of honour is a bunch of smelly sailors with swords. Maria’s over the moon with this, but I’m less than impressed. More interested in listening to Mr B shouting his orders – God, what a sexy, manly growl that is! Come to Phylida, Bushie, I’ll make you growl, oh yes! Wind takes hold of his coat tails and have to retreat behind a tombstone for a quick slug of scotch from the hip flask in my handbag. Oh, to have those cute little buns on permanent display…
***
Champagne reception at the George – going up in the world now that my daughter’s married a captain. Unfortunately, champagne’s all there is – sends bubbles up my nose but otherwise has no effect on me whatsoever. Who’s running the bar here, the Methodists? I demand some booze!! Take a quick swig from my flask and tip the rest into the fruit punch to liven things up. Been to funerals with more atmosphere!
Corner Mr B by the buffet table. The champers has loosened him up enough to get him to tell a couple of naughty anecdotes. Mention the shelves but he doesn’t bite, tells me to make sure I use a spirit level and a decent screwdriver. Decide to be more direct. Try rubbing my foot suggestively up his leg – he backs away into the dresser and almost puts his elbow in the sherry trifle. Gives Horatio a pleading look as though he wants to be rescued, but Horry’s too busy being dripped all over by his missus. Ha! It’s just you and me, Mr B! Slide my foot up a bit further and lean against him – he turns bright red, but can’t push me away as he’s got a glass in one hand and his hat in the other. All ready to get cosy over the canapés when Maria turns up and announces it’s time to cut the cake. She’s also mislaid her husband. That didn’t take long! Tell her to sod off- can’t she see how close I am to a truly groin-grindingly gorgeous man? - but Mr B’s squirming away, saying he’ll go and find the errant spouse. B*gger!!
Captain Twit is found, and cake-cutting begins. Suggest they do what anyone who’s anyone in the smoke is doing and use his sword – got to be seen to keep up with fashion, don’t want anyone to think I might be a nobody – but wonder a moment too late whether he’s cleaned the wretched thing. Don’t want to eat wedding cake that’s been cut with a sword used to skewer the parts of Frenchmen other cutlery can’t reach! Mr B looks blank – he’s keeping his distance now. Damn. Try to sidle up to him but someone comes up behind us. Look round and oh my giddy Aunt Hilda, it’s the admiral! The admiral, at my daughter’s wedding! And he wants to propose the toast! Now that’s class! Take that, Molly Peacock and your ‘my husband once took a leak alongside David Garrick’!
Grab another glass of champers and knock it back. Might be getting a taste for this stuff. The admiral’s talking to me – to me! His gold lace is doing funny things to my eyes. Ask if there’s any chance captains can take their wives with them aboard ship – he laughs, but I’m serious! Only senior captains, apparently. Damn.
Mr B is making his escape – catch him in the doorway and aim a pinch at that lovely round butt. He almost jumps three feet in the air. Give him a saucy wink and ask if he’d like to come back to my place for a coffee. He mumbles about having to return to the ship, and goes that fetching shade of pink again – actually, that’s just the colour I was trying to find for the upstairs curtains, but that’s not getting me what I want, which is a right old seeing to from this hunk of a man! I can’t be putting out the wrong signals – does he not understand me or something? Does he not find a youthful thirty-something, all dolled up in her Sunday best (not many people can wear puce, you know, but I can carry it off), who’s gagging for it, an attractive proposition?!
A huge great lug of a sailor appears and says Mr B’s needed back at the ship. Damn all sailors and their bloody boats!! Mr M was always the same. I blame giving ‘em toy boats to play with in the bath, I really do. The look of relief on Mr B’s face is somewhat insulting – what’s the matter with me, eh? I’ve still got a hell of a lot of life left in me, y’know! He smiles and tells the lug that he’ll be right there. Watch the two of them carefully, and don’t miss the glance they exchange. Oh, crap, please tell me it’s not like that! I know they spend years cooped up together without a woman in sight, but please, not this one! Come to Phylida, Mr B! I’ll make you change your mind!
But he’s off now, giving me the smile and the ‘good day to you, madam’, as though I hadn’t been that close to getting into his trousers. Even walks off with a spring in his step, if you please, that big lug at his heels. No accounting for taste, I suppose. Sod you, then, Mr B; you don’t know what you’re missing!
Catch one of the waiters with the champers and demand something stronger. He comes back with a glass and a bottle of bleach. Ho ho, very funny, my lad. Take the bottle of champagne instead, and grab an extra glass. I can see gold lace and a Garter star heading for the door.
Oh, Sir Edward…how about a nightcap?
