Today's Topics:

1. James Drake, here, testing (Jvstin)
2. And so it begins ... The Fitzroys (Mel Mason)
3. Re: And so it begins ... The Fitzroys (Mel Mason)
4. And So it Begins ... Anton (Mel Mason)
5. And so it begins ... Nola (Mel Mason)
6. Re: And so it begins ... Pamela (Dorothea Salo)
7. And So it Begins ... Braham (Tara Kunkel)


----------------------------------------------------------------------

Message: 1
Date: Wed, 8 Dec 2004 09:22:41 -0600
From: Jvstin <jvstin@...>
Subject: [MaC] James Drake, here, testing


Testing the new list (and my Gmail filter)

Please ignore.



------------------------------

Message: 2
Date: Mon, 20 Dec 2004 14:58:39 -0000
From: "Mel Mason" <goldfired@...>
Subject: [MaC] And so it begins ... The Fitzroys


Christmas Eve had dawned bright and cold. Frost rimmed the rubble of the
bombed buildings as people hurried to work. The newspaper seller who
unintelligibly called his wares outside Mansion House underground station
sent spurts of mist into the air as people hurried by on their way to work,
bundled up against the cold, relieved that - for once- their sleep had been
undisturbed by the drone of bombers overhead - and the detonation of bombs
all too close.

It was cold, too, as people came home, laden with gifts and last minute
purchases for the Christmas holidays. Last year, Britain had been in the
phoney war - there had been alarms and worries, of course, and everyone had
known the sound of air raid sirens, and had known someone who had gone away
to fight. But danger had seemed far off - and very different thing (for
those who could remember) from the grim Christmases of the Great War.

But 1940 was different. All year long had been a sequence of disasters as
one country after another had fallen into Herr Hitler's hands. The German
divisions had stormed across Europe - Denmark, Norway, the Netherlands,
Luxembourg, Belgium ... and finally France. So, as the summer came to its
height, Britain stood alone to face the might of the German Reich, its
troops evacuated in the miracle of Dunkirk, but its equipment abandoned on
the beaches.

All that stood between Britain and defeat by the seemingly German army was
the small frail Spitfires and Hurricanes of the RAF. And as the long summer
days began to fade, the Germans came again and again to win the air
superiority they needed. And again and again they were repulsed.

German superiority of the skies by day was thwarted. A slim victory had
been grasped ... but in its wake came the Blitz.

Now Londoners were becoming used to scrambling over rubble from bombed
buildings as they made their way to and from work in darkness. London was a
city of night, with no lights allowed that might guide the German bombers.
The sharp whistle and shout of the ARP wardens to "Put that light out!" was
a constant warning of the rigour with which the blackout was enforced. By
night, the only light came from the fires started by the incendiary bombs.

But there had been a lull in the raids. No-one was optimistic enough to
think that the raids were over for good (indeed, some gloomy souls were
predicting that the worse was yet to come), but it did seem that the Germans
had slackened their attacks for Christmas. Hard though it seemed to
believe, the Germans would be sitting down to their Christmas dinners and
celebrating the season of peace and goodwill - before the bombing started
again.

And in London, there was a feeling of relief that was coming very close to a
mood of celebration. For a few, brief, precious nights it seemed they would
not have to face crowding down into air raid shelters, or the improvised
barracks created in the underground stations. Tentative parties were
planned.

One such party, rather less tentative than most, was being thrown by the
London theatrical agent, Monty Fitzroy, for those - or rather most of
those - who lived in the block of luxury service flats known as Mortmain
Mansions. Invitations had been sent around to most of the inhabitants -
with one exception. Hodges, the maintenance man, had been asked to act as
wine waiter - a request that had been accompanied by a generous Christmas
tip, and the suggestion that there would be "something in it for him" if he
were able to help out.

"I don't see," said Esme Fitzroy, Monty's rather pallid wife, "why you
couldn't have hired a proper wine waiter."

She was changing into a cocktail dress of grey-mauve crepe de chine,
distinguished only by the number of wispy bows of grey silk that traced a
diagonal line up the skirt and around her narrow hips. The gown hung
loosely, as though she had lost a lot of weight since purchasing it, or that
it had once been designed for a much larger woman. Monty seemed not to
notice this - but then Monty Fitzroy (or so his detractors said) was not a
man to notice much at all. And this was even more true where his wife was
concerned.

Now he was more concerned with adjusting his bow tie around his fat, jowly
neck in front of the looking glass in their bedroom.

"Wine waiters cost money," he said. "And they whine about getting 'ome.
'Odges just 'as to nip downstairs."

Monty, unlike his wife with her genteel vocal over-corrections, made no
effort to conceal his East End origins. Born and bred in Stepney, was his
boast. Owning his first barrow at the age of fourteen after his old man
copped it. Perhaps Monty would have been a successful costermonger all his
life if some strange quirk in his nature hadn't driven the boy to haunt
music halls. There he had fallen under the aegis of Sid Norton, an old time
impresario, who had taught the boy the ropes of the business. Variety was
the breath of life to Sid, and the old music hall and variety theatre
circuits. But Monty had been a new man for a new age. He'd seen the power
of radio, and the need for compelling voices. And he had watched,
fascionated, the experiments at Alexandria Palace with the new medium,
television. Only serving the Home Counties at its inception in 1936, and
now firmly switched off for the duration of the war. But it would be back
afterwards, Monty knew - and when it was, Monty Fitzroy was going to have a
piece of it.

Esme Fitzroy sighed as she pinned a large cameo brooch at the neck of her
dress. People who knew the Fitzroys said that she had learned long ago the
unwisdom of going against her truculent spouse. Others, who perhaps knew
the mouse-like wife better, concluded that perhaps she had her own defence
.. her own way of dealing with the life force that was Monty Fitzroy.

Now he gave a final scowl at his refelction in the glass and moved toward
the door top the corridor and the living room beyond.

"'Ave to get a move on," he said. "They'll be 'ere soon. Where's 'Odges,
that what I want to know."

Left alone, Esme Fitzroy looked for a moment at the closed door that marked
her husband's departure. The she rose swiftly and walked to the jewellery
case that stood on her dressing table. With a shaking hand she unlocked it,
and then manipulated the almost invisible clasp at the back which triggered
the hidden drawer.

There, stark white against the red velvet, lay an envelope, the name and
address printed in bold capitals. Slowly she drew it out, and then opened
the flap, sliding out the single sheet of paper it contained. One thing was
visible as she did so - the subscription, in the same bold capitals.

"A Friend".



(OOC - and so it begins ...

Feel free to write your characters getting ready for the party, and arriving
at the Fitzroys' flat. Other NPC posts will be appearing shortly).






------------------------------

Message: 3
Date: Mon, 20 Dec 2004 15:10:40 -0000
From: "Mel Mason" <goldfired@...>
Subject: [MaC] Re: And so it begins ... The Fitzroys


Christmas Eve had dawned bright and cold. Frost rimmed the rubble of the
bombed buildings as people hurried to work. The newspaper seller who
unintelligibly called his wares outside Mansion House underground station
sent spurts of mist into the air as people hurried by on their way to work,
bundled up against the cold, relieved that - for once- their sleep had been
undisturbed by the drone of bombers overhead - and the detonation of bombs
all too close.

It was cold, too, as people came home, laden with gifts and last minute
purchases for the Christmas holidays. Last year, Britain had been in the
phoney war - there had been alarms and worries, of course, and everyone had
known the sound of air raid sirens, and had known someone who had gone away
to fight. But danger had seemed far off - and very different thing (for
those who could remember) from the grim Christmases of the Great War.

But 1940 was different. All year long had been a sequence of disasters as
one country after another had fallen into Herr Hitler's hands. The German
divisions had stormed across Europe - Denmark, Norway, the Netherlands,
Luxembourg, Belgium ... and finally France. So, as the summer came to its
height, Britain stood alone to face the might of the German Reich, its
troops evacuated in the miracle of Dunkirk, but its equipment abandoned on
the beaches.

All that stood between Britain and defeat by the seemingly German army was
the small frail Spitfires and Hurricanes of the RAF. And as the long summer
days began to fade, the Germans came again and again to win the air
superiority they needed. And again and again they were repulsed.

German superiority of the skies by day was thwarted. A slim victory had
been grasped ... but in its wake came the Blitz.

Now Londoners were becoming used to scrambling over rubble from bombed
buildings as they made their way to and from work in darkness. London was a
city of night, with no lights allowed that might guide the German bombers.
The sharp whistle and shout of the ARP wardens to "Put that light out!" was
a constant warning of the rigour with which the blackout was enforced. By
night, the only light came from the fires started by the incendiary bombs.

But there had been a lull in the raids. No-one was optimistic enough to
think that the raids were over for good (indeed, some gloomy souls were
predicting that the worse was yet to come), but it did seem that the Germans
had slackened their attacks for Christmas. Hard though it seemed to
believe, the Germans would be sitting down to their Christmas dinners and
celebrating the season of peace and goodwill - before the bombing started
again.

And in London, there was a feeling of relief that was coming very close to a
mood of celebration. For a few, brief, precious nights it seemed they would
not have to face crowding down into air raid shelters, or the improvised
barracks created in the underground stations. Tentative parties were
planned.

One such party, rather less tentative than most, was being thrown by the
London theatrical agent, Monty Fitzroy, for those - or rather most of
those - who lived in the block of luxury service flats known as Mortmain
Mansions. Invitations had been sent around to most of the inhabitants -
with one exception. Hodges, the maintenance man, had been asked to act as
wine waiter - a request that had been accompanied by a generous Christmas
tip, and the suggestion that there would be "something in it for him" if he
were able to help out.

"I don't see," said Esme Fitzroy, Monty's rather pallid wife, "why you
couldn't have hired a proper wine waiter."

She was changing into a cocktail dress of grey-mauve crepe de chine,
distinguished only by the number of wispy bows of grey silk that traced a
diagonal line up the skirt and around her narrow hips. The gown hung
loosely, as though she had lost a lot of weight since purchasing it, or that
it had once been designed for a much larger woman. Monty seemed not to
notice this - but then Monty Fitzroy (or so his detractors said) was not a
man to notice much at all. And this was even more true where his wife was
concerned.

Now it seemed he was more concerned with adjusting his bow tie around his
fat, jowly neck in front of the looking glass in their bedroom.

"Wine waiters cost money," he said. "And they whine about getting 'ome.
'Odges just 'as to nip downstairs."

Monty, unlike his wife with her genteel vocal over-corrections, made no
effort to conceal his East End origins. Born and bred in Stepney, was his
boast. Owning his first barrow at the age of fourteen after his old man
copped it. Perhaps Monty would have been a successful costermonger all his
life if some strange quirk in his nature hadn't driven the boy to haunt
music halls. There he had fallen under the aegis of Sid Norton, an old time
impresario, who had taught the boy the ropes of the business. Variety was
the breath of life to Sid, and the old music hall and variety theatre
circuits. But Monty had been a new man for a new age. He'd seen the power
of radio, and the need for compelling voices. And he had watched,
fascionated, the experiments at Alexandria Palace with the new medium,
television. Only serving the Home Counties at its inception in 1936, and
now firmly switched off for the duration of the war. But it would be back
afterwards, Monty knew - and when it was, Monty Fitzroy was going to have a
piece of it.

Esme Fitzroy sighed as she pinned a large cameo brooch at the neck of her
dress. People who knew the Fitzroys said that she had learned long ago the
unwisdom of going against her truculent spouse. Others, who perhaps knew
the mouse-like wife better, concluded that perhaps she had her own defence
.. her own way of dealing with the life force that was Monty Fitzroy.

Now he gave a final scowl at his refelction in the glass and moved toward
the door top the corridor and the living room beyond.

"'Ave to get a move on," he said. "They'll be 'ere soon. Where's 'Odges,
that what I want to know."

Left alone, Esme Fitzroy looked for a moment at the closed door that marked
her husband's departure. The she rose swiftly and walked to the jewellery
case that stood on her dressing table. With a shaking hand she unlocked it,
and then manipulated the almost invisible clasp at the back which triggered
the hidden drawer.

There, stark white against the red velvet, lay an envelope, the name and
address printed in bold capitals. Slowly she drew it out, and then opened
the flap, sliding out the single sheet of paper it contained. One thing was
visible as she did so - the subscription, in the same bold capitals.

"A Friend".



(OOC - and so it begins ...

Feel free to write your characters getting ready for the party, and arriving
at the Fitzroys' flat. Other NPC posts will be appearing shortly).






------------------------------

Message: 4
Date: Mon, 20 Dec 2004 15:52:02 -0000
From: "Mel Mason" <goldfired@...>
Subject: [MaC] And So it Begins ... Anton


In Flat No.17 of Mortmain Mansions, Anton Barowenski, the Polish pianist,
slipped the gold cufflinks in to the crisp white cuffs of his shirt.
Formal dress for this cocktail party of Fitzroy's. The men would be in
black tie, he assumed, and the women in cocktail dresses - unless, as people
increasingly did, they chose to wear uniform.

Barowenski frowned. Earlier in the week, a party of Polish airmen had come
to the afternoon concert. Afterwards, they had come backstage to see him,
and congratulate him, and they had gone on to the deserted stage together to
listen as he had played to them Chopin, and then Polish folksongs. They had
sung together, and shared the half bottle of brandy he kept in the dressing
room, and before they left, each of them had shaken his hand and thanked
him.

But he had felt like a traitor, a coward. What was he doing her in England,
playing tunes, while Leila and Sara were trapped in the horror of war? What
was he doing, while his countrymen were risking their lives in the skies
over England, fighting to ensure that some small part of Europe remained
free?

Afterwards he had gone to Fitzroy and told him that he wanted to break his
contract, to join the Air Force. And Fitzroy had said ...

Well, no matter now. He would play tonight at this cocktail party, just as
he would perform at the Wigmore Hall in two weeks' time - and at the other
concerts Fitzroy had arranged. He would play ... and smile and bow ... and
his heart would be in Poland, with Leila and Sara.

As he turned to move towards the door, he caught a faint, elusive scent, and
he smiled, a little sadly.

Well, perhaps a little piece of his heart would be in London, too.







------------------------------

Message: 5
Date: Mon, 20 Dec 2004 16:16:16 -0000
From: "Mel Mason" <goldfired@...>
Subject: [MaC] And so it begins ... Nola


In Flat No.10, Miss Nola Diamond (nie Gladys Scroggs) was also putting the
finishing touches to her appearance. Too pale ... perhaps a touch of rouge?
No, horrible - it made her look like some painted floozy. She rubbed at her
cheeks, and the effort of removing the rouge gave her the colour she
desired.

Why did she have to go to this ghastly cocktail party? Because Monty was
giving it, of course, and he would expect her to be there, like some painted
trophy he could wear and flaunt.

No, no, that was silly. How could he flaunt her when that meek little wife
of his would be there? Even Monty would have to show some discretion with
Esme present ...

She stood up and adjusted her dress. Just slightly off the shoulders would
be best, the heavy silk taffeta gleaming in the light. The dark green
showed off her dark auburn hair to perfection, he had said. Dark green was
her colour ...

But she had promised herself that she wouldn't think about him. No, that
was over, and her future was her career, and Monty Fitzroy, no matter how
crude and grasping he was. Because Monty was going to make her a star, and
with stardom came all the money she could possibly want, or need.

But perhaps, before she went upstairs to the party, there was time, there
was a need for a little something that would pick her up after the long day
of rehearsals in the theatre, something that would make the evening flow
smoothly and sweetly, with no hic-cups, no attacks of panic if she should
see ...

Her eyes met her own eyes in the looking glass, and she marvelled that
someone could feel such pain inside and yet seem so calm, so serene on the
surface. And as she gazed on her own lovely face, it seemed as though her
hand crept to the upper drawer of her dressing table of its own volition,
slid the drawer open ... and reached out the little washed leather rolled
wallet inside ...








------------------------------

Message: 6
Date: Mon, 20 Dec 2004 10:19:18 -0600
From: Dorothea Salo <dorothea@...>
Subject: Re: [MaC] And so it begins ... Pamela


Lady Pamela bent into a jack-knife on her chair to put on her silk
stockings, with a care to their expense and fragility. They were a
Christmas gift; poor gratitude indeed, to ruin them on their first wearing.

Her gown of night-blue velvet-trimmed silk lay on the bed; it was a
long-discarded item from her mother's youth, but Pamela had taken it
entirely to pieces, laid the frills and furbelows aside, and skillfully
made over the gorgeous fabric underneath to the latest style, rather
than spend money frivolously on something new. A little fur jacket over
the top created the right sort of squarish shoulder, even if it *did*
make the whole feel uncomfortably like her WAAF uniform.

Stockings in place, Pamela slipped the gown on. Oh, dear; she had
tailored it to fit perfectly mere months ago, and here it was getting
loose. Mum *would* fuss so if she saw, and there wasn't time to take in
the seams. Well, the jacket and the peplum on the back of the skirt
would cover, Pamela hoped.

Not that anybody but Mum would look twice at her, with The Actresses,
Nola and Nicola, at the party. Just as well; Pamela could slip into a
corner with Marion and Tabitha and perhaps poor Esme and have a good
chat, while those two cats bared their long, sharp claws at each other
and the local toms caterwauled and skirmished about them.

Jacket, fastenings, gloves, smart buckled shoes... what to do with her
hair? Pamela suspected that the loose, pinned-down-on-top styles she
preferred would also be The Actresses' choice. Very well, then. Pamela
parted her hair quickly -- at least there was a lot of it and it took a
curl well, even if it wasn't a fashionable colour -- and set about doing
up the front.

As ready as she could be, she tidied up her bureau and went to tap at
her mother's door.



------------------------------

Message: 7
Date: Mon, 20 Dec 2004 12:33:30 -0500
From: Tara Kunkel <faespinner@...>
Subject: [MaC] And So it Begins ... Braham


The tuxedo had almost been left behind. Braham had not really believed it
would come into use before the cut had fallen out of style. It had been
packed more as a reminder of what had been forsaken then anything else.
Looking at it, he remembered brightly lit parties full of laughter and
music. There would always be an over abundance of food and drink. The young
women would hide their giggles behind glasses of champagne while he and his
friends did their best to impress with witty humor. Had he remained at
school that was exactly the sort of party he would be attending tonight,
loud and exuberant. He would be wearing this exact tuxedo and preparing
himself in nearly the same way. Wistfully he stared into the mirror and
allowed himself a few moments of mourning.

'"All right then," he said to himself when he felt he could bare the
sadness no longer. "Enough of that." Forcing a smile, he instantly began to
feel a bit better. This Christmas was to be nothing like those of the past.
He simply had to accept that and move on. Being here was his choice and his
alone. He would go about his studies and find a way to enjoy a bit of
Holiday cheer.

With a last adjustment to his bow tie, Braham turned from the mirror and
prepared to leave the flat. His dark hair was still a bit rumpled but his
suit was amazingly tidy. It still fit him well, or rather it fit him well
again. The extra pounds he had packed on during the spring semester had
melted away over the last few months. Once again he could be considered
trim. Despite, or perhaps because of, his inner melancholy, his blue eyes
sparkled brightly. Around him the flat was dark and a bit dismal with worn
edges and muted colors but he remained handsome and youthful despite his
recent trials.

Braham picked up a notebook, thought for a moment and set it promptly back
down again. No, it was best to not take notes at the party. Some people
might find the behavior distinctly odd. He knew he would if he had
witnessed someone doing the same just a few years ago. Whatever happened,
he would simply have to mark it in his memory and record it later. That
would be the easiest way. With that decided he headed for the door without
further hesitation.

Once free of the confines of his flat, he bounded towards the staircase. He
nearly flew up them, taking the steps two at a time. The exertion did not
steal his breath but it was still enough to get his blood flowing. Feeling
much more like his normally easy going self, he knocked gently on the
Fitzroy's door. I am probably first to arrive, he thought to himself.
Mother would be horrified. An impish grin met his lips as he awaited an
answer.





------------------------------

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End of murder_at_christmas Digest, Vol 1, Issue 1
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