#tobacconist shop | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bluecollarmcandtf · 3 months

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A tobacconist's shop that turns casual visitors, passers-by and delivery men into loyal pipe and cigar smoking customers and employees?

I've heard of this place. It's that old rundown shop on the bad side of town. It looks rather unassuming, situated in the center of a long deserted storefront. Few people pass by, but the ones who do always find the smoke...

Griffin couldn't be more proud of himself as he jogged nearby. He'd just turned fifty and had never felt healthier. Years of the same diet and exercise had kept him in fantastic shape. He still got looks from women; he knew they wanted him. He also got stares from men, who he imagined were jealous. Either way, Griffin was happy to be seen as the epitome of fitness. This was just who he was meant to be.

That's why he woke up an hour early. He wanted to run an extra mile before starting his day, so he added a detour to his normal path. He turned down a street he'd never seen before.

Something about this empty road seemed to call out to him when he saw it.

"Ignore the smell."

Griffin paused, "Hello?"

When only silence answered, he laughed at himself and picked up his pace. Before long, he caught a whiff of smoke. He ignored it, but the stench only got stronger. He was even starting to see clouds forming around him!

"Keep going!"

"What?" he looked around the deserted street, but there was no one to pin the voice to.

Griffin groaned in frustration and covered his nose with an arm. He needed to keep going and get on with his day. He wasn't going to let some smoke get in the way of him and his goals. He didn't care if the street stank. He didn't care if he was hearing things. He only cared about finishing his run.

"Stop and breathe it in!"

Griffin's legs suddenly came to a halt, and his arm instinctively dropped to his side. Before he knew it, he was doing what that voice said.

"What's happening to me?" he gasped, coughing as the smoke filled his throat.

"Turn around."

His legs obeyed the voice, spinning Griffin around. He found himself staring at an old abandoned smoke shop in between wheezes. He had no idea what was going on, but his heart was pounding with fear. Griffin hated anything unhealthy, and every breath of smoke made him feel like he was dying.

"You like the smoke!"

"What? No..." but even as he said it, something began to change inside of him. His throat stopped itching and a warmth spread from his lungs. He started to feel relaxed inside that cloud of smoke. Griffin might have even admitted that he liked it.

"Go inside."

Griffin didn't hesitate. His body marched inside that old cigar shop. That place had plans for him. After all, every store needs an employee. It also needed it's clientele, and that's what it's next plan was.

Tyler was idling in boredom later that day. He was right outside that same shop, but the cloud of smoke had disappeared. Tyler had arrived an hour later with his construction crew. They were demolishing one of the dilapidated buildings nearby, but it wasn't anywhere near as fun as he'd thought it'd be.

Being the new guy, the only tool he got was a broom, and Tyler had already spent the entire morning pushing it up and down the street. He wondered what his girlfriend would think if she knew this is what he did all day. Would she be disappointed that her big, strong, construction working boyfriend was nothing but a glorified janitor; because he sure was.

"Walk down the street."

"The hell?" Tyler sneered, looking around for the source of the voice, "Who's there? Is this a prank?"

Tyler doubted it was a prank. His coworkers were all old, lazy, assholes he didn't vibe with. All those farts wanted to do was smoke and whine about work. He couldn't imagine one of them taking the time to play a joke on him.

"Take a break."

Tyler sighed, "No need to tell me twice," and tossed the broom aside. The rubble could wait a few minutes longer to be swept up. He wanted to take a walk down the street and check out all the old buildings. They all seemed like they could come tumbling down at any second, but one caught his eye.

"That's weird," he muttered, noticing the storefront of the tobacconist shop "I thought this whole street was closed."

"Go inside."

Tyler was genuinely curious about the one occupied building in a row of vacancies, but his feet acted before he could. It wasn't until he found his hand pulling the door open that he realized he was on his way inside. He would've been rather scared by his lack of control if it weren't for the distraction of what he found inside the shop.

"Oh...uh...hello there," Tyler immediately said, realizing he wasn't alone in the shop

The man he was staring at looked like he'd been through some shit. His leather jacket and faded jeans looked about as old as the store, and he sucked on that cigar like it was water in the middle of a desert. A dense cloud of smoke lingered around the guy, and Tyler could practically taste the smell of tobacco in the air.

"Offer him your cigar."

"You want a smoke, boy?" the older man suddenly blurted around, staring Tyler in the eye.

"No, I'm good, man. I should be getting back to work anyway," the young construction worker answered, turning to leave.

"Take the cigar, boy," Tyler heard the man's voice deepen. He grappled with the doorknob, wishing he hadn't ever left his stupid worksite.

"Take the cigar."

Tyler let go of the door, and it swung shut. His body was acting impulsively again, but he was going the opposite way he wanted. Tyler turned back and found the leathery face of the old man inches away from his own. Before he knew it, that guy was pushing a cigar in his mouth, and his lips just opened to take it!

Tyler couldn't believe he was listening to this guy! He didn't even do what his father told him!

"Inhale it, boy," the man growled, cracking a tiny smile as he watched.

Tyler took a shaky breath in, smoking for the first time in his life. Immediately, he felt the urge to cough. His throat couldn't take it, but his body wouldn't let him. It was like his mouth just rejected the idea of relieving the itchiness of his lungs. He was left inhaling the smoke breath after painful breath until, eventually, it wasn't painful anymore.

"That's it, boy," the old guy said, pulling the new smoker into a rough embrace, "You're a smoker now. You buy from me. Remember that! You don't go to anyone else for your smokes except Griff. Got it?"

Tyler was still adjusting to his new addiction.

"Answer him."

"What? Yeah. I got it," Tyler mumbled. He didn't understand what he was agreeing to, but he didn't mind. Already, all he could think about was his next smoke break. A couple more hours of pushing that broom and he could pull out a pack of cigarettes. Tyler couldn't wait.

As Tyler strolled back to the construction site, he sucked the rest of that cigar dry. Luckily, he'd had enough change on him to buy the pack of cigarettes. Griff had suggested he smoke a pack a day, and Tyler had a feeling he was going to do as the man said.

"Sir?" a stern voice called, pulling Tyler out of his thoughts.

"Are you Tyler?" the cop asked, "You know your crew asked me to find you."

Tyler rolled his eyes and broke out his new pack of cigarettes open, "What they couldn't get off their asses to do it?"

"They were just worried. This isn't the best area to be wandering around in," the officer's tone hardened, "You know how bad that is for you, right?"

For a second Tyler paused. He hadn't thought about how nasty this habit actually was. Maybe he should quit while it was still new.

"Smoke in the pig's face."

The cop was confused by the sudden appearance of a disembodied voice, "Did you hear someth-"

Tyler blew out a long sigh of cigarette smoke in the policeman's face. He knew by now that he was supposed to obey that voice.

For the next few seconds, the cop cleared his throat and wiped his eyes. He hadn't expected that twerp to actually smoke in his face! When he cleared his vision, he noticed that the kid was gone.

"Investigate,"

That voice again puzzled him. There wasn't anyone nearby, and yet it sounded like a whisper. Nevertheless, it was right. He probably should investigate. That was his job after all.

It didn't take long for the cop to find the mysterious cigar shop. He was almost positive that whoever was inside wasn't supposed to be there. As far as he knew, this whole block was condemned.

"Hello! Police coming in." he announced as he pushed the door open, grimacing at the thick smell in the store "God it reeks in here."

"Explore the store."

The voice again appeared, telling him what to do. Officer Nichols figured the voice was right. He did need this godforsaken place. There was no way this place could be here legally.

As the cop passed a case with an array of cigars, his nose twitched. Something about them caught his attention. He wanted to find whoever was behind this business, but he figured he might as well explore the merchandise while he's here. It smelled expensive. It wasn't long before, he'd pulled one of the cigars and drug it under his nose to fully appreciate it's aroma.

"Like what you see?" a gravelly voice made the officer jump. Nichols turned and found Griff, propped against the wall behind the counter.

"Yeah, I..."

"You love it."

"...I love it," the cop finishes, surprised by his own words. He hadn't meant to say that. He was here to arrest whoever was behind this scheme. They were running an undocumented business out of an abandoned building!

"Actually, I'm here to...

"You're here to buy from him."

"...buy from you," Officer Nichols shakes his head. That's not what he meant to say. He needs to bring this guy in. Something in the air is clouding his judgement.

"I'm going to have to..."

"You have to keep the law away."

"...keep the law away." He couldn't believe he'd just said that. He'd just offered to aid a suspected criminal! He didn't mean that, right? The more Officer Nichols thought about it, the more he realized that he did mean it. This place needed to be free of pigs like him. Something was just telling him that this has to happen, and he was ready to lay down his career to do it.

"Yeah, I'm going to keep the precinct away from this place," the cop said confidently.

"Sounds good, man," Griff's increasingly raspy voice answered numbly, "Take a cigar for your trouble."

Officer Nichols left the shop feeling very different than when he entered. Before, he'd been straight-laced and by the book, but now he had a new urge to get a little dirty. The cigar and leather jacket Griff had bribed him with, made him want to do something bad. Maybe he could find someone to abuse his power on. That sounded fun.

The cop sauntered down the street, ready to embrace his new personality, and the street was once again left empty and deserted.

That is until, Randy came strolling down the way. Randy was a college student, on his way home from a library date with a girl from his biology class. It'd gone well, and he was still running off the high of geeking out about comic books with a super hot chick. He couldn't believe he'd found such an awesome girl, and she seemed totally into him!

He was planning on texting the number shed given him as soon as he got back to his apartment. That was why he was taking a shortcut. He couldn't wait!

"No need to rush."

Randy slowed his pace, slightly unnerved by the voice he'd just thought he'd heard. Looking around, he noticed that he was in the middle of a seemingly empty block: a ghost town in the middle of the city. The clouds of smoke he was approaching made the scene all the more unsettling.

"Since when is this here?" he wondered aloud. That's when the smell hit him.

"Gross," he muttered, trying his best to ignore the strong scent of secondhand smoke.

"Follow it."

Ryan found himself stepping off the sidewalk. For some reason, he was crossing the street and heading into even denser fog. His nose led the way, taking him the exact opposite direction it wanted to go. He was forced to put up with the smell, following it's trail all the way into the little store that was its source.

"This is where you want to be."

"What? No I want to go home and call that girl," Randy objected, but already she seemed a lot less exciting to him now.

"You'd rather stay here and smoke."

Randy shook his head, "I can't stand smoke. Why would I do that!"

"You don't care if you don't like it."

The young man thought for a moment. He couldn't really refute this new statement. Randy realized that he actually didn't care that he found smoke disgusting. He'd followed it here even though he hated it. It just made sense that he would start smoking it even though he hated it.

He picked up a cigar from the counter. It was already lit, waiting for someone to take it. Randy knew he wasn't going to like it, but that didn't stop him from sucking on the thing for several seconds. He was grateful when he pulled it off his lips, but he knew he was just going to have to keep taking hits.

"That's mine," a voice cut firmly through the silence.

"Oh, sorry," Randy dropped the cigar, embarrassed to be called out by this construction worker. Immediately, he found himself disliking the guy. He was close to his age, but looked like a lowlife laborer.

"Don't let it happen again," Tyler sneered, selfishly snatching the cigar away. In his mind, Randy was just another preppy snob.

"You two like each other."

Instantly, the two guys' opinions changed. It didn't make sense, but they realized they could see each other as friends.

"You two love each other."

"Come here," Tyler barked, feeling himself get hard under his dirty work pants. For some reason, this random college kid was making him feel hornier than his girlfriend had ever been able to.

Randy let the construction worker pull him close. Somehow, he was more excited now than he'd been a few moments earlier with his library date. He eagerly accepted the new cigar, Tyler was pushing into his mouth.

It wasn't long before the new couple were making out in between puffs of their cigars. They'd completely forgotten about the girls they'd once adored, now obsessed with how masculine they each looked smoking their cigars in the middle of the dirty old tobacco shop.

Griff watched from a distance, organizing the merchandise according to the store's instructions. That disembodied voice was constantly whispering in his ear, ordering him around like a puppet with a long string of orders. Griff's principles were long since abandoned.

His only thoughts were the thoughts the voice put in there.

"Finish unloading the cigarettes, and then go upstairs. Pull out the mattresses, but don't bother cleaning anything. The construction worker and college student can be made comfortable in the dust and grime. Pull out another mattress for yourself. If the policeman comes back you will be servicing him all night as to thank him for protecting us..."

The instructions droned on and on in Griff's head, as he mindlessly followed its whim. A cigar hung from his lips, although he needed a regular reminder to smoke it.

Randy and Tyler were getting more aggressive near the counter. Their lust for the smoke and each other was only growing stronger each second.

Meanwhile, several blocks away, Officer Nichols was on his way back to the shop. The man was determined to unleash his new dark side on someone, and something told him that the clerk at the tobacconist shop would be perfect.

#hypnosmoke #gay mind control #smoking boys #ai man

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scavengedluxury · 3 months

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Tobacconist shop on Csaba street, Budapest. 1983. From the Budapest Municipal Photography Company archive.

#budapest #hungary #architecture #signage #1980s

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handeaux · 6 months

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During The Off-Season, The Old Cincinnati Reds Had Some Curious Side Hustles

It’s coming on World Series time, yet again without the presence of the Cincinnati Reds. As the die-hard fans turn their attention to the hot-stove league or the minutia of their fantasy teams, few give a thought to how today’s players spend the off-season.

In the early 1900s, every professional baseball team enjoyed a post-season romp. The happy few battled it out for World Series honors. But the also-rans kept playing on barnstorming tours, competing with amateur or semi-pro teams for a week or two after the final official game. Once this last hurrah was done, the players scattered to their side hustles.

Not that they needed the money. Rookies earned something like $1,800 in 1900 while stars pulled down $4,000 or more, and those figures translate to $64,000 to $140,000 in today’s dollars. Usually their off-season jobs were an investment in the future, when the pro years ended. Winter jobs were often far removed from the skills required on the diamond.

Reds second baseman Ed Phelps, for example, spent his winters earning a degree in business. Bob Ewing, who pitched for the Reds from 1902 to 1909, scurried home to Wapakoneta each fall to oversee his farm devoted to breeding champion harness-racing horses. Charlie Chech lasted only four years in the majors, pitching in 1905 and 1906 for the Reds, so it’s a good thing he was able to work winters as a pharmacist in St. Paul. Jack Ryder of the Cincinnati Enquirer reported [26 October 1905]:

“Chech is a graduate of the pharmacy department of the University of Wisconsin and is a practical druggist. He has bought an interest in one of the leading drugstores of St. Paul and will spend the winter mixing prescriptions and selling the festive tooth brush, the dry, deceptive sponge and the innocuous drugstore cigar.”

Orval Overall pitched for Cincinnati in 1905 and 1906 and wintered in California, where he helped manage his family’s hotel and fruit ranch. John Barry wandered through Cincinnati twice during a decade in the majors, and spent the off-season coaching football at Niagara University, his alma mater.

Pitcher Tom Walker (1904-05) clerked winters in a Philadelphia clothing store and had a reputation for up-selling hand-me-down suits. According to the Cincinnati Post [2 December 1904]:

“Tom is said to be a wonder, and able to hand out a line of talk about ‘all wool and fast dye’ in a most convincing fashion.”

Miller Huggins was a local boy, who grew up in Walnut Hills and earned a law degree from the University of Cincinnati. After 13 years as a second baseman, he went on to manage the St. Louis Cardinals and the New York Yankees during their glory years in the Twenties. Throughout much of his career, Huggins partnered with Cliff Martin to run a tobacconist’s shop. Per the Enquirer [9 November 1907]:

“Miller Huggins is handling the festive coffin nail, the flagrant ‘two-fer,’ and the lordly ten-center, at his popular smokehouse on Fountain Square.”

Outfielder Fred Odwell’s four years in “The Bigs” were spent in Cincinnati, but his financial future lay in the Empire State. According to the Enquirer:

“Fred Odwell owns a large quarry at his home in Downsville, N.Y., which he superintends during the winter, while his brother looks after the work during the summer. The business is a paying one, and Oddie is well provided for when his ball-playing days are over.”

Apparently, the grass was greener working for Uncle Sam, because Odwell, after a stint as a real estate broker, landed an appointment as postmaster for Downsville.

Hans Lobert logged five years as an infielder for the Reds while he built houses as a carpenter and contractor in Pittsburgh over the winter months. The Reds made something of a fuss about one of their 1907-08 pitchers, Andy Coakley, attending dental school on the East Coast, but it didn’t take. Coakley spent most of his post-playing career running a New York insurance agency while coaching baseball at Columbia University. In that collegiate gig, Coakley discovered a slugger named Lou Gehrig, so he had that going for him.

For a couple of years, the Reds had an actual doctor on the team, but he may not have been much use if a teammate was injured. Doctor Frank “Noodles” Hahn was a veterinarian, specializing in horses and cattle. While pitching for Cincinnati, Hahn enrolled in the Cincinnati Veterinary College. From 1900 until 1919, Cincinnati was home to its very own veterinary school, organized and operated by a consortium of local animal doctors. Noodles did so well in class that he was recruited after graduation to join the faculty of the college and taught there for several years.

A native of Nashville, Hahn confessed that he had no idea how he earned his distinctive nickname, although he had been called “Noodles” since he was a young boy. Hahn landed a pitching spot in the minors when he was just 16 years old and was recruited by the Reds in 1899 before he turned 20. Hahn’s rookie year was one for the record books as he won 23 games while losing only 8, posting a 2.68 ERA. Over seven seasons with the Reds, Hahn racked up 127 wins and 92 losses although he pitched for some decidedly lackluster Cincinnati squads. On 12 July 1900, Hahn hurled a no-hitter against the powerful Philadelphia Phillies and later struck out 16 Boston batters in one game. Problem was, the Reds never ranked higher than fourth in the National League during Hahn’s time in Cincinnati. After several seasons in which he averaged 300 innings, Hahn’s arm gave out. He limped through a half-season with the New York Highlanders, then decided to find another line of work.

It appears that old Noodles could have chosen a couple of careers. The Washington Post [17 June 1906] declared Hahn the best piano player in baseball. There was talk he might have pursued music professionally.

It was large animal veterinary work that finally won out. For a while, Hahn coached and pitched for some semi-pro teams, but he spent decades as a federal meat inspector in Cincinnati. Until he was over 70 years old, Hahn kept a locker at Crosley field. He would visit the ballpark on game day, work out with the team and pitch batting practice, then change back into his business clothes to watch the game. When the Terrace Plaza opened an ice-skating rink on the eighth floor, septuagenarian Noodles Hahn was there, showing off his fancy technique. He died, aged 80, at his retirement home in North Carolina.

#cincinnati reds #cincinnati redlegs #noodles hahn #frank hahn

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fruityyamenrunner · 2 months

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youtube

THE SQUALOR, DECAY, SORDOR AND VULGARISATION OF MODERN MANCHESTER: Manchester in the old days, says Burgess, was home to many poor working-class and lower-middle-class people, of course, but they tended to be respectable. They looked after their little dwellings and shops — like the tobacconist's that Burgess's father ran — and tried to keep them neat. They scrubbed their doorsteps clean. They were people with self-respect. Well, look at degenerate Manchester today. Filth and decadence everywhere you look. Here we witness the decay of civilisation. The people are dissolute, the culture debased, dissipation is all-encompassing. The place is falling to pieces, structurally and in morals, and few authentic values are left. Burgess and the interviewer, a Fleming from Vlaamse Radio- en Televisieomroeporganisatie, stroll past what was once a Freemasons' Hall, now a West Indian shebeen-cum-shooting-gallery for heroin addicts. They pass the Palace, which had been a beautiful, lavishly appointed cinema but which today has become an unutterably vulgar fleapit reduced to screening disgustingly depraved pornographic films. It draws in brigades of the dirty-mac element from across Lancashire while the police turn a blind eye. Finally they arrive at the place where Burgess used to live, and it has become an ugly piece of waste ground, good only for fly-tippers. It pains Burgess to the heart to revisit the Manchester he grew up in. He calls the experience of returning 'the horror of coming back'. Filmed in 1987.

#anthony burgess was right #eminent elizabethans #Youtube

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birdofdawning · 1 year

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The Door in the Wall

Mother was making jam with Betsy and listening out for the shop bell, and she thought Charles was watching Helena playing in the yard. But Charles had gone upstairs to read Fun, and Freddy and Frank were at school, and so nobody noticed when Helena slipped the latch off the gate and crept out into the back lane — something she knew she was forbidden to do.

She trotted down the track, thinking how funny it was to see the back of everything. Mr Munday’s haberdashery, and the decorator’s shop, and the tobacconist’s were all so formal and tidy from the front — but from the back! Why there was a broken wheel barrow beside a gate, and the remains of what looked like a broken chair waiting beside the dust bins; and over the fence here was the sickly plane tree that the Mowatt children would sit in and shout out at Helena and her brothers as they passed by.

At the end of the lane Helena stopped and considered. Should she turn right and pass the corner shop into the High Street? But memories of a previous encounter with the sullen keeper of ‘Wallace – Decorators’ came to her then, and she decided to turn left.

Down she walked along an empty side street, until she stopped to fill the pockets of her coat with horse chestnuts from an overhanging tree. And when she stood back up she saw, across the way, the green door in the wall.

The sun had come out, and it illuminated a clean white wall so brightly after the previous gloom that Helena had to squint a little. The door was small and bottle green, and a scarlet creeper grew around it. And it wanted her to open it.

Now, Helena was never the sort of child who could not do a thing she knew she oughtn’t. Indeed, she quite made her mother despair at times, and no wonder! If there was an odd piece of glass laying in the street Helena must pick it up and play with the light it threw. And if a music box or a fob watch or any sort of useful device was left unguarded she would have it opened up and in pieces before its careless owner remembered and came back for it. Her mother would always try to intercept and assess for suitability each of the books and periodicals that Helena’s father would bring home; otherwise the girl would have carried it away to her small room in the attic, and her brothers would have to conduct periodic raids in order to capture reading material for themselves.

So when this door called out to her — not aloud, you understand, but as a sort of whisper inside — Helena walked straight across the street and up to it. Unlike most of the buildings around, the door was clean and bright, as if it had been painted only last week. It had a bronze latch with the face of a leopard or lioness on it, and it was just within reach if she stood on her very tip toes. It lifted easily, as if freshly oiled, and the door drifted open without the least push, inviting Helena to step through.

And — Oh! how wonderful! — instead of a grey autumn day it was warm, with a clear dark blue sky filled with the amber light of evening, and a few stars already lit in the heavens. And instead of dusty Bromley with its shops and roads she found herself in a park of great trees, with grass and little paths and a fountain in the distance. She could smell roses, for nearby there were bowers covered in them as if it were spring! And close by she could hear children calling to each other and laughing.

She stepped through, saying “O, lovely!” as she regarded the beautiful garden around her, and behind her the door softly latched itself shut.

For a short time Helena wandered in the direction of the children. The air was so balmy, and, she felt, somehow heavy; so much so that she was tempted to take off her coat. But one thing Mother had managed to teach to her youngest child was to never take off her coat among strangers, for what would people think?

And as the light faded — though she had only had her lunch an hour ago, she was sure — to her delight the trees nearest the path lit up with tiny lights, like fireflies, so that she could still see where she was going.

The path went around a hedge and suddenly opened up into a great meadow, and there she saw the children. They were some distance away running after some sort of device that hovered in the air, moving to and fro like a great bumblebee and humming like one too. And they wore hooded tunics — just like Robin Hood’s Merry Men had in an illustrated periodical she had once read — and heavy britches like a labourer, only dyed blue.

Only as Helena was about to go to the children she heard a whistle and turned to see a very pretty girl standing further along the path. She was dressed all in tattered clothes, like a boy's clothes, so that she looked like she had just stepped down from the Stage. And her hair was cut short like a boy's too, and it was lighted up like a fire as it caught the last rays of the sun. And the girl smiled at Helena and came to meet her, holding out her hand, and saying Well! I think you look like our visitor, here at last! — just as if she’d known Helena had been coming, and was pleased to see her. So they held hands and walked through the wonderful gardens, talking about all sorts of things (though afterwards she couldn’t remember quite what they discussed), until they came to a sort of summer house, like the bandstand in Bromley park.

And standing inside was the most beautiful lady Helena had ever seen. She had hair like burnished copper, and it was down, coiling in waves around her face. And her eyes were large and green, like glass, but so alive and welcoming! And then she gave such a big smile that Helena decided there and then that she would do anything to make this lady happy.

Then the lady stepped out of the summer house to meet them, and she was wearing trousers! But not shapeless trousers that fell like a sack to one’s shoes like Father and Frank and Freddie wore — no, these were shaped and curved so as to show the lady’s long, graceful legs. And, though she knew that such a thing ought to be very wicked, Helena just couldn’t think of this lady as anything but so very good. And right then Helena decided that when she was grown up she would wear trousers too, and she wouldn’t mind what Mother should say.

The lady had been speaking to the pretty girl, and now she turned and smiled again at Helena and said Hallo, and that she thought perhaps she knew Helena’s mother. So Helena said “My mother’s name is Sarah Wells, and my name is Helena Georgina Wells” and the lady was very still for a moment, but then she held out her hand and invited Helena to sit with her in the summer house.

They were quite alone now, and the lady brought out a slate, like one would use for doing sums or accounts, only it was made of glass. And the lady said What sort of animal would you most like to see in all the world? and Helena said “I would like to see a jaguar, please!” and the lady asked the slate to show them a jaguar and there it was! Not drawn in chalk, but a real, actual, moving jaguar creeping though the jungle and down into a river. And after that the lady asked Helena what she’d like to see next, and Helena said “A crocodile!” and there it was in the slate, a crocodile drifting through brown water toward an unsuspecting zebra that was drinking at the river’s edge. And they saw a secretary bird, and a polar bear, and a gorilla — because Charles was so scared of gorillas and Helena wanted to tell him that she’d actually seen one and hadn’t been scared a jot! “But how does it work?” Helena asked, turning the slate over and over and examining it with a frown, and the lady laughed and said that she promised Helena would find out one day.

And now it was quite dark outside, with the only light coming from an old lamp hanging from the ceiling, and from the magical slate. And Helena suddenly thought of Mother wondering where she was, and sending her brothers out to find her. So she decided that she’d better say Thank-you for Having Me and I Had A Lovely Time. Only she wasn't sure how to get back to the green door.

Then the lady said that she needn’t worry. Soon Helena would be back home, because this wonderful garden, and the summerhouse and the lady and everything, only existed while the lamp above them burned; and that it was almost out of oil and when the flame died all would be back as it ought to be. And Helena said “But that sounds like real magic! And I don’t think I believe in real magic. Father says it’s just superstition and humbug.” And the lady smiled again and told her that nevertheless the lamp had a special property, like an enchanted device in a tale of Arthur, and this property was that when you lit this lamp in this gazebo the person you most wanted to meet would come to you for a time. “Oh, but then who lit the lamp?” asked Helena, and the very beautiful lady said that she herself had. And Helena said “But that means that I am the person you most wanted to see!” Then the lady looked sad (though she still smiled) and said Yes, she supposed Helena was the person she most wanted to see. Only now it was time to say goodbye, though perhaps Helena would see her again one day.

Now Helena was the sort of person who tended to hold herself apart from others, so she wasn’t sure why she did what she did next, but before she knew it her arms were around the beautiful lady, and the lady held her tight too until Helena was done. Then from her pocket she took a bag that was like foil-paper, only it was a lovely violet colour instead of silver, and she carefully lifted down the little lamp and said Are you ready to go home Helena? And Helena was about to say “No! I think I would rather stay!” when there was a flurry of sparks like fireworks on bonfire night and a strange whistling in her ears and she felt all dizzy and most unwell for a time.

And when she was aware of herself again she was standing in the Bromley side street, beside the old wall. And I am sad to say that she immediately burst into tears.

Eventually she made her way back up the side-street toward home, feeling bereft and so low. Then who should she see but her Mother trotting out of the lane towards her and looking most displeased! And as she was dragged back home (with her mother saying Gardens!? Ladies?! Jaguars?! My child you your head is being rotted away by those silly papers your Father brings home, I never-in-all-my-life, and so-on), Helena looked back toward the white wall. She saw the scarlet creeper as clear as anything, but would you believe — only no, I do you an injustice, you will have guessed already — the lovely green door had quite disappeared.

Later she told Charles all about the green door and her adventure in the wonderful garden, and he laughed and teased her for more details, jeering like older brothers do, until Helena refused to speak of it again and went to bed very cross that no-one would believe her.

And she decided that one day, when she was a grown-up woman herself, she would find the very beautiful lady again, and they would wear trousers and have adventures together.

And her mind made up, Helena fell fast asleep.

(And here is what Charles made of her story many years later.)

#bering and wells #helena wells #myka bering #Warehouse 13 #helena x myka #A silly thing at 11pm #H G Wells (the real one)#The Door In the Wall (1906)#claudia donovan

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1five1two · 1 year

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Those who stayed in London did all they could to protect themselves from the plague. As no one knew what caused the plague, most of these were based around superstition. In 1665 the College of Physicians issued a directive that brimstone 'burnt plentiful' was recommended for a cure for the bad air that caused the plague. Those employed in the collection of bodies frequently smoked tobacco to avoid catching the plague.

"For personal disinfections nothing enjoyed such favour as tobacco; the belief in it was widespread, and even children were made to light up a reaf in pipes. Thomas Hearnes remembers one Tom Rogers telling him that when he was a scholar at Eton in the year that the great plague raged, all the boys smoked in school by order, and that he was never whipped so much in his life as he was one morning for not smoking. It was long afterwards a tradition that none who kept a tobacconist shop in London had the plague." - A J Bell writing in about 1700.

#quotes #the plague #tobacco #smoking #history

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scotianostra · 1 year

Photo

MacDonald Clock George VI Bridge, Edinburgh.

This clock, believed to date from the 1940s, sits above an old tobacconist's shop.

The shop first opened in 1918 and the last owner, Graeme Thomson, had the business in his family for 30 years. An advert for this shop from 1972 said "Pipe Smokers. All smokers' requirements. Large selection of Briars in stock - Dunhill, Parker, Charatan, Barling etc. Havana & Jamaican cigars. Our own mixtures of pipe tobacco celebrated for over 40 years are blended for the enjoyment of the smoker of taste and discernment. M. T. Macdonald. Tobacco Blender & Cigar Merchant. A privately owned, old established firm, under personal supervision." In the window of the shop there is an advert for Mitchell's Prize Crop tobacco.

All that remains is the old Smiths of London clock hanging outside. The shop was forced to close in 2003 because of rising taxes on tobacco and changing smoking habits.

#Scotland #scottish #Edinburgh #George IV Bridge #tobacconist #old clock #my pic #phone pic.#history

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pwlanier · 1 year

Text

Relief Carving of a Native American,

United States, c. 1900.

Relief-carved and painted wooden plaque depicting male Native American with feathered headdress

and inset glass eyes, possibly decoration for tobacconist shop.

Bonhams

#american folk art

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bitletsanddrabbles · 1 year

Text

The Gift Reflects the Giver

Since I did Valentine’s Day fiction last Christmas for @alex51324 ‘s Island of the Gays, I decided I should do Christmas for Valentine’s Day. Got an idea all thought up...made a false start...or two...and then burned out on writing for ages.

It being Christmas time again and me being stuck at home for the day (It’s raining! IT’S RAINING! Go little rain drops! Melt that ice!) I decided it was a good time to write it.

This probably won’t actually go up on Ao3 for Christmas...at least not the first day. Might get it up before the 12th, we’ll see. I need to read back over the Island and see if I can’t get Mr. Braceridge sounding more...well...himself. Turns out it’s kinda hard to write from his PoV and still have him sound right. But for now, Merry Christmas, everyone.

John looked around the cottage’s parlour, frowning. The place looked as festive as one could ask, but there was something missing. Much of the village had gone out gathering greens for decorating. Timothy had been kept at home by his rheumatism, John had eagerly lead the party, pointing out which plants had weak branches that could be sacrificed for the cause, which were too young and should be left alone, and which plants - namely ivy - were invasive weeds that didn’t belong but which somehow kept making their way to the island and could be ruthlessly harvested for the season. Berries had been added to the collection and strung on strings for garlands. John and Timothy had gotten their fair share of these and they were now strewn artistically around the room. An empty bird’s nest from the barn perched on a particularly sturdy set of boughs, for luck.

Timothy had proclaimed it perfect, but there was something missing…

“We need a tree.”

Timothy looked up from where he was working on notes for the coming Sunday’s sermon. “We do not need a tree, John.”

John turned his frown on his husband. “But it’s tradition! Surely you want one.”

“I’m happy with the room the way it is,” Timothy informed him, setting down his pen. “Besides, if we get a tree, other couples will want one too. We can’t afford to chop down that many, especially the conifers. Alders, perhaps, but alders don’t make very good Christmas trees, even if you could find one that would fit in here.”

“If you say so,” John muttered, turning back to his examination of the room.

“I do.”

John let the subject drop, but despite the other man’s assurances, he couldn’t bring himself to believe his husband wouldn’t be happier with a tree. He looked at the time and shook his head. “Ah well, time for me to get started on the stew, I suppose.”

Timothy had gone back to his sermon notes. Without looking up he said, “It’s raining cats and dogs outside, so cook it in here or you’ll catch your death.”

“Yes, dear.”

The tobacconists shop had a shipment of mistletoe shipped over from the mainland, since unlike the ivy it hadn’t made its way over. Fitzroy had also gotten in a selection of Christmas cards and ornaments, which other island residents had purchased for hanging off the greens they’d gathered. After a boat shipment had brought over a collection of ornaments from Brancaster castle, specially requested from Lord Hexham from some cousin he had on the mainland, John could stand it no longer.

If the Marquess was surprised to find the former scout master on his doorstep, he hid it well, simply inviting the other man in and offering him a cup of tea.

“I wouldn’t say no,” John replied, taking in the interior of the other man’s cottage. It was certainly well turned out, and far more glamorous than his own home, although John privately thought he preferred the strings of berries to the glittering gold and silver of Lord Hexham’s ornaments. At the other man’s gesture he took a seat in what proved to be a very comfortable wingback chair as Lord Hexham placed the order for tea with his butler. John didn’t think a cottage this size really needed a butler, but it did, he suppose, provide employment for at least one of the villages residents.

“Right then,” the Marquess settled himself in another chair, which was a completely different design than the one John occupied, but no less elegant. “What can I do for you, Mr. Braceridge?”

“Well, it’s like this,” John explained, frowning, trying to gage the best approach to his request. “I think Timothy would like a Christmas tree. I know,” he added hastily, “we’ve never had one before. Everyone’s said that, including Timothy.” He had, by this point, broached the subject with several other members of the community and run up against just that protest. “But I can’t help feeling that he’d be happier if he did.”

“Alright,” the other man replied, frowning slightly. “Er, has he said he’d like a tree?”

“He hasn’t, but that’s because there are so many reasons not to get one. Lack of room in the cottage, lack of proper trees…they’re all good points, but the don’t mean he wouldn’t like a tree.”

Lord Hexham didn’t look overly convinced, but he didn’t interrupt.

“But I’ve been thinking and there’s that spruce just off the cricket pitch, between it and the church, that’s not too large -”

Here Lord Hexham did cut him off. “I say, old thing, I’m not overly familiar with Father Timothy, and I’d certainly not imply that you don’t know your own husband better than I do, but I can’t see him smiling on the idea of cutting down a village land mark like that. More to the point, I can’t see anyone else smiling on the idea either.”

“Oh, no, of course not!” John hurried to assure him. The thought honestly hadn’t crossed his mind. He wasn’t certain whether Timothy would disown him, skin him like a hare, or simply write a year’s worth of very cross sermons, but none of them bore thinking about. “No, I had something else in mind completely. Still, I’d like it to be a surprise, and so I’d need help pulling it off…”

John was up and out of bed early enough on Christmas morning to have the tea brewed before he heard Timothy stir. He quickly poured a cup, added the cream, and made his way into the bedroom where his husband was just blinking awake.

“Heavens, you’re up early,” the other man noted in a groggy sort of manner, propping himself up on the pillows and reaching for the offered beverage. “Thank you.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” John explained, trying to make it sound off handed, as if he’d simply suffered from a bit of insomnia rather than being too excited to lie still any longer. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.” Timothy smiled at him over the rim of his cup. “Did you make breakfast too?”

John shook his head. They normally made breakfast together for Christmas, instead of the meal being made by whoever was up first, and he wasn’t about to break that tradition. Then he admitted, “No, but I did get the eggs laid out and the pan ready and sliced the bacon, so that’s ready to go.”

Timothy gave a little laugh of surprise. “Gracious, and here I am lounging around in bed! I should get up so we can get started on the cooking.”

“No, no, you have a lie in,” John protested. “It’s Christmas and you’ve been busy. I’ll just get myself a cup and come sit with you.” Before his husband could reply, he ducked back out and went to pour himself a cuppa’. While he was in the kitchen, he sporadically checked the weather again. Not that it would hurt if it was raining - and would be quite picturesque if it was snowing - but he was quite pleased to discover it was still dry, if overcast. That would allow for good visibility. Armed with his tea and a triumphant smile, he headed back into the bedroom. “Weather’s looking good for caroling later,” he announced, settling himself on his side of the bed. Caroling was one of Timothy’s annual projects, although since most of the village came along the actual door-to-door part was rather short. It ended with everyone in the parish hall having a general sing along and good time.

“Good,” Timothy sighed. “Not that I mind the snow, but it will be nice not to have my rheumatism acting up. And rain just isn’t very festive.”

“Not very, no.” The two of them drank their tea in companionable silence. John thought he did a very good job of acting natural through the whole thing, as if he wasn’t dying to suggest that Tim get up and dressed and they go make breakfast and that Tim look out the window…

Finally, after what seemed twice as long as normal, Timothy set his cup aside with a sigh. “That was a wonderful start to the day,” he smiled up at his husband, “thank you, dear.” With a stretch, he pushed back the covers and swung himself out of bed.

“It was no problem,” John assured him. “None at all. Christmas deserves something a little bit special, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

John waited as patiently as he was able for his husband to get up and dressed, which wasn’t very patiently at all. In fact, he left after a couple of minutes to putter around in the kitchen and check out the window. It might have been his imagination, but it seemed like the overcast had lifted a little, making the world lighter and the scenery more visible. He smiled, then stoked the stove, got the lard ready, and pulled out the remaining kitchen utensils.

Timothy walked into the kitchen to find everything ready and waiting. He gave his husband a puzzled smile. “Are you particularly hungry today, dear?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” John smiled. “More that I’m invigorated. Ready for the Christmas festivities to begin.”

Still looking bemused, Timothy went over and looked out the window, clearly checking the weather.

John held his breath.

The other man blinked once. Twice. Then, without turning from the window, asked, “John?”

“Mm?”

“Are there berry strings on the spruce?”

Slowly, careful not to rush or betray any signs of excitement, John slid over to the window.

“And, are those ornaments?”

Unable to contain his excitement anymore, John grinned from ear to ear and slipped an arm around his husband’s waist. “Merry Christmas.”

Timothy laughed, shaking his head. “How did you manage it? You were inside all night, I know. It’s cold enough I’d have felt if you got up.”

It was true, the one down side of the whole project had been that he hadn’t been able to help decorate. That would be fixed next year. “I was, yes. It was supposed to be a surprise, after all! I asked Lord Hexham, as one of our foremost citizens, if he’d take control of the organizing the thing. He got some of the lads, not sure which ones, to slip out with lanterns after we’d turned in last night, and dress it up.”

“So that’s why you were in such a hurry to get to bed!”

“I was thinking we could make it an annual tradition,” John continued. He could see future trees in his minds eye as he spoke. “Since there aren’t enough trees for everyone to have their own, I thought we could have a community tree. Lord Hexham has already donated some ornaments, along with a few other people, but I thought we could have everyone donate something each year. Maybe have Bill Thorn teach people how to carve their own. That way it would really be our tree. What do you think?”

By now Timothy had turned and was watching him with a warm, if perhaps slightly exasperated, smile. He glanced back out at the tree and said, “I think it’s a lovely idea. And I’m glad I could give you an excuse to get your Christmas tree.” He leaned over and kissed his husband’s cheek. “Now, let’s get started on breakfast.”

#downton abbey #downton abbey fanfiction #fanfiction of fanfiction #island of the gays #original character x original character #mr. braceridge x father timothy #mr. braceridge #father timothy #christmas gifts #christmas traditions #peter pelham #lord hexham #christmas trees

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