Aquilegia

Presenting an idea for a new project - criticisms welcome...

Three Hens in a Boat

Prologue
Fiona had a talent for finding books. She was a master of scouring second-hand bookshops, often finding books wedged behind radiators. It seemed that ancient literary works called out to her from their dusty exiles. She had discovered this particular copy of Jerome's Three Men in a Boat hiding behind a collection of Highland romances in a West Port bookshop. It had obviously been well neglected, with a cracked spine, faded cover, and yellowing pages. But otherwise intact. On finding it her book group sprang immediately to mind.

It was two weeks later that Fiona arrived at Moira's tenement flat with the book in hand - actually in her bag. It was late November with the wind rattling anything it was possible to rattle. It took a little time to dispense with the usual pleasantries. The weather- dreich. The government - useless. Ms Henderson's new bloke - too young and too loud. Fiona had settled into her favourite of Moira's armchairs, one she sort of thought of as her throne. She reached into her bag and pulled out the book.
'Listen to this.' She announced
Aileen gave the usual sigh when Fiona went off like this, her expression of the knowledge that resistance was futile. Moira continued pouring wine, but raised an eyebrow that was questioning just how long this was going to take.
Fiona began to read aloud, in what she imagined to be the accent of a Victorian gentleman.
'There were four of us—George, and William Samuel Harris, and myself, and Montmorency, We were sitting in my room, smoking, and talking about how bad we were - bad from a medical point of view, I mean, of course.'
Passing round the wine with a practised efficiency Moira muttered
'Oh, for heaven's sake. Not another bloody adventure story about daft men doing ridiculous things and calling it character building.'

Fiona was, as usual, undeterred, and read on. Her voice grew more and more animated as she read the descriptions of Jerome's narrator's hypochondriacal musings. The catalogue of imaginary ailments. All leading up to the suggestion that they should take a boating holiday as a cure. By the time that Fiona had reached the packing scene even Aileen was listening intently. She had the focused attention that was usually reserved for medieval manuscripts. Fiona continued.
'George said: You know we are on a wrong track altogether. We must not think of the things we could do with, but only of the things that we can't do without.'
With a distinct hint of amusement Moira observed
'Sensible man. If there is such a thing.'

This was the point at which Fiona closed the book with a flourish and made her disconcerting announcement, declaring
'We should do this,"
Silence followed this. Silence filled only by the sound of rain on the window, and the distant sound of an emergency vehicle in the Edinburgh evening. Aileen's glass stopped before it reached her lips. Moira put her glass down rather than drop it.
'Do what exactly?'
Moira asked. Her tone of voice suggested that she already knew, and was not going to be totally enamoured of the answer. Fiona now knew that she had their complete attention.
'The trip! The Thames! We follow the route as in the book, and see how it compares from a female perspective. Think of it. A literary pilgrimage. A historical recreation. A chance to prove how gender shapes experience in...'
Moira interrupted.
'A chance to catch pneumonia on an English river. Have you completely taken leave of your senses?'

Aileen leaned forward, her academic senses and curiosity now completely engaged.
'It would be fascinating in several ways. From a socio-historic viewpoint - the comparison of the Victorian male experience with the contemporary female experience. The changes in river culture. The evolution of leisure travel...'
She trailed off lost in her academic thoughts of the possibilities offered. Fiona continued with the unassailable logic the perpetual romantic.
'Plus, when was the last time we, any of us, did something completely and utterly mad?'
From their looks she knew that she had hit the target.

Fiona had made an excellent point. Moira's life had become a continuous stream of patients and prescriptions. Aileen's world was totally encompassed in lectures and library research. Fiona was completely shrouded in int dimensions of splitting up with her latest partner. All three were in the classic danger of becoming women who discussed the weather with interest and found excitement in new tea-towel patterns. Even as she made her point it was obvious Moria's protests were getting weaker.
'But the boat hire would cost a fortune.'
Fiona was undeterred.
'We could split it three ways. And think of the stories afterwards.'
Aileen, now in full academic mode, mused
'The historical documentation would be invaluable. The comparative study of gendered leisure experiences across different time periods.'

Thus three intelligent, sensible, Scottish women ensconced in an Edinburgh flat on a dreich November evening made their decision. The decision that Moira was later to describe as
'The most expensive way to prove that Victorian men were idiots.'
Maybe one could blame the wine. The evening concluded with their fate sealed with a handshake, and the wind howling its approval outside - or was it a warning. Either way the three hens were committed. Fiona put the book back in her bag, and began to gather her things. She had that self satisfied air of someone having successfully corrupted her friends. As she was about to leave she left them with her final thought
'Jerome K. Jerome has nothing on three determined Scottish women with a point to prove.'
She was of course quite wrong. Jerome had had experience on his side. The hens only had enthusiasm, and an alarming faith in the English weather.

It would have to be enough.