Whumptober WIP part 2
Oct. 11th, 2024 12:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gattycatHere's some more of the Big Algy Opus, this is the start of Part II, which I'm quite worried will end up being well, well over 10k at this rate. I have to go write a book with an official deadline, so I'm dropping this here as a promise to myself I get to come back to it.
Featuring Gatty classics: angst, the past is a trauma we cannot shake, Algy is responsible for Biggles's sartorial choices, the war really Fucked Things Up, Algy is not having a good time.
Words: 2059
Pairings: Biggles/Algy, though more & in this section than /
Summary: The journalist is due in less than an hour, and Biggles still hasn’t come out of the bathroom.
Mount Street, 1919
The journalist is due in less than an hour, and Biggles still hasn’t come out of the bathroom. They are well past the point where Algy would consider knocking before coming in, so he simply marches in with a mug of tea, biscuit balanced on the rim, and starts speaking before Biggles can protest.
‘I’ve laid out your grey flannel suit, it smells clean enough, and there’s a fresh shirt and I’ve chosen a tie, don’t worry, it’s the Daily Mail so I assumed that the best way to go would be as plain as possible. I’m sure he’d rather you were in your uniform but I’ve made sure that’s off being cleaned.’ He sets the mug down on the side of the sink. ‘I can tell him to go away, you know. I can say you’re unwell.’
‘No. I can do it.’ Biggles is sat in the bath, looking quite intently at a crack in the tiling. The water has gone cold, and gooseflesh covers his arms.
‘One interview and they’ll leave me alone.’
‘That’s what Wilks said. Once they’ve got some quotes they’ll simply reuse them forever.’
‘Right.’
‘And you’ll be…’
‘Putting my apron on and making the tea. Never fear, I won’t leave you alone with him.’
‘Right.’
Biggles takes up the straight razor and hones it on the edge of the bath where the enamel has grown thin. Algy passes him the brush and soap.
It is February and no matter how high Algy stokes the fires, the flat won’t warm up. He wears a thick jumper that he rolls up at the sleeves, and two pairs of socks. They have already gone through their butter and sugar ration, so he hopes the journalist doesn’t expect much.
‘Damn.’ Biggles’s throat is speckled with red where the razor has caught his skin. His hand is shaking too badly, he cannot hold the blade steady.
Quietly, Algy takes it from him. ‘Let me.’
Biggles pulls back. It is a humiliation.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ says Algy. ‘You’d do the same for me.’
He relents, after a moment, and presents his cheek.
‘It’s cold,’ Biggles explains. ‘That’s why.’
Algy doesn’t reply. They both know it’s not true, but there’s no need to be cruel. He has learnt that it is easy to nurture the lie.
‘Miserable weather,’ Algy says eventually. ‘You’d think the Thames would freeze over at this rate.’
He works slowly and calmly, passing the razor across Biggles’s skin, taking care never to look him in the eye.
‘There. Done.’
Biggles does not say thank you, but gives a grunt that Algy could take as much - or perhaps as a dismissal, he is not sure. In retaliation, Algy leans over and pulls the plug out of the bath, leaving Biggles shivering and naked in the frigid air.
‘I’ll tidy up.’
Algy leaves him, and drifts around the flat straightening piles of magazines and rearranging the cushions. He doesn’t need to tidy. Biggles’ flat is as unlived in as a morgue, stuffed with Charles’s old furniture and nicknacks, and smelling faintly of stale smoke and sweat. He had inherited everything, once the probate courts, backed up from the glut of death, finally processed his father’s and brother’s estates, and Biggles had moved into the Mount Street flat without changing a thing. Charles’s forks were still in the cutlery drawer and his slippers were still stuffed under the bed. Biggles didn’t seem to notice. He found it practical. Easy. Algy took it upon himself to clear out Charles’s socks and underpants, before Biggles started wearing them. God. Who would throw away his pants when he died? He’d never thought about it. All the detritus of a human life, the lozenge of soap in his wash bag, the collars that never quite came back clean from the laundry. No one would want them when he was gone, and it would be some poor fool’s job to throw them away.
Biggles emerges eventually in the suit Algy has chosen, his hair brushed and oiled into some sort of order and his eyes a little bloodshot. ‘The pills are finished,’ he says. ‘Will you go to the chemist and get more? There should be a script there already.’
Algy frowns. ‘I only went on Monday.’
‘Well, you’ll have to go again.’
Algy hesitates. It could be worse. He could be down the docks in some smokey room with a pipe. The doctor prescribed the morphine pills so they must be necessary. Who is Algy to say how long pain lasts?
‘Alright. Later.’
Biggles’s mouth twitches, but he nods, fumbles with his tie, buttons and unbuttons his jacket.
‘What if he asks me -’ Biggles cuts himself off.
‘Asks you what?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Biggles shoves his hands in his pockets and goes to the window, watching the street below. He still moves a little stiffly, his bad leg throwing his gait off kilter. ‘What do they want to talk about the war for anyway? That’s all finished. People should get over it.’
Algy notes the tense set of his shoulders and the way he ever so slightly bounces the foot of his good leg. ‘Yes, good idea. Tell him that, I’m sure they’ll print it.’
They are interrupted by the door. The journalist has arrived.
Mr Hynde shows himself in, removing his hat and holding it to his chest as he shakes Algy’s hand a little too firmly.
‘Major Bigglesworth. An honour.’ He pumps Biggles’s hand. ‘I was at Salonika during the war, never had the pleasure of seeing you chaps in action in France, but of course we’ve all heard the legends.’
For a moment, quite suddenly, like wind snapping through a flag, Biggles comes into focus in a quiet cold fury. ‘Legends aren’t real, Mr Hynde, but the men who died were.’
Mr Hynde hardly seems to notice. ‘An awful lot of men, on every front. Our honoured dead, as they say.’ He slips a notebook from his pocket. ‘I’d like to start with some general colour, your early years, your heroes, that sort of thing.’
‘I’ll make tea,’ says Algy abruptly. ‘No sugar, though, sorry.’
‘No matter,’ smiles Mr Hynde. ‘Perhaps a real drink?’ He nods to the bottles of scotch and brandy and the soda syphon.
‘I’m not sure -’ Algy begins but Biggles has already filled two glasses - a little too full - and sits on the edge of the sofa, fingers gripped tight around the crystal.
‘I notice you favour your left leg,’ says Mr Hynde. ‘Is this the injury from your final dog fight of the war? ‘Shot down over enemy skies’, I think could nicely sub-title one section. You must have been one of the last men fighting in France.’
Biggles stares fixedly at his drink. ‘I’d rather not talk about that.’
‘Well, all in due course. Perhaps let’s go back to your childhood.’
It is agonising. Mr Hynde works through a series of questions and Biggles’s answers get shorter and shorter. They’ve barely gone ten minutes before Biggles’ glass is empty and he is refilling it, bringing the bottle back with him. Algy hovers, leaning against the arm of a chair, picking at his nails. He expected there to be an unpleasant tension he would have to manage, but instead there is only a gap where Biggles should be. His hand shakes as he pours his drink, and he seems too pale, too slight. The more Mr Hynde speaks, the more Biggles fades away until he is nothing but the shape of a man.
‘Tell me about two-sixty-six, about the men you served with.’
‘I - I’d rather not talk about that.’
‘Why ever not? Our readers are thirsting to know the exploits of you extraordinary fellows. I have here that your record is four kills in one day - how about telling that story? I believe the record is six, you must count yourself amongst one of the greatest Aces.’
‘It’s not a story. It was only - it was a job and I did it. An awful job no man should be asked to do, but there was no helping it so we went up and took a look round, and if we could, came home again.’
Algy thinks for a moment, Biggles is slurring his words from the drink - but god - it’s worse - there is the rough colour of tears in his voice, the tears that these days will overwhelm him suddenly, unexpectedly, like a faulty light that flickers on unbidden, some breakdown in his body’s functioning that makes him flinch at sudden noises and flare into anger like wildfire. It is as though without the straight jacket of war he cannot hold himself together.
Mr Hynde can sense this fracture, and he leans forward,
‘A terribly hard job. The nerve strain, I hear, took quite a few pilots out. Did you ever see anyone like that? Anyone not up to the job?’
Biggles reaches hastily to refill his glass, like reaching for a rope thrown overboard, but he shakes too badly he knocks the decanter over sending whisky across the table, and Mr Hynde’s eyes grow sharp, greedy, tracking his trembling hand.
Algy sees his moment. He darts in, offering profuse apologies to Mr Hydne, and in the confusion, takes up his notebook, rips out the pages of the interview and uses them to mop up the spirits.
Mr Hynde curses when he realises what has happened.
‘Oh, will you look at that,’ says Algy. ‘What a silly mistake. I’m awfully sorry. I suppose they’re ruined now.’ He tosses them into the fire with a quick flick of his hand and they go up in an instant.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ cries Mr Hynde. ‘The whole interview - my god.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ smiles Algy in a manner he knows to be quite infuriating. ‘Sorry to have wasted your time.’
Mr Hynde pushes his hair back where it has fallen from its neatly combed parting. ‘Perhaps we can start again…’
Algy is already fetching his coat and hat. ‘Unfortunately we have a prior appointment at the Aero club so we’ll have to disappoint you on this occasion.’ He holds out the Mackintosh and Homburg, a silent challenge.
Mr Hynde’s gaze flickers to Biggles, who has retreated to a corner, his back against the wall as he fumbles with a book of matches to light a cigarette. He will not look up at either of them.
‘Another time, then.’ My Hynde gives him a newly appraising look, but concedes the fight. He takes his things and puts his ripped notebook in his pocket. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Algy opens the door and waits for him to go. ‘Oh, we’ve got some plans to travel. You might not find us at home.’
‘Gentlemen.’
Algy waits until he hears the street door slam, then closes the flat door and leans against it, scrubbing a hand over his face. ‘I’m going to kill Wilks. What a god-awful idea that was.’
Biggles is peering out of the window again, then abruptly yanks the curtains closed, and puts his cigarette out on a book Algy has left open next to the armchair.
‘You didn’t need to do that,’ snaps Biggles.
‘Rot. He was a nasty piece of work and I didn’t want him in the flat.’
‘It’s not your flat.’
Algy tries not to let the blow land. He has slept in the spare room for three months. His toothbrush sits in the mug by the sink beside Biggles’.
‘Well. You seemed determined to give him a show, getting all misty-eyed about two-sixty-six. What were you going to do, blow your nose on a doily?’
Of course, it is cruel, and petty, and pathetic, and Algy feels awful as soon as the words leave his mouth, but it is impossible to hold them back. He is hurt and wants to hurt.
It works too well.
Biggles says nothing, only two pinks spots rising on his cheeks suggesting he has heard Algy.
‘Make yourself useful and get my pills,’ he orders, and retreats to his room.
Algy stands alone in the flat, adrift.
What do we do now? Biggles had asked months ago in Victoria station, and Algy feels so certainly that whatever it was they should have done, it wasn’t this.
It shouldn’t be like this.
Featuring Gatty classics: angst, the past is a trauma we cannot shake, Algy is responsible for Biggles's sartorial choices, the war really Fucked Things Up, Algy is not having a good time.
Words: 2059
Pairings: Biggles/Algy, though more & in this section than /
Summary: The journalist is due in less than an hour, and Biggles still hasn’t come out of the bathroom.
Mount Street, 1919
The journalist is due in less than an hour, and Biggles still hasn’t come out of the bathroom. They are well past the point where Algy would consider knocking before coming in, so he simply marches in with a mug of tea, biscuit balanced on the rim, and starts speaking before Biggles can protest.
‘I’ve laid out your grey flannel suit, it smells clean enough, and there’s a fresh shirt and I’ve chosen a tie, don’t worry, it’s the Daily Mail so I assumed that the best way to go would be as plain as possible. I’m sure he’d rather you were in your uniform but I’ve made sure that’s off being cleaned.’ He sets the mug down on the side of the sink. ‘I can tell him to go away, you know. I can say you’re unwell.’
‘No. I can do it.’ Biggles is sat in the bath, looking quite intently at a crack in the tiling. The water has gone cold, and gooseflesh covers his arms.
‘One interview and they’ll leave me alone.’
‘That’s what Wilks said. Once they’ve got some quotes they’ll simply reuse them forever.’
‘Right.’
‘And you’ll be…’
‘Putting my apron on and making the tea. Never fear, I won’t leave you alone with him.’
‘Right.’
Biggles takes up the straight razor and hones it on the edge of the bath where the enamel has grown thin. Algy passes him the brush and soap.
It is February and no matter how high Algy stokes the fires, the flat won’t warm up. He wears a thick jumper that he rolls up at the sleeves, and two pairs of socks. They have already gone through their butter and sugar ration, so he hopes the journalist doesn’t expect much.
‘Damn.’ Biggles’s throat is speckled with red where the razor has caught his skin. His hand is shaking too badly, he cannot hold the blade steady.
Quietly, Algy takes it from him. ‘Let me.’
Biggles pulls back. It is a humiliation.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ says Algy. ‘You’d do the same for me.’
He relents, after a moment, and presents his cheek.
‘It’s cold,’ Biggles explains. ‘That’s why.’
Algy doesn’t reply. They both know it’s not true, but there’s no need to be cruel. He has learnt that it is easy to nurture the lie.
‘Miserable weather,’ Algy says eventually. ‘You’d think the Thames would freeze over at this rate.’
He works slowly and calmly, passing the razor across Biggles’s skin, taking care never to look him in the eye.
‘There. Done.’
Biggles does not say thank you, but gives a grunt that Algy could take as much - or perhaps as a dismissal, he is not sure. In retaliation, Algy leans over and pulls the plug out of the bath, leaving Biggles shivering and naked in the frigid air.
‘I’ll tidy up.’
Algy leaves him, and drifts around the flat straightening piles of magazines and rearranging the cushions. He doesn’t need to tidy. Biggles’ flat is as unlived in as a morgue, stuffed with Charles’s old furniture and nicknacks, and smelling faintly of stale smoke and sweat. He had inherited everything, once the probate courts, backed up from the glut of death, finally processed his father’s and brother’s estates, and Biggles had moved into the Mount Street flat without changing a thing. Charles’s forks were still in the cutlery drawer and his slippers were still stuffed under the bed. Biggles didn’t seem to notice. He found it practical. Easy. Algy took it upon himself to clear out Charles’s socks and underpants, before Biggles started wearing them. God. Who would throw away his pants when he died? He’d never thought about it. All the detritus of a human life, the lozenge of soap in his wash bag, the collars that never quite came back clean from the laundry. No one would want them when he was gone, and it would be some poor fool’s job to throw them away.
Biggles emerges eventually in the suit Algy has chosen, his hair brushed and oiled into some sort of order and his eyes a little bloodshot. ‘The pills are finished,’ he says. ‘Will you go to the chemist and get more? There should be a script there already.’
Algy frowns. ‘I only went on Monday.’
‘Well, you’ll have to go again.’
Algy hesitates. It could be worse. He could be down the docks in some smokey room with a pipe. The doctor prescribed the morphine pills so they must be necessary. Who is Algy to say how long pain lasts?
‘Alright. Later.’
Biggles’s mouth twitches, but he nods, fumbles with his tie, buttons and unbuttons his jacket.
‘What if he asks me -’ Biggles cuts himself off.
‘Asks you what?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Biggles shoves his hands in his pockets and goes to the window, watching the street below. He still moves a little stiffly, his bad leg throwing his gait off kilter. ‘What do they want to talk about the war for anyway? That’s all finished. People should get over it.’
Algy notes the tense set of his shoulders and the way he ever so slightly bounces the foot of his good leg. ‘Yes, good idea. Tell him that, I’m sure they’ll print it.’
They are interrupted by the door. The journalist has arrived.
Mr Hynde shows himself in, removing his hat and holding it to his chest as he shakes Algy’s hand a little too firmly.
‘Major Bigglesworth. An honour.’ He pumps Biggles’s hand. ‘I was at Salonika during the war, never had the pleasure of seeing you chaps in action in France, but of course we’ve all heard the legends.’
For a moment, quite suddenly, like wind snapping through a flag, Biggles comes into focus in a quiet cold fury. ‘Legends aren’t real, Mr Hynde, but the men who died were.’
Mr Hynde hardly seems to notice. ‘An awful lot of men, on every front. Our honoured dead, as they say.’ He slips a notebook from his pocket. ‘I’d like to start with some general colour, your early years, your heroes, that sort of thing.’
‘I’ll make tea,’ says Algy abruptly. ‘No sugar, though, sorry.’
‘No matter,’ smiles Mr Hynde. ‘Perhaps a real drink?’ He nods to the bottles of scotch and brandy and the soda syphon.
‘I’m not sure -’ Algy begins but Biggles has already filled two glasses - a little too full - and sits on the edge of the sofa, fingers gripped tight around the crystal.
‘I notice you favour your left leg,’ says Mr Hynde. ‘Is this the injury from your final dog fight of the war? ‘Shot down over enemy skies’, I think could nicely sub-title one section. You must have been one of the last men fighting in France.’
Biggles stares fixedly at his drink. ‘I’d rather not talk about that.’
‘Well, all in due course. Perhaps let’s go back to your childhood.’
It is agonising. Mr Hynde works through a series of questions and Biggles’s answers get shorter and shorter. They’ve barely gone ten minutes before Biggles’ glass is empty and he is refilling it, bringing the bottle back with him. Algy hovers, leaning against the arm of a chair, picking at his nails. He expected there to be an unpleasant tension he would have to manage, but instead there is only a gap where Biggles should be. His hand shakes as he pours his drink, and he seems too pale, too slight. The more Mr Hynde speaks, the more Biggles fades away until he is nothing but the shape of a man.
‘Tell me about two-sixty-six, about the men you served with.’
‘I - I’d rather not talk about that.’
‘Why ever not? Our readers are thirsting to know the exploits of you extraordinary fellows. I have here that your record is four kills in one day - how about telling that story? I believe the record is six, you must count yourself amongst one of the greatest Aces.’
‘It’s not a story. It was only - it was a job and I did it. An awful job no man should be asked to do, but there was no helping it so we went up and took a look round, and if we could, came home again.’
Algy thinks for a moment, Biggles is slurring his words from the drink - but god - it’s worse - there is the rough colour of tears in his voice, the tears that these days will overwhelm him suddenly, unexpectedly, like a faulty light that flickers on unbidden, some breakdown in his body’s functioning that makes him flinch at sudden noises and flare into anger like wildfire. It is as though without the straight jacket of war he cannot hold himself together.
Mr Hynde can sense this fracture, and he leans forward,
‘A terribly hard job. The nerve strain, I hear, took quite a few pilots out. Did you ever see anyone like that? Anyone not up to the job?’
Biggles reaches hastily to refill his glass, like reaching for a rope thrown overboard, but he shakes too badly he knocks the decanter over sending whisky across the table, and Mr Hynde’s eyes grow sharp, greedy, tracking his trembling hand.
Algy sees his moment. He darts in, offering profuse apologies to Mr Hydne, and in the confusion, takes up his notebook, rips out the pages of the interview and uses them to mop up the spirits.
Mr Hynde curses when he realises what has happened.
‘Oh, will you look at that,’ says Algy. ‘What a silly mistake. I’m awfully sorry. I suppose they’re ruined now.’ He tosses them into the fire with a quick flick of his hand and they go up in an instant.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ cries Mr Hynde. ‘The whole interview - my god.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ smiles Algy in a manner he knows to be quite infuriating. ‘Sorry to have wasted your time.’
Mr Hynde pushes his hair back where it has fallen from its neatly combed parting. ‘Perhaps we can start again…’
Algy is already fetching his coat and hat. ‘Unfortunately we have a prior appointment at the Aero club so we’ll have to disappoint you on this occasion.’ He holds out the Mackintosh and Homburg, a silent challenge.
Mr Hynde’s gaze flickers to Biggles, who has retreated to a corner, his back against the wall as he fumbles with a book of matches to light a cigarette. He will not look up at either of them.
‘Another time, then.’ My Hynde gives him a newly appraising look, but concedes the fight. He takes his things and puts his ripped notebook in his pocket. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Algy opens the door and waits for him to go. ‘Oh, we’ve got some plans to travel. You might not find us at home.’
‘Gentlemen.’
Algy waits until he hears the street door slam, then closes the flat door and leans against it, scrubbing a hand over his face. ‘I’m going to kill Wilks. What a god-awful idea that was.’
Biggles is peering out of the window again, then abruptly yanks the curtains closed, and puts his cigarette out on a book Algy has left open next to the armchair.
‘You didn’t need to do that,’ snaps Biggles.
‘Rot. He was a nasty piece of work and I didn’t want him in the flat.’
‘It’s not your flat.’
Algy tries not to let the blow land. He has slept in the spare room for three months. His toothbrush sits in the mug by the sink beside Biggles’.
‘Well. You seemed determined to give him a show, getting all misty-eyed about two-sixty-six. What were you going to do, blow your nose on a doily?’
Of course, it is cruel, and petty, and pathetic, and Algy feels awful as soon as the words leave his mouth, but it is impossible to hold them back. He is hurt and wants to hurt.
It works too well.
Biggles says nothing, only two pinks spots rising on his cheeks suggesting he has heard Algy.
‘Make yourself useful and get my pills,’ he orders, and retreats to his room.
Algy stands alone in the flat, adrift.
What do we do now? Biggles had asked months ago in Victoria station, and Algy feels so certainly that whatever it was they should have done, it wasn’t this.
It shouldn’t be like this.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-11 12:50 pm (UTC)Aaaaa this is utterly heartbreaking, both of them are SO wretched here, Biggles absolutely and totally lost, Algy holding him together with his bare hands and not much else. The cold flat, Biggles too shaky to shave, the MORPHINE PILLS oh no Biggles, the insane idea of talking to a journalist, who is utterly vile, bless Algy and his comprehensive eviction of the guy from the premises, Biggles only coming alive for moments and then starting to cry when he does come alive, the way they flare up at each other but stick together anyway... yeah. This is brilliant and now I need a whole lot of comfort for both of them please ;_;
no subject
Date: 2024-10-11 12:59 pm (UTC)but thank you for your kind words, it is always the biggest motivator to know that people enjoy something you wrote, so thank you <3<3
no subject
Date: 2024-10-11 10:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-10-11 10:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-11-07 03:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-11-08 11:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-10-12 11:30 am (UTC)Algy is also so fortunate that, as it turns out, Biggles recovers enough to be functional and more or less okay; and that Algy’s persistence and loyalty and determination didn’t spur Biggles to turn his back on him completely once he was through his darkest days, needing to close the door on Algy as well if he’s to be able to close the door on that awful chapter of his life.
Anyway, I know this doesn’t sound like a comment by someone who deeply, deeply loved your writing, but it is, I’m just incapable of expressing it! You made me read the kind of story I didn’t think I wanted to read, and it made me feel things and think things, and it was perfectly done in every way <3
no subject
Date: 2024-10-12 12:05 pm (UTC)I have such a deep fascination and love for the WWI stories, because they're such a strange and different beast, not quite written for children, a blur of antics - of course, antics, the gap between the school room and the squadron mess was too scant - and deeply poignant, brittle, brutal records of trauma, grief, depression, despair, violence and guilt. I can't quite believe they were published as they were. There's something incredibly honest about that strange mix, and I love them a lot for it.
And I'm so fascinated by this gap in canon between these stories, and then bam, everything seems to have sort of shaken out by Cruise of the Condor, and I just can't stop thinking about how do they get from one place to the next. I've said this elsewhere but canonically, at the end of the war, Biggles is a 19 year old orphan with a terrible leg injury, a drinking problem, and quite clear signs of PTSD. He mellows out, slowly, over the years, with some terrible flashes back to it - there's scenes, here and there throughout the books that really get me - but I can't help but think a lot about what that process was of coming home. How can you ever really come home. So as part of this bigger algy feelings fic, this whole long part is going to be that, how bad it gets, and how they come through - because as you said, it's a very narrow path for them both to come through it and still want to be around each other.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-13 11:27 am (UTC)Do you think Biggles would have been better off if he’d had his father and brother around immediately after the war? I haven’t read the books about his childhood but I get strong Not Great vibes. Like at the very least, not close and not nurturing. And that he would maybe have preferred the relief of being able to fall apart on his own terms, rather than trying to have to be the person they want him to be, for them.
The opening of Condor struck me as so discordant with much of the rest of the book - Biggles is so clearly Not Ok but then he’s having a weird adventure and almost in a child like role again, with flashes of Not Okness and I just did not really like the book, I prefer your take…
*my favourites are ALSO the ones with a cracking good story like Flies East and In the Orient
*my other favourites are the ones where they have good vibes, and I really love Bertie so he gets a book extra points
no subject
Date: 2024-10-17 10:33 am (UTC)I've been rereading the boy biggles and biggles goes to school, and having a very different opinion of his dad reading as an adult compared to reading as a 16 year old, he might be gruff and edwardian and emotionally quite rejecting, but you can also see him a constant oh god im a lone parent to an absolute liability who keeps trying to die of fever, why is he making it so hard for me to keep him alive, stop messing about with tigers arggg. I do wonder what it would have been like if his father and brother survived the war, complicated, I think, probably more expectations he go back and do as was planned, him to study for the Indian Civil Service exam and get posted out there - but then at the same time, would the war have changed his father's ideas of what a good future looked like, also maybe a bad idea to send him back to get some more malaria?? and he's JUST such a wreck at the end of the war, it might be psychologically eviscerating for him to be perceived by his father and brother in that state.
I enjoy Condor! but i enjoy the adventure nonsense, and I enjoy that he's barely pieced himself together, but yes you can really see it's the first one WEJ wrote, when he was still mostly producing WWI short stories, and he has no idea what he thinks should be going on or who this character is and is trying to jam his little neurotic disaster into a Serial adventure. There's always part of me that things some of the interwar adventure books is just 18 year old Biggles stuck in 266 mess, day dreaming intensely to avoid having to engage with reality. Like when he was a sick child stuck in bed reading for weeks at a time.