Work Text:
***
Feburary 30, 18 - something
Deer dairy,
Mr. Blackadder has been teaching me how to write because he said that literacy is the only thing that could possibly separate me from single selled organisms and maybe one day apes, God willing. That was very nice of him because now I don’t have to draw the pictures instead of words.
***
‘Don’t grip it so hard,’ Edmund says and lightly taps Baldrick’s hand with a ruler.
His right hand is closed in a tight fist around the quill, knuckles white. Baldrick jolts awake, rather delayed, and puts down the quill.
‘Oh, I can’t, sir! It just doesn’t work,’ he complains and picks up the quill again. ‘I wish I could just…’
Baldrick puts the quill in his left hand. The grip is not perfect by any means, but it’s better. He looks up at Edmund, excited.
‘So all this time,’ he starts, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘You didn’t think to tell me you’re left-handed.’
‘Well, my mum used to say that people that use their left hand are witches and Satan worshippers.’
‘Baldrick, your mother tried getting rid of lice by setting her head on fire.’
He opens and closes his mouth, completely stumped.
‘Quite,’ Edmund says. ‘Now you can practise writing some letters.’
‘Well, it seems a bit early for letters, Mr. Blackadder. And I also don’t know who I’d be writing letters to.’
Edmund sighs.
‘Letters, Baldrick. A, B.’
‘A bee?’ Baldrick exclaims and looks around. ‘Where?’
‘Oh God.’
***
March 12
Deer diary,
I took a bath today. Mr. B was saying how me cooking food should be treated as a health hazard with the potential to become an attempted murder by poisoning.
***
‘I don’t see what the fuss is about,’ Baldrick confesses, leaning back in the bathtub.
He half-means it. The bath taking itself is supposed to be fun, but carrying all that water in countless buckets, heating it up and pouring it in the tub does ruin some of the relaxation effect it could have. Still, it’s better than Baldrick’s first plan, which was finding a giant and getting him to carry the bathtub outside, scoop water into it from a river and then light a fire under the tub.
‘Of course,’ Edmund scoffs. ‘Have you ever taken a bath before in your entire life?’
‘Well, not unless you count the baptism. See, I almost drowned ‘cause the priest dropped me in the big pillar cup thingy.’
‘I’m not surprised, Baldrick. Being dropped as a child is the only reasonable explanation as to why you turned out like this.’
Baldrick ignores the comment and lowers his head in the water, blowing bubbles. He’s not quite sure why Edmund is there for this, something about a high chance of Baldrick getting confused and drowning. Doesn’t matter to him, he’s wrapped up in reading a newspaper anyway.
Trying to find something to do, Baldrick notices a bar of soap. He brings it to his face and sniffs a few times, discovering that it has a sweet floral smell.
‘That’s nice, what is that?’
‘That’s soap, Baldrick. You must have at least heard of it.’
‘No, I know. My mum used to make soap out of dead cows when I was little. I meant the smell.’
Edmund sighs, unwilling to acknowledge the story.
‘Sandalwood and rose, though I doubt it’s saying much to a person whose experience with discerning scents is strictly limited to things that can be found in a sewer.’
Losing attention two words in, Baldrick licks the soap. Repercussions come instantly, as Edmund slaps his wrist and the soap falls in the bathtub. Eventually the brain catches up and Baldrick lets out a quiet ‘ow’, rubbing his wrist.
‘On second thought, go on,’ Edmund says. ‘That ought to solve the problem of your distinctive breath odour.’
Not waiting for an answer, he goes back to reading. Baldrick takes the moment to give the soap at the bottom of the tub a wistful look.
‘Come now, Mr. B. It can’t be that bad,’ he says, absent-minded.
‘I fear, Baldrick, that your breath would make the smell of a decaying skunk that has just consumed an entire barrel of surströmming pale by comparison.’
‘Alright then,’ Baldrick says, offended, and grabs the soap again.
‘No,’ Edmund tuts and raises a hand. ‘Fine, alright, I got you a toothbrush and some powder. Think of it as your first and only birthday present.’
Baldrick stares in amazement as he’s being handed a small box with a brush and a container of some chalky powder.
‘Oh, sir! I don’t even know when my birthday is, but it might be today!’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Edmund grumbles, eyes on the newspaper again. ‘I’m doing this for my own sake, Baldrick.’
***
May 7
Dear diary,
Mr. Blackadder took me to the theatre yesterday because Prince George lost his trousers again. It was very very very very nice. The nice thing to which I’m referring to is the opera and not the trouser losing, but if the trouser losing didn’t happen then I wouldn’t get to go to the theatre so the trouser losing was sort of nice too.
***
Mouth open in awe, Baldrick looks around at the decorated ceilings and golden chandeliers. The sounds of quiet murmurs and the orchestra warming up resonate throughout the space. For the first time in his life, he actually feels like he belongs in the room. As a sort of lap dog in borrowed clothing that’s too big for him, but belongs either way.
‘Baldrick, everyone is looking. You’ll break your neck if you keep doing that,’ Edmund whispers. ‘Or I’ll break your neck.’
‘Sorry,’ Baldrick whispers back, giddy. ‘I’m just really excited.’
‘I can’t see why anyone would be, even you. For the next three hours we’ll be subject to the oh-so-exciting themes of the aristocracy arguing and backstabbing each other over and over.’
‘That does sound exciting,’ Baldrick nods.
‘I was being sarcastic.’
Before he can think of a response, some of the lights around them get dimmed.
‘Is it starting?’ Baldrick whispers.
Edmund rolls his eyes in response. As irritated as he is, and that’s pretty irritated, the soft light takes some of the impact away. When everyone is done applauding the conductor — which Baldrick does quite enthusiastically — the tenor wearing a Greek tunic steps out onto the stage and starts singing. Baldrick leans closer in his seat.
‘So what’s he saying?’ he asks, looking back. ‘Is this Greek?’
‘Are you going to be commentating the entire time?’ Edmund sighs and hands him a booklet. ‘It’s Italian.’
Quietly, Baldrick examines the libretto and flips through the pages.
‘That’s a lot of words.’
‘Still think it’s exciting?’ Edmund asks. ‘We can leave any time.’
‘No, no, I’ll read.’
Half an hour passes by quick, with Baldrick watching the stage and Edmund watching him. To the surprise of both of them, he manages to keep up with the story. Somewhat.
‘What do you think is actually happening, Baldrick?’
Amused, Edmund watches on as his companion frantically looks from the booklet to the stage and back a few times, looking for an answer.
‘So, this emperor man got an angry letter from his son and his wife—’
‘That’s his sister.’
‘Well, one time my cousin actually—’
‘I urge you to never finish that sentence,’ Edmund says, putting a hand over his mouth. ‘In fact, I’d prefer it if you stayed silent until the intermission.’
Baldrick raises a finger.
‘Alright, what? How hard is it to follow a simple instruction?’
‘Well, Mr. B, I just wanted to say thank you for bringing me. I learned a lot.’
‘And what did you learn?’
‘The ticket man calls me your pet, everyone claps for men playing in the pit and the naked baby drawings aren’t called that.’
‘Charming,’ Edmund responds, still deadpan but lacking the usual condescending tone. ‘I’ll let you know when I plan on selling Prince George’s clothes again.’