The May Wolf (Part III)

The Frog Floor

Below this introductory screed lies part three of a short story, titled The May Wolf. As you can probably tell, I am making it up as I go along. Part one and part two are here.

The story so far: Somewhere in the rural home counties of Victorian England, a man named James Grindy has constructed an experimental wooden roller-coaster that he has named The Gravitus. It is referred to by others as The May Wolf, on account of the howling noise that it makes while in motion.

Women are not permitted to ride The Gravitus for fear that it will upset their delicate humours, and that the motion will loosen their clothing and reduce them to an immodest state of semi-undress. Possibly in retaliation to this exclusion, an author calling themselves May Wolf has been publishing volumes of female erotica, in which women are depicted occupying lofty positions within the government and industry.

To cater to the gentle spirits of the discontented womenfolk, Grindy (a bachelor) has constructed another milder amusement that he calls The Frog Floor.

An abundance of forethought and consideration had been invested in the Frog Floor. Lady Margaret would be the first person to admit that, albeit to no-one other than herself. The attention to detail extended beyond the ingenious mode of its construction, taking into account the dispositions of those for whom it had been created, namely mothers and their young children.

The one-room building occupied a grassy, sun-kissed clearing, located at the end of a winding path, in the centre of a gloomy tract of woodland; an idyllic spot for a secluded picnic. It was a simple square fabrication, fashioned from teak. The four-sided, pyramid-shaped roof had been tiled with a darker wood. Large windows in the east, south, and west-facing walls allowed plenty of natural light to penetrate the interior.

Inside, it smelled strongly of varnish. The un-sanded rafters had been left exposed, revealing an ascending interlocking structure, reminiscent of the spiral growth of a shellfish.

The flooring comprised rectangular wooden blocks of varying dimensions, forced tightly together to form a near-seamless jigsaw. The smooth surface was painted with the image of a pond, as seen from above. Any significant weight placed upon the large, green lily pads caused subtle movement in the layered blocks underfoot, eliciting a variety of sounds not unlike the croaking of frogs.

The five women had gathered in one corner of the room, on a small area of painted-on dry land. Ethna Allenby stood apart from the group, across the floor, in the centre of one of the lily pads. The scrunched yellow blanket that she clasped against her chest with both hands, stirred with the sleeping movements of her newborn son. A beam of sunlight projecting through the south window infused the air around her with soft, maternal warmth. Lady Margaret found herself absorbed by the slow motion of the dust motes that circulated like the specks of distant birds, around the wild architecture of the young mother's dark, uncombed hair.

“I call to order this meeting of The Association of Women Who Are More Than Wives,” announced Edith Daubney.

The women, all of whom were seemingly reluctant to make contact with the painted pond, remained lined up around the north-west corner. In the centre of the room, Ethna took a deliberate step forward onto an adjacent lily pad. The floorboards dutifully issued a pair of neat ribbits – one for each foot. Edith raised a matronly eyebrow.

“Please, do let us have decorum or we will get nowhere,” she said.

Ethna turned to face the group, drawing a subdued, semi-croak from the flooring. Bathed in the sunlight, she resembled an apparition, returned from the grave. The heavy application of kohl around her eyes, contrasted with her naturally-pale complexion, brought to the mind of Lady Margaret, the haggard unfortunates that she had viewed while on a private visit to the Bethlem Royal Hospital, in London – those pitiful creatures who had forsaken their humanity and regressed to bestial shadows of their former selves.

“Some of us came here for the frogs,” said Ethna, matter of factly.

“Very well,”said Edith, not wishing to press the matter. “For the first order of business I will yield the floor to our treasurer.”

She leaned out from the centre of the group, nodding towards a prim-looking woman who stood at the far end of the line.

“We have received another generous donation from the enigmatic authoress, Ms May Wolf, whose works we are all more than familiar with” reported Florence Mowday. “She has taken note of our nascent society and has pledged to lend her continuing support.”

“Who do you think it is?” enquired Wendy Skilton.

“My brother, Charles believes that it is somebody close to the inventor of The May Wolf,” said Ann Beare. “He and some of his friends are working on plans to 'bring her into the light' as he puts it.”

“We must take what measures we can to warn Ms Wolf of any plot to unmask her,” advised Edith.

“James Grindy has no lady, does he?” said Wendy.

“None I am aware of,” said Ann. “I believe he has a sister.”

“He has two,” said Lady Margaret.

“My dear Matthew thinks it's James Tuttlebee,” said Florence.

“The member of Parliament?” enquired Wendy.

“The former member of Parliament,” corrected Ann. “And, we should give no further credence to the fanciful notion that May Wolf is the pseudonym of a male author.”

“Well he does have plenty of time on his hands now,” said Florence. “My dear Matthew says, while they were at Cambridge together, James made himself a small fortune publishing chuff sheets for his fellow students. He fancies that James has picked up on a change in the wind and is now devoting his writing talents to the opposite sex.”

The room fell silent. Ethna stepped slowly onto a lily pad, drawing out a lively frog chorus that slowly tailed-off.

“I see no reason why May Wolf can't be a man,” she remarked.

“Then you must be utterly blind to our struggle, and to the daily indignities and inequalities that are faced by our sex in all echelons of society,” said Ann.

“Speak for yourself,” said Ethna. “I get along just fine.”

She readjusted her hold on her sleeping child.

“If you think that boy child you have clasped to your breast won't grow up to be the terror of some poor woman then you are most-grievously mistaken,” said Ann.

“Ann, please,” said Edith.

“I don't care what she says. It's all a game,” declared Ethna.

Again, the room fell to awkward silence. Ethna changed lily-pads, tapping her feet again the wood, stirring a congregation of croaks.

“This is humiliating,” announced Lady Margaret. “We are, by our own admission, a society of women who campaign for the advancement of our rights. Yet we have allowed ourselves to be boxed inside a room that makes frog sounds. We are so cowed by a painting of a pond on the floor that we observe the fictional distinction between land and water as though it were a real pond.”

She took a step onto the flat surface of the water, then turned to address the women.

“I would like to table a motion,” she said. “Tomorrow, our husbands will be at Duckenfield to discuss the possibility of manned-flight. They will remain there for the best part of the day. They may even spend the night if the roads are thought to be dangerous. In their absence, Mr Grindy's Gravitus will lie unattended. I venture that we ride it. If only to prove to ourselves that we are equal in measure to our menfolk...”

She paused to study the row of sceptical faces before her.

“Surely it is what May Wolf would want – to turn defiant words into action,” she pleaded.

“Well,” said Edith after a further pause. “All in favour of riding The Gravitus, raise your hand.”

She lifted her own hand. One by one the women around her followed suit.

“I count five out of six. I take it that you, Ethna, will not be joining us.”

I have already ridden The May Wolf many times, in my own company,” said Ethna.

“What rot!” said Ann

“Believe me or don't believe me.”

“Let us return to our homes,” said Edith. “We will reconvene here tomorrow at the hour of eleven, and thereafter make our way to The Gravitus. Ethna, you are welcome to join us if you change your mind.”

They filed out of the room, across the painted pond, raising a cacophony of frog sounds as they departed.

“This is going to be so exciting,” said Wendy.

The door closed behind her rendering her next thought inaudible.

In the empty room, Ethna stepped from her lily pad and onto the painted surface of the water.

“If you don't laugh, you'll spend your whole life crying,” she said to the child asleep in her arms.