Thy Will Be Done!

 

I always thought that Jean La Mare was strange,

Gave me the creeps,

With lank, uncared for russet hair

And eyes with depths and deeps,

She hung her head when walking by

Wore dresses to her shins,

She had no friends at school, at lunch

Sat by the rubbish bins.

 

Her father was the picture of a

Martinet of old,

Bolt upright, at attention he

Would rant at her, and scold.

An Army Colonel, long retired

His wife dead in the ground,

His thoughts for bringing daughters up

Were ancient, and profound.

 

She dared not answer back, nor baulk

At anything he said,

He kept her close, so close we thought

That she slept in his bed.

We never saw her out of school

She cooked and cleaned and swept,

When asked if she'd be at the Ball,

She turned away, and wept.

 

Time passed, and we had left the school,

Got on with living life,

I met someone, and pretty soon

Had caught myself a wife,

But my old friend from schooldays

Richard Carson, lived alone,

He said he'd not met anyone

Who thrilled him to the bone.

 

We'd all turned just on thirty when

He dropped the big surprise,

He said that he'd asked Jean La Mare!

I answered, 'Is that wise?'

It seems the Martinet had died,

Was safely in his box,

So Jean was free, and so was he

To tie the wedding knots.

 

I saw her at the wedding there,

The first time then for years,

I saw her laugh for once, she laughed

So much, it came to tears.

They seemed so happy in that church,

Her burden dead and gone,

But Richard told me later of

Her curse - 'Thy Will Be Done!'

 

For every evening of her life

She'd get down on her knees,

Before a varnished wooden box

And pray that she had pleased!

The box stood on the mantelpiece

And Richard dared not ask

Just what was in that box; he thought

It was her father's ash!

 

She'd pray and ask for guidance, then

She'd listen in the gloom,

He never heard a murmur but, she did,

Before that tomb!

She'd answer statements no-one made,

Would wail, then plead, implore,

While Richard stayed away and hid,

Stood listening by the door!

 

He asked her what her father said

When he'd approached him once,

The old man turned and marched away,

He'd felt quite like a dunce!

He'd asked if he could take her out,

The Colonel stood and glared:

'If you should even speak to her, young man,

I'll see you dead!'

 

But Jean had blushed and looked away,

And wouldn't answer then,

She muttered: 'He just didn't want me

Mixing with young men!'

But then she started acting strange,

Would slyly look away,

Whenever he came in the room

As she was going to pray.

 

He came to see me, looking ill,

He said he was unwell,

That Jean was getting stranger by the day

His life was hell!

She'd served him up a meal that made

Him sick, perspire and weak,

I told him he should get away...

He found it hard to speak!

 

I didn't want to interfere

But things were looking grim,

I went around to see them, well, not her,

I cared for him.

She flashed a look of hate at me,

Unbridled, undisguised,

She looked like some fanatic with

Grey analytic eyes.

 

She left us then to talk, and I

Saw on the mantelpiece,

The box that he'd described to me,

I said, 'Just call the Police!'

I'd flipped the clasp, the front swung down

It opened up to dread,

For staring at us both, we saw

His eyeless, staring head!

 

Then Jean came back, let out a scream,

Attacked me with a knife,

I caught her wrist, said: 'Richard,

Just restrain your crazy wife!'

She fell down on her knees and cried:

'I tried to be a son!'

Then listened, as if hearing it,

Then said, 'Thy will be done!'

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Mark]

I had such compassion for Jean at the beginning, as I am well acquainted with being a disappointment to my father, also military, also a martinet of sorts. I was therefore somewhat taken aback, when Jean proved quite insane, despite appearances to the contrary on her wedding day. I'm trying to discern what your intent was in the uncharacteristically choppy structure. Also, is there significance in her name: Jean le Mare means "John of the Sea", but her father was a soldier, rather than a sailor--another precursor of the utter lack of inability-to-meld between them? Left me with strong feelings of unease!

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

It's tragic how a child's love for a parent can lead one to utter madness. Unquestioningly, I can sympathize with Jean La Mare and her neverending quest to please a father who could never be pleased.

As always, your words weave a magic tapestry.

Love,

Linda Marie

[R J Askew]

Sinister and gripping, reminded me of Zola in the darkness of the twisted lives working themselves out, with hints of redemption, before the inevitable plunge into total grimness. There must be many a Jean out there, suffering away, ostrasised, bullied, lost.

[Valentine]

A bit gruesome but anothe amazing piece of work..Not as funny as a lot of your writing..I think I like the happier ending best..lol and God bless Lyn and you..Kathie

[Kerry]

"An Army Colonel, long retired
His wife dead in the ground,
His thoughts for bringing daughters up
Were ancient, and profound."

You tell such wonderful stories!

"He said that he'd asked Jean La Mare!
I answered, 'Is that wise?'"

Your ability to rhyme combined with your dashing wit amazes me. I chuckled at the sentences above. Other reviewers seemed to find it less witty but I sensed a macabre humor that stuck with me throughout the read. This piece is truly engaging. I too, admit to reading it several times over. The ending was a complete surprise but every bit as delightful as the rest. I agree wholeheartedly with the second paragraph that Norma wrote regarding your work. Bravo!

[Lena M. P.]

Poe had nothing on you. Your words always send chills down me with every read. There is always so much detail that to read it once is never enough. Thank you for sharing.

[Norma J. Jessee]

I, like Mark and Ferg also felt that this was just a tad uncharacteristic to your other works, per your usual attention to detail. However I still found this to be a very emotionally powerful and thought provoking tale. I have found that most of your tales deals seriously with some of the deepest themes of human existence: the nature of evil, the grip of fate and the power of love. Serveral well known serial killers were forced throughout their childhood by a parent usually the mother to dress and act as the opposite sex.
You David, are far more than a genre writer. Characters and the search for meaning, exquistely crafted, are the soul of your work. That is why your stories and poems will be read long after the ghosts and monsters of most genre writers have been consigned to the attic. You are one of the master storytellers of this or any age.

[Ferg]

Another great narrative. I felt sympathy for Jean as she endured the extreme repression of her militaristic father who wanted a son instead of a daughter. Apparently his hold on her did not die with him as she continued to be haunted and controlled by him well after his demise. It had a Poe-like feel to it with the head in the box and her becoming more and more mad as time went on...controlled by the voice of her dead father. I read the review below and though I did not pick up on the subtleties of the names as Mark did, I did notice, too, that it's flow was not as smooth as your work normally is and I am assuming, as Mark is, that this was an intentional structure change because it is so uncharacteristic to your other works. That aside, I enjoyed this as I do all of your work. Well done!