Royal Beauty Bright

by Ryan Byrnes

  “Oh, time to go.” He grabbed his coat and put on his hat. He gave me a curt nod and kissed Lavinia on the cheek. “Till next time, dear.” Then he closed the door behind him and the house was quiet.

  “Well,” Lavinia said after a moment, “now that we’re alone, you simply must tell me about your mother. And I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “It’s nothing terrible. I just stopped by the house last night, and she was pretty upset. She’s definitely not interested in my helping in the shop and—”

  My throat closed on its own accord, and I couldn’t speak all of a sudden. I cleared my throat to make it look like an intentional cough. It was strange because I swear I wasn’t sad; my body was acting for me. Blinking a few times, I picked at the threads of the table cloth and then looked out the window, away from my aunt.

  “I’m sorry to hear it. Did you make your case?”

  “I tried to apologize.”

  “It’s much too late for that.” She shook her head, stirring her tea. “You need to actually do something. You might not ever be able to recreate the sweet shop in all of its glory, but you can at least recreate your family.”

  “You think I should get married? Because I don’t have much a history with women.”

  “Jim, I asked you to come back because your family needs you. Is that why you’re here, or is it just because you got yourself fired again, and you’ve nowhere else to go?”

  The words came out quickly with clipped consonants. I paused. That was not the Aunt Lavinia I remembered. I set my napkin on the table and stood. “I have to go look for a job. Thank you for breakfast.”

  Lavinia opened her mouth to speak but said nothing. Instead, her tongue clicked on the roof of her mouth. I grabbed my coat to leave.

  “Fine. You get your job, Jim, and when you get it, half the money is going to your mother.”

  “She wouldn’t take it,” I chuckled, “I can see it now—”

  Quick as a flash, Aunt Lavinia was out of her chair with a pointed finger in my face. “You shut your mouth about your mum,” she hissed. “Last three months, I’ve watched my sister turn into a recluse. She sits in that dark house all day with no one. She’s lost her husband, one of her sons is at war, and the other wants nothing to do with her even after all she tried to give him every opportunity.”

  I felt myself shrink back, my mind go blank. She had scared all of my thoughts away, and all I could do was look at her. I’d had everyone else yell at me, but now Aunt Lavinia?

  “She’s dying inside, Jim.” She smack her hand on the table, probably wishing it could’ve been the side of my head. “Leave your resentment in the past and stop behaving like you’re six years old.”

  “Yes ma’am,” I said quietly.

  “You’re a grown man. It’s past time for you to act like one.”

  I left the house with a somber step. It was about 9 o’clock, and the day’s business was just beginning. First thing, I walked to Bath Street, where I turned left. I kept my hands in my pockets and my collar up against the cold. There was the paper boy on his bicycle, delivering the Leamington Courier. Paper boy didn’t sound like too hard of a job; an hour or so of work each morning, and I’d have a little pocket change. I added that to my list. Well, I didn’t have an actual list with me, so I just remembered it. I put it on my mental list, how’s that?

  Midway through the street was my house. Three stories of Georgian façade—six windows, ground floor with glazed white brick. The discolored wood ran around the shop window, where we’d show off our twelve flavours of bonbons, each one with its own jar. Baker’s Sweets, said the faded letters just above the window. I peeked inside; nobody was at the counter. I touched the doorknob, turning it so slowly that nobody would hear the click, and then pushed door open slowly, inch by inch, so the bells wouldn’t jingle. I was a professional; I’d done this hundreds of times as a boy. Once inside, I stepped over the squeaky floorboard, over to the jar of bonbons. Looking around, I slipped a hand in and pulled out a handful of the little pink pebbles, dusted in flour and sugar. I fit one in my mouth and pressed my teeth into its soft chocolate shell. There was that familiar chocolate-coconut paste that I had to work my jaw for. Just like Mum always made it.

  I had no idea where she’d gone out to, but I figured she’d be back soon. I could’ve slipped right back out the front door, but instead found myself wandering toward the kitchen. I saw the unopened pile of mail, now on the kitchen table. Hmm. The letter from the government was still there. Had she even looked at them?

  His Britannic Majesty’s Government

  Interesting. Postmarked from London in late October, I picked it up, sliced open with my pinky, pulled out the contents, and unfolded the slip of paper.

  HER ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCESS MARY’S SAILORS’ AND SOLDIERS’ CHRISTMAS FUNDSEEKING CONTRIBUTIONS FROM INDEPENDENT SWEETS PRODUCERS

  Dear Sir,

  This Christmas, Her Royal Highness Princess Mary will endeavor to send more than two million Christmas tins to the soldiers, sailors, nurses, and other military personnel who have put themselves at risk for the defense of our homeland. The tins will contain an assortment of gifts, such as cigarettes, tobacco, stationery, and sweets. As the project is privately funded, donations are always needed. However, Princess Mary is calling on all sweets producers across the British Isles to send in sweets, namely chocolates and butterscotch, en masse. Major producers Cadbury and Callard & Bowser were initially contracted to do the work, but due to the immense volume of sweets required, the Princess is now requesting the help of independent sweets producers. Your place of business will receive payment in the following weeks to produce two thousand butterscotch candies by December 10th, 1914. Please bring the product to regional shipping centers with the appropriate forms filled out. Regional shipping centers are listed on the attached page.

  The letter continued, but the words swam.

  Two thousand! I whistled.

  “What have I told you about eating the bonbons, Jim? They’re for customers.”

  She didn’t sound angry this time—just tired. I turned to see Mum in the doorway, shrugging off her coat. I hadn’t notice it last night, but it was obvious now that she’d lost quite a bit of weight.

  “Looks like you got a big order.” I held the letter up. “Why don’t you read your mail?”

  “I read the mail,” she snapped, “just not that letter. I must have forgotten it.”

  Maybe that was true, but there was still a whole pile of unopened letters. I decided not to ask any more about it, afraid it would set her off.

  “So, I’ve been trying to get a job,” I said. I hadn’t really tried at all yet, but still. I was planning to start any moment.

  “Oh?”

  “Maybe as the paper boy or something. There’s so many jobs out there, you know.”

  “Hmm.”

  She didn’t care.

  “I’ve decided I should give half the money to you. You know, since I owe you and all.”

  She gave a single, high pitched ha. “I don’t need your money. I have my own business. I’m doing just fine.”

  “What can I do for you, Mum? How can I help?”

  She tilted her head, as if suddenly realizing I was serious. She headed toward the shop, paused in the doorway, and turned around to look at me. “Bring Luther back.”

  “You want a job as a paperboy?” Mr. Surrey of the Leamington Courier asked, leaning over the counter, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a cloth. He had his sleeves rolled up, forearms dotted with ink from the rushing printing machines.

  I put my hands in my pockets and peered around the building. There was a warehouse in the back with all of the printing machines and then a few offices for the journalists and administrators clicking away on their typewriters.

  “Yeah, I think so. Paperboy sounds nice.”

  “You’re not a boy, though. How old are you—twenty-five, twenty-six?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  Mr. Surrey
chuckled, shaking his head.

  “If you’re that desperate for a job, why don’t you just join the army? You know they’ve set up a recruiting office in old Carraway’s Pub.”

  “Eh, I don’t know.”

  “Okay, then the navy, the engineers, the munitions factories.”

  “I did work for a munitions factory, actually. But they let me go. We had some disagreements.”

  Mr. Surrey stopped laughing, tilting his head.

  “Wait a second, I know you from somewhere. You’re someone’s kid—the sweet shop. Why don’t you work there, with your Mum?”

  “We’ve had disagreements, too.”

  “I could see that. Working with family can be tricky. Well, sorry,” he shrugged. “We don’t have anything for you here.”

  “So we have a disagreement?”

  Mr. Surrey frowned. “What? No. No disagreement. I’m just not hiring another paperboy. Especially a 24-year-old one. So best be on your way.” He turned away and that was that.

  By noon, I was hungry, but only had a few folded-up pound notes in my pocket—a couple days’ worth of meals. If I wanted to stretch it out, I’d eat breakfasts and dinners at Lavinia’s and spend money on outside meals only when necessary. So I didn’t eat lunch and instead took a smoke sitting on the curb next to the church. Much more economic. And good for the lungs. I’d been sitting there a few minutes, replaying the conversation with Mum in my head. Bring Luther back? I wished I had a decent comeback. What—you want me to slip across the Channel, evade all the U-boats, find Luther’s regiment, and somehow just bring him back home. Sounds easy enough.

  The businessmen in bowler hats strolled down the cobblestone, and an automobile grumbled by, spewing smoke. A flutter, and a little robin landed a few feet off, hopping from brick to brick, picking up pieces of straw in its beak. I remained steady so as not to scare it.

  Click. A silver ten pence landed on the pavement, the noise scaring away the bird. I realized one of the passersby had thrown the coin to me. Did I look like a beggar? I definitely hadn’t shaved in a month, and my pants were threadbare at the knee, but I was no beggar. Not yet. I swept the coin between the sewer gratings, where it splashed into last night’s gurgling rain runoff. I stood up.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  There were two girls, around the same age as me, dressed in all black—hats, lace, gloves, handbags.

  “What do you want?”

  “Enlist for your country, coward,” one handed me a white feather. The other girl nodded behind her.

  I flashed them a grin.

  “I’ll wear it as a badge of honor.”

  I tucked the feather in my chest pocket. They turned their chins up at me and marched down the street. Once they’d disappeared around the corner, I quickly left because people were staring. I headed past the church, under the train bridge where it was dark and damp amidst the rubbish bins. Tearing the white feather out of my chest pocket, I dropped it in the rubbish and touched the glowing end of my cigarette to it. It smoldered, each end glowing orange and then slowly curling up black and crusty. I set the feather atop a crumpled newspaper in the rubbish bin, which flared up in flames. Uh oh. Soon, the whole bin would be alight and burning—what was I thinking? I spotted a puddle where the cobblestone sank in. Grabbing the bin in both hands, I dumped the contents—brown apples crawling with maggots, mud-matted twine, wet cardboard, all of it—into the puddle, which gave a puff of steam before going out. I left the scene.

  I was passing in front of Doc Abbot’s office, collar up, hands in pockets, when I saw a group of four men coming down the road, from lunch at Carraway’s Pub, no doubt. They were all well to do—sleek suits, gold chains and pocket watches, paisley satin cravats. Were they lawyers? I turned the other way; one of them had a black eye.

  “Oy,” Mr. Stoker called, “You there!”

  I considered turning into the alley to run but realized I’d be giving myself away.

  “Yes?” I turned around. “Do I know you?”

  “I knew I’d recognized you,” Mr. Stoker said deep and slow. “Jim Baker.” He looked me up and down appraisingly. “It’s been a long time, Jim. How are you?”

  “Unemployed.”

  A frown flickered across his face. He pulled me aside, putting an arm around my shoulder, and told his lawyer friends he would meet them later.

  “Jim,” he began, “I watched you grow up alongside Rodney since you were a boy. Now, it’s no secret you were quite a rascal then, but it cannot carry on any longer. I say this from concern; the road you’re on is obviously leading to a dark place. I’d like to see you become a man—strong, bold, proud. I could help you—”

  “What happened to your eye?” I changed the subject.

  “Oh, nothing. I was out in the country. Equestrian mishap.”

  “A horse kicked you in the eye? Wouldn’t you be dead? It looks more like someone slugged you.”

  “Well, I did come across a ruffian in the streets the other night, but I—” he froze in mid-speech.

  “Well, I just got here this morning, but I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for ruffians.”

  He gave me a long, considering look. “You’re not listening to me. You must aspire to achieve more with your life—greatness, Jim, greatness! Why Rodney is on the Continent right now, and—”

  “Alright, I’m done here. Get your arm off me.”

  “Jim, I know you never had a father figure, but I …”

  He kept talking on and on in that mythical, elevated tone about greatness and history and something about Sir Francis Drake. I glanced behind us; the lunch-goers had all returned to work by now, and the street was empty. We were just passing under the shadow of the train bridge, where the pile of rubbish I’d dumped still smelled like smoke.

  Grabbing Mr. Stoker by the shoulders, I shoved him hard against the brown brick, and he gave a grunt of struggle. I figured I’d been in more fights in my 24 years than he’d seen his whole sorry life. He was flabby and full of himself, while I was taut and lean and knew my limits. He didn’t dare move.

  “It was you,” he whispered, touching his eye.

  “Bring Luther back. You know he’s unfit to serve.”

  “Tell that to a court of law, and they’ll bring him back, all right. Back and straight to the asylum for him. We both know what Luther did to Rodney. You’re lucky I don’t turn you both over to the constable and press charges for assault. Unhand me!”

  “I see you’ve found a new wedding ring. Wonder if Mrs. Stoker knows what happened to the original.”

  His nostrils flared, and I tightened my grip on him.

  “Unhand me, Jim.”

  I stepped back. “All you had to do was ask nicely.”

  He brushed his sleeve and straightened his coat. “You know, Jim, there’s talk in Parliament of enacting mandatory military conscription by Christmas. Objectors would not be treated kindly. As a distinguished lawyer, I would have more than enough reason to hand in your name.”

  “Why does everyone want me to fight?”

  “Maybe everyone thinks you’re a bum.”

  I scowled. “Maybe I don’t care what everyone thinks.”

  “This is an opportunity, Jim. Think of it. I don’t have the power to bring Luther back, but maybe you can ensure his survival. Travel to the front, and save him yourself. Travel to the front, and win the respect of all your peers while building the empire up to greater heights than any of our ancestors could have ever imagined.”

  I looked at the ground and noticed the puddles jiggling with concentric waves. Soon, the stone bridge started vibrating above us—a train was coming.

  “Got a job offer already, so you can just bugger off,” I muttered.

  “What job?”

  “The Royal Engineers, they offered me a position, and I said I’d take it. Delivering Christmas gifts to the troops. So I don’t know what you’re talking about when you say I’m a bum.”

  The train tooted its whistle—faint, but grow
ing louder.

  “Well, I—I apologize. You should have said something.”

  “Just remembered.”

  With the train passing right over us, the thundering pistons and roaring furnace drowned out my words. The whistle shrieked as I brushed past Mr. Stoker, knocking him against the overturned rubbish bin. He tripped, lost his footing on the slick cobblestones, and slipped onto his arse. His yelp of surprise was drowned out by the train, and I watched as he struggled to his feet. He didn’t notice the small packet of letters that dropped out of his coat pocket, but I did. After he left the tunnel in a huff, I picked them up. They were from Rodney.

  December 17th, 1912

  Mother and Father,

  I do point out that this letter may take a while to reach you at home, for my pals tell me the mail from India is inefficient, to say the least. But all matters aside, my days in India are now coming to a close. I have enjoyed them tremendously—I have seen elephants and tigers and thick jungles and have tasted many exotic foods. However, the officers have received orders to return from our colonial duties back to England in light of German aggression, as you have likely read about in the paper. We will be stationed at Shorncliffe Camp for training in the coming months, though beyond that, I cannot say. Perhaps you could come visit while I am there?

  Some of my pals are making bets that Britain will go to war any day now, and we are filled with both great excitement and great dread. You remember Bill Moore, right? He’s told us all that if war is declared, he’ll buy beers for the whole battalion. I would love the chance to prove my mettle and would likely have a good many adventures if we do end up fighting on the continent. I presume the fighting would be a little more intense than we saw in India, but then again, I would be more experienced than any of my opponents.

  This is an exciting time to be a young man serving God and King. I pray often that the Lord is pleased with us.

  Your loving son,

  Rodney

  August 4th, 1914

  Mother and Father,

  And so it begins! I am terribly excited, fortified with courage and feel the strength in my arms. I am ready to fight; I have trained with great success at Shorncliffe. Although our instructors are tough, I know it will be necessary for discipline during the chaos of fighting. Already, our battalion has been summoned to man the east coast near Yorkshire in case of a German sea-to-land invasion, or even a zeppelin raid, God forbid. We leave by train on the 8th, so I hope that you will come visit me at Shorncliffe before I leave again.