When Skies Have Fallen

by Debbie McGowan

  Chapter Nineteen: January, 1946

  As the train pulled into the station and drew to a stop, Arty’s excitement mounted to the point where he thought he might be physically sick. The doors opened and passengers began to pour forth onto the platform. Arty frantically scanned the length of the train, terrified he might not spot Jim in amongst all those people. What a foolish notion that was, for the second he came into view everything else instantly ceased to exist. There was Jim and there was Arty, and an empty platform in between. Arty started moving towards Jim, at first taking firm, steady steps, each coming faster on top of the other, until he was limping at speed whilst muttering to himself to slow down. The space between them shrank and shrank and finally they were yards, feet, inches apart. Jim dropped his bag and threw his arms around Arty, sobbing into his ear.

  “Oh God, it’s so good to see you. I missed you so much.”

  “I missed you too,” Arty cried back, otherwise left speechless by the wonder of being in Jim’s arms again, trying to sniff back the tears and at once inhaling the familiar scent of the man he loved: the man who loved him. Everything that was ever wrong was suddenly so perfect and right.

  “I’d kiss you, but I think they all might stare,” Jim said, slowly releasing Arty but not quite letting go. Jim’s gaze met his and then shifted up, down, side to side, as he took in Arty’s features; Arty was doing the same, almost as if each needed to remind himself of what the other looked like, though it was more to satisfy a hunger born of seven months deprived of that which sustained them.

  When they eventually harnessed the willpower to release each other, the platform was empty, with just the guard waiting for them to pass through the gate.

  “Thanks so much,” Jim acknowledged, receiving a curt nod from the guard.

  “He’s still watching us,” Arty said out of the corner of his mouth as they reached the far side of the station concourse.

  “Yeah. Trying to figure what a handsome guy like you sees in a hick like me.”

  “Yes, Jim. That’s exactly what he’s thinking.”

  “You know it.” Jim laughed.

  Having walked from home to the station, the walk back was a bit much for Arty, especially when he was trying to save himself for later, so they hailed a taxi. They pulled out onto the street, and Jim was instantly enthralled by all the work that had been done since he was last in London: the city was still in ruins, but clearance was well underway.

  At the next junction, the cabbie glanced back at his passengers and grimaced out a toothless smile. “How are ya finding civvy life, fellas? Tough, innit?”

  Arty nodded vaguely. Returning to life as a civilian hadn’t really affected him the way it had others. In particular, the air crews were having quite a hard time trying to find their way in the world. Many had gone straight into the RAF with no trade behind them, although with all of the construction work and the efforts to get Britain’s industries back up and running, the technicians and engineers were set for a good few years.

  “It’s good to be alive,” Jim said belatedly. The cabbie peered over his shoulder and chuckled.

  “Oh, blimey. A bloody Yank. Thought you lot would’ve had enough by now.”

  “England’s a great country. Beautiful scenery,” Jim looked Arty’s way, “so much to see and do.” He winked. Arty smiled and turned away.

  “Yeah. It’s not bad, is it?” the cabbie agreed. “So you come back for a girl?”

  “Pretty much,” Jim replied.

  “You ain’t got none over you way?”

  “Oh, there’s a few. But you got the pick of the crop over here.”

  The cabbie nodded smugly.

  For a while, the journey progressed in silence, but as they reached the turning to Dalton Place they got caught in a traffic jam, granting the cabbie the opportunity to further interrogate Jim, not that he seemed to mind.

  “So you got a job lined up, have ya?” he asked.

  “Kinda. I’m going into partnership with a couple guys, including Arty here. See over yonder?” Jim pointed to the empty plot of land across from where they were idling in traffic. “We’re setting up shop as mechanics.”

  “Oh, right. Interesting. I tell ya what, it’d be well worth asking around the cabbies. We’re always on the lookout for a reliable mechanic, ya know what I mean? Fast, cheap, knows what they’re doing. So what were ya? Navy?”

  “Air forces.”

  “Both of ya?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well. Might I say, sir, it is indeed a privilege to have you in my cab. Your lot saved our lives, you did, flying low and chucking fags and candy our way. Got us through the war, that. We’ve got bugger all now, mind you.”

  Arty turned back and caught Jim’s gracious smile. Even though the compliment was quite general in nature, it had still turned his cheeks a rather delightful shade of pink. Jim glanced in Arty’s direction and quickly faced front again. Arty started to laugh; he couldn’t help it, because he’d seen the twinkle in Jim’s eyes. There was only one thing on his mind at that moment, and it wasn’t accepting thanks on behalf of his fellow countrymen.

  Another couple of minutes passed, in which Arty considered telling the cabbie to let them out where they were. They were within walking distance of Dalton Place, although he was also enjoying the build-up. Of course, Jim expected Jean to be there, waiting to greet him; he’d be preparing for the frustration of hours of catching up before he got what he’d hinted at in his saucy letter. However, Jean was going straight from work to visit friends, giving Arty and Jim time to themselves, and Arty had it all planned out—just as soon as he got Jim through that blesséd front door.

  It wasn’t much longer before the taxi made it to the house. Arty shoved a few bob into the cabbie’s hand and told him to keep the change.

  “Thanks, gov. Much appreciated,” the man said.

  Arty gave him a swift nod of acknowledgement and marched to the front door, key in hand. He heard the double toot of the taxi’s horn as it pulled away, heard the click of the Zippo as Jim lit up, smelled the rich, familiar tobacco, felt the warmth of Jim’s presence. He twisted the key and pushed the door open, giving Jim just long enough to clear the threshold before he grabbed his face with both hands, pushing the door shut with his hip at the same time, and he kissed him. None of that trying out a little peck like he might give his mother, or Sissy, or Jean. Seven months he’d waited, and he was going to get his fill of Jim Johnson.

  Jim’s bag slid from his shoulder and dropped. It may even have hit the floor. Right at that moment all Arty was aware of was the warm, wide palm against his back, the press of Jim’s chest to his, the taste and smell of Jim filling his mouth and his nose. Arty devoured Jim, stole his breath and gave it back again, refused absolutely to stop even for Jim to extinguish the cigarette in his hand. Or maybe it was a pipe. Arty neither knew nor cared, he just…needed this. This kiss, like their very first in the hangar at Gaskell, was desperate, a promise of so much more to follow. But unlike that first kiss, the promise now was of a lifetime of kisses, of passion, of having Jim in his bed; a lifetime together, in love. Oh yes—Arty’s feet might no longer have it in them to dance, but his heart knew every single step.

  And then, just like that, the moment was rudely stolen from them by the one rival Arty had for Jim’s affections. Only slightly disgruntled, Arty let go as, for the second time that day—which was no mean feat, bearing in mind he’d only left his train half an hour ago—Jim sobbed unabashedly, and it set Arty off too.

  Jim fell to his knees and scooped up both cats, hugging them tightly to his chest. The two big toms put up no fight whatsoever. “Why didn’t you say you brought them with you?” Jim asked.

  “I thought I’d surprise you.”

  “You did that, all right,” Jim said, laughing and crying at the same time. He sighed and kissed first Socks, and then Soot, on the head. “Every time I wrote I wanted to ask, but I was afraid I wouldn’t like the answer.” Jim looked up at
Arty, tears streaming, yet he had the biggest, most brilliant smile on his face.

  “I’ll introduce you to Silky later,” Arty said. At Jim’s enquiring frown, he added, “She followed the boys home a few months back and decided to move in.”

  “Fellas! You got yourselves a lady?” Jim asked the cats, who purred in response. Always the more independent of the two, Soot decided he’d had quite enough fuss and jumped from Jim’s arms, whilst Socks snuggled closer, pushing his head up against Jim’s chin and growling loudly. Jim continued to stroke the cat and carefully stood up, leaning sideways into Arty. Jim’s laughter was breathless and delighted.

  “I’m here,” he murmured, kissing Arty again, and again.

  “Yes, you are,” Arty replied between the kisses, attempting to wipe the tears from Jim’s face. “And already Socks has stolen you from me.”

  “Yeah. He has, but he’s fickle.”

  As proof of point, Socks decided he’d also had enough and pushed his front paws against Jim’s chest—his way of asking to be released. Jim crouched slightly so that Socks could hop down to the floor, and straightened again. He took Arty into his arms.

  “Can I show you how much I missed you?” he asked.

  Jim’s voice sounded against Arty’s parted lips and he let out an involuntary groan. He pushed back against the hardness of Jim’s body. “I have a fairly good idea,” he said.

  Jim gave another quiet, breathless laugh. “Where’s the bedroom?”

  Arty pointed past him, and Jim backstepped, allowing Arty to steer him down the hallway and into the bedroom.

  “You oiled the springs?” he asked, still on the move.

  “Mm,” Arty sounded, refusing to break the kiss. Pausing long enough to shut and lock the bedroom door, he continued to walk Jim backwards across the room, until his legs contacted the end of the bed and his knees buckled. Arty pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him.

  “Careful not to put any strain on—”

  “Don’t you dare!” Arty warned. “You’ve only just walked through the door.”

  “Sorry, but are you sure you’re up to—”

  Arty used his mouth to silence Jim and grasped the advantage, reaching down to unbutton Jim’s coat, and then unbuttoning his shirt, far too eager to get to bare skin to worry about fully removing either article. He sat back to get a better view, and Jim grabbed him by the wrists, flexing up as if to kiss him, but Arty had already seen it: the mark Jim was trying to conceal. He tugged his wrists free of Jim’s grip and reached down, pulling back the blue-plaid shirt fabric and gently tracing with his fingertips the red welt that ran from Jim’s navel, around his side and continued out of sight.

  “Your father?” Arty uttered, already knowing the answer.

  “It’s only skin-deep.”

  “Jim, I—”

  “Shhhh.” Jim sat up, with Arty straddled across his lap, and pulled him close. “Truly, it’s all surface. He’s dead to me. Please let it go. Can you do that?”

  Arty delayed a moment before nodding. It would take some effort to neutralise the gut-wrenching, ugly anger bubbling inside, but if it was what Jim wanted, he would do his best to never show it or mention it again.

  Jim took the opportunity to wriggle out of his coat and shirt, uncovering his broad, muscular shoulders. Arty smoothed his palms over the taut, tanned skin, and his mind filled with all kinds of lustful thoughts, for the time being pushing aside his fury at Jim’s father’s brutality. Jim began to unfasten Arty’s shirt, all the while gazing deep into his eyes.

  “What are you afraid of?” he asked.

  Arty tried to shrug it off. “Do you like the wallpaper?”

  “It’s real nice,” Jim said, quickly dismissing Arty’s attempt at distraction. “Talk to me. What are you afraid of?”

  Arty bowed his head. “That I’m not the man I was last time you saw me undressed.”

  “Darlin’, the last time I saw you undressed you had a knee the size of a pumpkin.”

  Arty conceded the point with a wry chuckle. “I’m doing really well, aren’t I? All those able-bodied men out there, and—”

  “You are all I need,” Jim murmured, lifting Arty’s chin so he could kiss him. “Now let’s get these damn clothes off.”

  Arty slid from Jim’s lap, watching steadily while Jim unfastened and removed both his trousers and the long johns underneath.

  “It’s mighty warm in here, ain’t it?” Jim observed, kicking off his socks.

  “Yes, it is. Jean insists on keeping the place like a furnace for my benefit.”

  “Then there’s no need—” Jim stepped towards Arty, unclipped his braces and pushed his shirt over his shoulders, letting it slide to the floor “—for these.” In a flash he unzipped Arty’s trousers, and gave him a gentle push so that he fell onto the bed, flat on his back.

  “I could’ve taken them off myself,” Arty protested half-heartedly.

  Jim whipped away Arty’s trousers and kissed his way up, from Arty’s ankle, to his knee, all along his thigh to the leg of his underpants. “Can you feel that?” he asked. Arty nodded soundlessly, quite overcome by Jim’s boldness, for now he was studying the sheathed outline of Arty’s penis. It was painfully turgid, aching for Jim’s soothing touch. Too long had he needed it.

  Jim glanced up briefly. He had such a wicked grin on his face it made Arty wonder what he was planning, not that he cared particularly, so long as ultimately it brought about their mutual satisfaction. Jim’s fingers slid under the waistband of Arty’s underpants; Arty put his head back and closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation of the fabric dragging down over the pulsing flesh, followed by hot breath and a touch so gentle it could almost have been imagined. He lifted his head again and cautiously opened one eye.

  “You’re kissing me…down there?”

  Jim smiled and carried on. For a brief moment, certainly far less than a second, the word ‘germs’ entered Arty’s mind, but the increased, all-encompassing, hot pressure rendered him defenceless. Already the sensation was building to the point of no return, and he gasped, unsure whether the urge to yell stop was strong enough to counter the desire to beg Jim to just keep doing what he was doing forever more. Jim made the decision for him; he withdrew, finished undressing Arty and lay beside him, running the tip of his index finger around Arty’s lips.

  “I been dreaming about doing that,” he whispered. His eyelids were drooping, or lilting; Arty couldn’t decide.

  “You’re tired,” he said.

  “Yeah, but I ain’t ready for sleeping yet. How are your legs holding out?”

  “Fine, so long as you don’t expect me to do the jive.”

  “Aw, gee. That’s exactly what I had in mind.”

  Arty laughed and rolled Jim onto his back, climbing on top of him again, but now they were naked, the sensual contact was more than either could stand. Arty reached over to his bedside cabinet, somehow flung the door open, and searched by touch for the tub of petroleum jelly he had bought under instruction. Jim’s eyes widened.

  “Is that for you-know-what?”

  Arty nodded. “Matron’s orders,” he said very solemnly, and both of them burst into laughter. Jim’s cheeks turned pink again.

  “Well, I guess if anyone would know about these things…” he reasoned.

  “That’s what I thought,” Arty agreed, unscrewing the palm-wide lid and setting it aside. “Although it’ll make a heck of a mess of the bedspread.”

  Jim’s eyebrows rose. “I never had you down as the decorative type, Arty Clarke. Wallpaper, bedspreads—did you stitch the drapes too?”

  Now Arty blushed, because he had, in fact, hemmed the curtains. “They were too long,” he justified.

  “Uh huh?” Jim teased.

  “When all those dirty thoughts have been dealt with, you might just appreciate how hard I’ve worked to turn this apartment into a home for us.”

  “Hey…” Jim reached up and cupped Arty’s cheek with his hand. “I’m sorry,
darlin’. It’s been hard on you too, I know that. So, I guess…” He released Arty and scooped a large dollop of petroleum jelly out of the pot, watching Arty intently, seeking his permission—as if there were any chance of it not being granted.

  Arty leaned across to set the pot on the bedside cabinet, and before he could move back, Jim’s hand was between his thighs, slowly smearing the jelly over places that were even more sensitive than usual. How fortuitous the accident had not numbed him there, though he would have given himself to Jim regardless. Perhaps, considering Jim’s prone position, Arty was taking, not giving, but either way the end result would be the same.

  With the clear grease on his hands, Jim was struggling to get a firm grip on himself and had to leave Arty to make the adjustments. His legs were aching a little, but he refused to be thwarted. He lifted and aligned their bodies, recalling acutely the exquisite pain of their first and only time. Hoping for more of the ‘exquisite’ and less of the pain, he slowly lowered his hips and felt a hot jab of discomfort—nothing compared to all he had endured in hospital. Lower still, with the slippery jelly easing their joining, Arty’s body accepted Jim, expanding to accommodate, welcoming, becoming whole.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Jim hissed. For a moment his eyes rolled in his head, and Arty felt triumphant. No matter now the damage inflicted on his body. How insignificant was the mourning of his waltzing days, and how quickly those seven months diminished in the immediacy of this connection. Arty’s hips rose and fell of their own accord; he was a finely-tuned engine, sleek and smooth, superior and indefatigable with Jim at the controls, giving it more throttle, and more still, until he was soaring high above the clouds. He needed more, and he took it.

  “Allow me.” Jim’s voice came into focus, and his hand firmly grasped Arty’s by-now throbbing penis. He tugged to the tempo Arty set, ever-quickening, barely sustainable, with Jim’s body rising to meet his and finally turned rigid but for the pulsating that Arty felt within, and then without, as his own orgasm was torn from him, and it was tremendous, long-lived, worth every second of waiting. Better still, until that moment, as the sensation dwindled, he’d spared not a thought for Lady Chatterley’s many absurd crises.

  “Damn D H Lawrence,” he said, laughing at himself.

  Jim laughed too, a drowsy, deep rumble. “I figured he’d show up sometime,” he said. Without prompting, Jim held Arty by the hips and assisted his movement so that he could…dismount, he supposed. He collapsed onto the bed and rooted out the small towel, kept from when his body had been overwrought with infections and fevers. With a clumsy care, he wiped away the worst of the sticky greasiness, threw the towel to the floor and nestled close to Jim. Reunited with his lover, Arty was finally at peace.

  * * * * *