Alec

by William di Canzio

  “Nothin’ like that.”

  “What’s eatin’ ya, then?”

  Alec sighed.

  “Oh no, no—not love! Now, that’s too bad. Tell your old pal. Some handsome boy breakin’ your heart? We’re cads, ain’t we all, the entire masculine half of the human race.”

  “No, Van, it’s no boy…”

  “A girl! That makes things simpler. They don’t jail you for kissin’ a girl. She can join you abroad. And if she’s draggin’ her feet, there’s others who’d jump at the chance, mark my word. You’re too clever by far, and good-lookin’, ever to fret about findin’ a wife.”

  Alec could not go on with the banter; he was worn out from the battle within. He wanted to confide, to unburden, to rest in his friend’s strength. “Please—this goes no farther?”

  Van raised his right hand.

  “It’s a man, not a girl.”

  “Oh…,” he said, more seriously. “Older, then?”

  “Like you—just turned twenty-four.”

  “That old, eh?”

  “A gentleman.”

  “Ah … and have you—?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like we did?”

  “It’s different…”

  “I see: ‘love.’”

  “…”

  “But you’re leavin’ Saturday.”

  “That’s right.”

  “If he’s a man of means, he can visit you overseas. That would show his good faith.”

  They stopped in the lane. Clouds were threatening again.

  “He’s asked me to stay here with him.”

  Van faced Alec, took firm hold of both his arms, and said sternly, “Don’t you be a great goat-fuckin’ fool.”

  “No, no—I told him no…”

  “Good.” He relaxed his grip. “Because it’s all fakery, love this and love that. When lads have eyes for each other there’s nothin’ sweeter than sharin’, and don’t we know how sweet, we two? But love? It’s a lie of the upper classes, a fancy for them with too much time on their hands, tartin’ up for their own delectation what for most of us couldn’t be plainer. It’s family holds folks together, property, land, not ‘love.’ Stay with him? What, here? As a servant? When so much could be yours overseas? If he truly cared for you, he’d never ask such a thing. Alec! What happens when he tires of you, or you of him?”

  “Yeah, you’re right…”

  “Course I am. You’re all topsy-turvy now—about this big trip, leavin’ behind what you’ve always known. But you’re such a fine fellow—who knows better than I how very fine? Once out at sea, you do as I say: take a sailor-boy in your arms for the nonce; before you touch shore, I promise, you’ll have forgotten this gentleman’s name.”

  The clouds were sputtering rain yet again. They hurried back toward the cottage. Van kept his arm around Alec’s shoulder, as if to shelter his young friend from the weather, or perhaps to press home his advice. Van’s physique had grown thicker, more substantial, since he’d assumed the run of the farm, and Alec took comfort in his warm strength. This was a man to be trusted, a kind man, of his own people, who understood the realities of his life as Maurice could not. Though three years of living away from the village had exposed Alec to manners and objects and ideas that made Osmington seem backward, still this was rightly his home.

  But now he must escape. To avoid getting caught in his lies, he told one more, that Mr. Ayers was still out of sorts; he also mixed in some truth, that his trunk was at Penge and he needed to move it thence to Southampton to stow on the ship. He promised to return no later than noon on Friday; he would spend his last night in England at his parents’ home.

  Alone with his thoughts on the little train back to Wiltshire, he marveled at how much life had been crammed into twenty-four hours! Only yesterday he’d been riding to London—a blackmailer about to confront his victim. Could he have been so callow, so stupid? It was all different now, and so was he. He’d faced Maurice and acknowledged his wrongdoing. They’d shaken hands. It would have been easier if they’d parted with that handshake, but he could only blame himself for what had followed.

  He tried not to dwell on the happiness of their night in London, their second night together, richer than the first, of deeper emotion, more intimate touch, but his lover’s words, tender and brave, kept calling him back: I’ll see anyone, face anything. If they want to guess, let them … We love each other … He whispered aloud, “Maurice.” Then he banished the thought.

  For all his complaining about Penge, he was glad to return there at last. By nature Alec was solitary. He craved love, of course, and companionship, but when it came to work or to thinking, he did best on his own. At Penge he’d always had plenty of time by himself. In the gamekeeper’s cottage, Mrs. Ayers offered to sponge and press his new suit (now woefully crushed) and caught him up on things. In his absence, her husband had spent the morning with Alec’s designated replacement, acquainting the new boy with the routine and supervising him as he undertook chores. She found the youngster quite pleasant. She trusted he would do well.

  The news saddened Alec. When he was making his afternoon rounds, he wished he might find something amiss, but all was as it should be. So the park would thrive without him, no returning to the safe old ways.

  Next day was leave-taking. He used his morning call at the door of the manor to pay his respects to the Durhams. The young missus conveyed the squire’s best wishes—he was busy with campaign speeches. She also managed to prompt her mother-in-law discreetly with Alec’s name. At the servants’ midday meal, the cook brought out his favorite Blue Vinney and knobs. Later, the two Mildreds strolled with him along the road toward the station. Apparently Communion class was reforming them: instead of kisses, they gave him their hands to shake and promised to pray for his well-being. After, when nearly everything was locked in his trunk, he packed what was left—spare shirt and drawers, razor, pipe, his anthology of poets, and a cake of Morgan’s sandalwood soap—into a satchel to carry by hand. He visited the kennels to pet the beagles farewell, hug the spaniels, and rub the dachshund’s belly. In the hatchery, he let the young birds nibble a finger. He gazed one more time at the woods and the pond and his boathouse.

  Early Friday morning, Mr. Ayers took him and his trunk to the train stop. At Southampton he met up with Fred in his borrowed lorry. The two brothers together brought Fred’s household goods and furniture, plus all the trunks, to the wharf to be loaded onto the Normannia. Then back to Osmington. Soon after supper with the parents, Fred left to stay the night with Jane’s family; the three other Scudders then retired to their beds.

  Next morning when Alec was buttoning his trousers, he found in his left pocket the key to the boathouse. He’d meant to leave it at Penge yesterday when he’d locked up for the last time. What to do? He could send it by post to Mr. Ayers or entrust it to his father to deliver later, but his was the only copy, and he’d always felt protective of it, since it granted access to his own private realm. The ship would not sail until nearly sunset: he had the whole day free. If he told his parents he wanted to take the key back himself, he knew they’d insist that he let them do so tomorrow, which was sensible. But Alec was in no state to be sensible. So at breakfast he lied, saying he’d forgotten something essential at Penge, a book with one of his traveling papers tucked in it. He said he knew just where he’d left it and could scoot back and forth by himself in no time. His parents chided him but were persuaded to go ahead to Southampton as planned with Fred and Jane and her folks. Alec would join them directly from Penge; he assured them he’d arrive at the port before they did. When he picked up his satchel on his way out the door, they offered to carry it to the ship with them instead. “Ma and dad luggin’ my bag for me? What kind of son would I be?”

  The little train did its duty. At Penge he walked from the station through quiet fields. He entered the estate at its lower end, through a gap in the hedge. Squirrels scuttled above in the trees. He hoped to meet no one who might ask why h
e was there.

  The morning was gray, but quick-moving clouds signaled change. The sun had broken through by the time he reached the pond and the water reflected its splendor. In these last days, the park seemed more silent to him than it had before his visit to London. Even the songbirds, their mating season long past, were quiet. Light pierced the gaping shingles of the boathouse, which stood dark against the water and derelict, like all the buildings of Penge. Yet here was where love (he could call it so now, freely) had taught him to suffer. The trysting place, he’d once hoped, whose only key he, for no particular reason, always carried. He would return that key now. We’ll meet in your boathouse yet …

  He opened the wide double doors. Light scattered the shadows inside. There in his corner were cushions from the rowboat, as he’d placed them just so, waiting long nights for Maurice. The air was warm, damp, steaming in the sun. Silence and solitude had quieted his mind. He became aware that his skin felt strangely delightful, but he could not name the cause of the sensation. He hugged himself and closed his eyes.

  He opened them on what he would remember all his life as a vision: there, in the water, perched on a floating branch, a bird hardly bigger than a sparrow, yet brighter than the sunny ripples, so radiant that she seemed at once to absorb and shed light—the very center of creation. Magical color beamed from her wings, her head and beak of brilliant blue spangled with silver, throat white, breast a luminous orange. A kingfisher. He had only ever seen her kind on the wing, as a swoop, a flash of iridescence, an afterglow; now she was close and still. He held his breath lest she fly off. She did fly, but then alit even closer to him, on the railing of the little dock, a few feet away. She eyed him, opened her beak, and called—and, in a blink, flew off over the pond.

  Alec ran down the dock after her, pulling off his clothes and jumping into the water, as if to follow. He slipped below the surface and for the first time ever opened his eyes underwater. He’d always feared the water would hurt his eyes, but it didn’t, not at all. It was wonderful, the wavering light—and the sound, what was it? His own heart and lungs? He burbled and watched the bubbles rise. Then he saw he was not alone. The kingfisher had returned, also underwater now, almost next to him: she’d caught a minnow. In an unbroken arc she swam up, broke the surface, and took flight toward her nest as he followed her up into the light. Just as his head emerged from the pond, rain fell again, suddenly, in torrents. He stumbled and slipped onto the boathouse’s deck, stood up, opened his arms to the sky, and let it all wash over him.

  After drying and dressing, he walked to the village on those secret bypaths he knew through the woods. From there he sent two wires. Then back to the boathouse, where no one would find him because no one ever came. All afternoon he did nothing but watch the water, watch the sun and clouds come and go. The hours passed. He thought about what might be happening at the wharf in Southampton. The ship’s loading, his family’s arrival, their waiting, Fred’s ranting about his lateness, Jane’s fretting, his father’s concern, his mother’s unspoken relief that her youngest was not on board the ship that would have carried him away from her, as death had taken three of her other children. What would he tell the folks? Little enough. Of course he finally couldn’t bring himself to leave his homeland, they’d say to the neighbors, or, At the last minute, a certain Mr. Hall offered a better position than any he’d find overseas.

  But there might be no Mr. Hall. To date, their love had been a contest. Now it stood at a draw and might prove a stalemate. Each had failed the other, Maurice abandoning Alec at Penge without a word, Alec threatening blackmail in London. You’ve had your fun and you’ve got to pay up. Christ, had he truly said that? Like the battle-ax “dame” in a Christmas panto! Yet Maurice had not laughed at him (as he deserved), had shown no disgust, not even impatience. Was that what it meant to be a gentleman? No, that’s what it meant to be Maurice. And still, still, even after Maurice had opened his heart and confessed his fear, Alec had given in to his own cowardice and left with the cruelest goodbye: Pity we ever met, really …

  Why should Maurice come now? Why should this excellent man, who endured his childishness and forgave his treachery, why should he not be done with such a troublesome mistake as Alec had shown himself to be?

  He gave up asking himself questions he couldn’t answer. Of this much he was sure: no matter by what name he might call it, a real power had seized him when he’d locked eyes with Maurice two weeks ago on the road from the station. It was why he’d kept watch in the rain at the Russet Room window, why he’d risked climbing the ladder, why he’d disgraced himself by suggesting blackmail. It was why he’d said, Stop with me, when they were about to part in London, why his heart ached in Maurice’s absence and thrilled at his sight. He knew this as well: the saddest thought he could think was not to see Maurice again. To do so by his own choosing was beyond his will or his strength, therefore he was giving the choice to his lover. Not as a hero, but as a friend, Maurice had stood up to his bluster and discerned the fear behind it, and behind that, something else. He had seen Alec’s suffering, and therefore his love, and loved him in return. And that was the strange delight he felt in his skin today, the knowledge of being loved.

  But now would love fail them as they had failed each other?

  He marked the time the Normannia would be pulling out to sea. Bells would clang, whistles shriek, crowds bustle. Here at the pond all was silence. The afternoon had broken into glory. White clouds glided above the water and the woods. Already sunset was beginning to transfigure the sky with the kingfisher’s colors, orange and silver and blue.

  But Alec’s spirits sank while the radiance soared on high, because Maurice did not come. Alec couldn’t blame him. Wouldn’t work … Ruin of us both, can’t you see, you same as myself … His friend was taking him at his word, as an equal.

  The sudden heartbreak revealed to him how entirely exhausted he was, ravaged by every sort of emotion. For many days now he’d lived with no relief from the intensity: sorrow, rage, thrill, fear. He’d been rushing around southern England: Wiltshire, London, Dorset, Southampton. What to do now? He ought to go to the village for something to eat. Instead he flopped facedown on the old cushions and slept.

  * * *

  In the last dying of the day, he opened his eyes. His lover was kneeling beside him. Half-asleep, he fondled Maurice’s arm between his hands before he spoke. “So you got the wire,” he said.

  “What wire?”

  “The wire I sent off this morning to your house, telling you…” He yawned. “Excuse me, I’m a bit tired, one thing and another … telling you to come here without fail.” And since Maurice did not speak, indeed could not, he added, “And now we shan’t be parted no more, and that’s finished.”

  III

  IDYLL

  11

  Without another word, they made love—Maurice in tears, Alec bursting with thankfulness, their ardor stoked by their ordeal. Afterward they murmured and sniffled and laughed. Alec’s midday wire had never reached Maurice at home; he’d spent the morning in his office, then gone to Southampton to see Alec’s face once more before he sailed. He confessed he’d had no hope of speaking to Alec, much less touching him, but only wanted to see him. “I love you. I couldn’t help myself.”

  “How rotten I acted toward you in London!” Alec said.

  “It’s no matter now. When I saw you weren’t on the ship, I’d have done anything for you. I’d have jumped over the moon.”

  Only instinct had led him to the boathouse. He’d called out to Alec twice from the pond. When there was no answer, he’d begun to despair and nearly turned back, but there, inside, he had found his beloved asleep in the last light of day. Suddenly he stood up and started to dress. “We’ve got to go.”

  “Wha—? Right now?”

  “This place belongs to Clive Durham.”

  “But he don’t know we’re here.”

  “But I do.”

  “Well, of course you do—”


  “Please, Alec, let’s have no more to do with him or his house. Come on, get dressed.”

  Alec hugged a cushion. “Not just yet. Come back over here.”

  Maurice grinned. “Oh, we’ll have plenty more—tonight, a whole lifetime. We’ll go to the inn, get supper—I’m so hungry! Aren’t you hungry? Then tomorrow—I don’t know—we’ll figure it out. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

  Alec sat up abruptly. “Wait—where are you going?”

  “To tell Clive goodbye.”

  * * *

  His unexpected visit perplexed Clive, as did Maurice’s refusing, without saying why, to enter the house. They talked outside among the shrubs, where shadows cast by the moonlight hid Maurice’s face. When he announced that he loved the gamekeeper, Clive at first thought he meant old Ayers’s wife; a ridiculous mistake, really, but that’s how far he had left behind not only his love for Maurice, but any thoughts at all of love between men. Then the squire tried to talk sense to him, telling him that Scudder had that very day emigrated. Maurice said no, that Scudder had changed his mind and stayed in England. Then Maurice said something about having “shared” with Alec, as he’d called the servant.

  “Shared what?”

  “All I have,” Maurice said. “Which includes my body.”

  It was nonsense; it was disgusting. Clive asked Maurice to meet him for dinner in town the following week, where they might work through this madness reasonably. But no one answered him. He extended his hand to shake. No one took it. He was speaking to no one. He could never say exactly when, but Maurice had disappeared into the night.

  * * *

  By the time Alec collected himself, dressed, and closed up the boathouse, Maurice had returned. They’d swapped places emotionally, Maurice now beaming, Alec clinging and sobbing.