Mrs. Wylit took a long drag from her cigarette and let the smoke roll from her nostrils like a dragon. “God Almighty, she’ll reign for decades,” she proclaimed as the rest of the smoke escaped. “She’ll go well past the millennium, chaps.”
“Considering how young her father died?” James scoffed over his second piece of tart.
“Was right about George, wasn’t I?” She poked her cigarette at him again. “And I knew that little cold of yours last winter was pneumonia, didn’t I? Now eat your damned tart.”
As they finished, the bell downstairs rang. “Now who the hell is that?” Mrs. Wylit lurched to her feet and stumbled over the end of the table. “You blokes expecting anyone? You know what I’ve said about houseguests.” She punctuated her outburst by stabbing her cigarette into the ashtray.
“Not expecting anyone,” Arthur patiently said. “Let me go get it.”
Mrs. Wylit melted back onto the sofa and James rolled his eyes. With a shake of his head, Arthur went out into the hall and clomped down the steps to the front door of the old brick row house.
As James helped himself to another piece of the tart, Arthur started back up to the second floor. The spring was gone from his step, and he took the wooden staircase with heavy, plodding legs. Arthur’s gait was so markedly different from how he’d gone down the stairs that James put the tart down and met him at the door. His face contorted in concern as Mrs. Wylit stared into the telly.
“What is it?” James whispered as Arthur shut the door and faced him. Tears gathered in Arthur’s large green eyes.
Arthur handed him a telegram. “Mr. Marlin,” he said, voice husky with emotion. “Mr. Marlin’s died, James.”
Chapter 2
Mr. Conner approached James as he wrapped up a length of fabric and set the bolt back on the shelf. The tailor tapped the small ledger book against his palm, his usually placid mouth turned down in concern.
“Mr. Bennett rang while you were out.” James folded another length of fabric, set it to the side, and wound up a measuring tape. “He’s coming in tomorrow at nine to be fitted for something called a Teddy Boy.” James' smile evaporated as he glanced at his employer’s expression. “Sir?”
“James, there are several errors in your entries yesterday.” Mr. Conner flipped open the ledger to reveal his markings in red pencil. “You were off by a fiver at least.”
“I’m so sorry, sir.” James sank onto a cloth-covered bench with a sigh. “I was... distracted, I suppose.”
Mr. Conner’s frown melted a bit. “The coronation, perhaps?”
“No. Well, yes. But that’s not all.” James sighed again and shook his head. He moved instinctively from the bench to straighten a rack of ties. “I received some bad news, sir.”
“Oh?” Mr. Conner closed the ledger book and tucked it under his arm.
James kept his gaze averted, and tried to concentrate on the ties so not not to betray his tearful eyes. “I’ve lost someone... who was very important to me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Mr. Conner nodded his sympathy. “A family member?”
“N...no. Not exactly.” James turned away from the ties.
“Oh. A... friend, then?”
James crossed his arms over his thin frame. He felt weepy and small. “It’s... well, it’s hard to...” Flustered, he bit his lip. “Pied Piper,” he said finally. “I was sent away with my class when the Nazis began their bombing runs on London. This man, the one who died... he took care of me. He protected me.”
“You went away with Pied Piper?” Mr. Conner’s greying eyebrows rose. “I had no idea.”
“Yes. I was twelve at the time. Mr. Marlin was, for all intents and purposes, in charge of the manor house where we stayed. He, well... he made it bearable. Better than bearable. The man was...” He shook his head and silenced himself, overcome for the moment.
“It must have been terrible, leaving home like that.” Mr. Conner squeezed James on the shoulder with a brief but caring hand. “He must have been very important to you.”
“He was. He—”
Right then, the bell on the shop’s door rang wildly, and Mr. Conner’s son, Corbin, burst in with his usual self-important fanfare. He did the thing that annoyed James the most — letting the heavy door slam shut behind him with a solid bang. “Father! Did you hear Arvel Bennett’s coming in tomorrow for a Teddy Boy?” Corbin stopped short at the door of the storeroom when he saw the redness in James' cheeks and eyes, and the concerned posture of his father. “What’s the matter with you? Crying on the job now? That ought to bring the customers racing in. Come see the blubbering buggerer.” He gave a cruel laugh and slapped the doorframe.
“Corbin, that’s quite enough,” Mr. Conner scolded. “James has had a death in the... well, family, I’d say.”
Corbin huffed and went behind the counter.
“The funeral is tomorrow.” James bit his tongue against the acidic things he wanted to say to Corbin, the things he wanted to say to him every damned day. “I’m afraid I won’t be in to help with Mr. Bennett.”
“I’m sure we’ll manage.” Mr. Conner put his hand on James' shoulder again for a moment of reassurance. “Take as much time as you need.” He followed James' watery green gaze to Corbin’s back as he busily stacked shirts on the shelves. “Don’t mind him; his mother spoiled him growing up. That’s why he’s full of piss and vinegar these days.”
Mr. Conner was a wonderful man, and a skilled tailor, but he had blinders on when it came to his son, who was nothing but a schoolyard bully in a body too big for such behavior. Still, it wasn’t the worst he’d been called, not by a long shot.
“You could use some fresh air. Why don’t you give the windows a wipe? When you’re finished, you may be excused for the day.”
After he’d finished, James bid the Conners goodbye and took the tube to his mother’s in Catford. He knew she’d be home from work at the phone company by the time he arrived. Sure enough, he spied her through the front windows of her prefab house. He instantly recognized her silhouette; her tightly curled hair was unmistakable, the same brown-red as his, perhaps even a few shades more vibrant. She colored hers to battle the booming population of grays that infiltrated her scalp. The tin-roofed cottage, built after the bombings to combat the lack of housing in other parts of the city, was constructed by German and Italian prisoners of war as temporary shelters. His mother had gotten one after their building had burnt to the ground during a bombing raid. Luckily, she’d been staying with her aunt after Cousin Ted had died at Tripoli. James had lived there after returning from Willowind House until he’d headed off to university.
He hadn’t been back often. James and his mother got along well enough, but didn’t have a burning desire to spend time with one another. Something had changed when she sent him off on Pied Piper, put him in the care of others, left him there at the train station. She must have known I’d be devoured by those bullies — Morgan and the rest, James thought. Thank God Arthur was there. Blessed Nim. And Mr. Marlin. Poor Mr. Marlin.
Well, it was easier for her, wasn’t it? Better not to have to worry about a child in a city painted with a target for Nazi bombing runs. Better not to have to worry about him being targeted by the other children, coming home day after day coming home with his cap stolen or his uniform torn, or “fairy-boy” scrawled in ink all over his books. Yes, it must have been difficult for her, he thought bitterly, raising a son like me. These days, she still claimed to lose sleep over him. Was she worried, as she proclaimed to be, about the possibility of his imprisonment for breaking the law, or worried about her own reputation? He’d never quite been sure.
Still, she’d loved him once, hadn’t she? And here she was, opening her door for him, tea and biscuits already set out in her tacky terra-cotta kitchen which bled right into her sitting area in the tiny cottage. “Hello darling,” she chirped, and ushered him inside to sit at the cheap, wobbling kitchen table. “You look exhausted. Here.” She handed him his cup and pour
ed one for herself.
He sipped. “How’s the switchboard, Mum?”
She clucked, and sank into a chair opposite, then lifted her black rhinestone cat’s-eye glasses to her face to get a better look at him. “Busy, darling, terribly busy — it never stops. And the tailor shop?”
“Well enough.” He grimaced at the thought of Corbin.
“Any more trouble with the landlady?” His mother pushed the small plate of biscuits toward him.
He dipped it in his tea — it was stale — and washed it down quickly. “She’s a nutter, I suppose, but she’s our nutter.”
“What a lovely, lovely coronation,” his mother barrelled on as she swiped up some of the crumbs from the biscuit plate and touched them to her tongue. “Did you do anything special to celebrate?”
“Watched it on the telly. We’ve got a telly now, and it’s just brilliant.”
“Oh, it must have been expensive!” This, coming from the woman who owned every insipid ceramic animal figurine ever produced. Every available inch of flat space in the cottage was crammed with doe-eyed china dogs and cats and babies.
James shrugged, and hardened his jaw. He knew where the conversation led. Eventually, the meandering road would come back to Nim’s jewels, Arthur’s antique armor and sword, and what she thought they should be doing with their inheritance.
James was relieved when she swirled her tea and changed the subject. His mother looked into the swirling vortex of tea instead of his gaze. “And how is... erm... your friend...”
He stared at her expectantly, chin raised, until she looked at him with the distant sorrow of her brown eyes magnified in her lenses.
“Arthur.” She set the spoon in the saucer with an irritated clank.
James fed her a saccharine smile that felt like a grimace. “He’s my boyfriend, Mum. If they’d let us marry, he’d be my fiance. Or maybe even husband by now.”
“Oh, James.” She broke a biscuit in two, then three pieces, only to let them fall in the saucer.
“What? You’re the one who kept asking. And asking and asking and asking. I’m sorry it wasn’t the truth you wanted to hear.” James leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his gray twill vest.
“I’m sorry, James, please,” she begged, and he relaxed with a gruff sigh. “You’re right, I wanted to know the truth. And do you remember what I said? I don’t want to see you,” she looked for the right word, “convicted, and I told you I would love you the same as always.
As if that was something to treasure, he thought, but his flinty heart softened as she unclasped her handbag and withdrew a handkerchief to dab at her eyes.
“I’ve been terrified for years that someone else would find out about the two of you. Tell the police. Or worse. You have to understand how scared I am for you every day. You young people think you’re invincible.”
“Mum, I’m aware of the risks,” he argued.
“If only your father hadn’t abandoned us.” She sniffled and frowned at the mascara marks on the handkerchief. His mother reached out and he gave her his hand. She squeezed it with a watery smile. “What kind of heartless swine would leave a woman with a little baby crawling around on the floor in his nappies? It wasn’t easy, you know, raising you all alone, darling. I feel as if I wasn’t the mother I could have been, what with the war—”
“Mum, it’s all right,” he said, and he meant it, though the look of pure relief when she dropped him off at the platform haunted him.
She squeezed his hand, and then let it go. “So,” she started over. “How is Arthur? How are things?”
“Jolly good, actually. I’ve been over a year at Mr. Conner’s, and he’s given me a raise. Of course, I’d rather sell some of my poems and stories, but you know how it is.”
“I’d love to see you use some of your education. A degree in literature, and working for a tailor—”
He plunged on, deaf to her. He’d heard it all before. “For Arthur, plenty of construction work, more than we need.”
“Even after he sent so much to his parents?” His mother pointed at him with her teaspoon.
There, she did it — it happened any time they were together. She had to give her opinion about the money. “His father is loads better.” James leaned away from her again. “Do you know he can walk outside without children screaming about a monster? That he has eyelids now?”
“James, it was merely a question. Of course, I want Arthur’s father to have the best treatment available. For God’s sake, the man lost his face fighting the damned Jerrys.” She gulped her tea and lifted part of a biscuit to her painted lips.
“It’s only that we’ve talked about this. Nim gave Arthur and me the inheritance. I know we were lads, but she meant it for us. And now that we’re men, we’ll manage it as we see fit.” He stood up and went to the back bedroom. “Did you find my black suit?”
“Yes. It’s pressed. I hung it up in the loo,” she called after him. “Tell me again who’s passed away?”
“Mr. Marlin. He was Nim’s head of household.” He pushed open the cheap door to the loo and rescued his suit from the shower curtain rod. It was nicely pressed, the shirt fresh and crisp.
She met him in the hallway, and put her hands on his shoulders. They were the same height. “I’m sorry for your loss, dear,” she said, with the same sincerity as Mr. Conner. “I know how important he was to you after Lady Barlow passed away. Had you been in contact much?”
James folded the suit carefully over his arm. “We wrote like mad for the first few years. Then he retired and returned to the village to be with his family, and, well... we always sent a Christmas card. I had no idea he was sick.” There were the tears again, but he refused to cry in front of her.
“Perhaps it was some kind of accident.” His mother brushed a sweaty auburn curl away from his forehead.
“Miss Ivaine, Lady Barlow’s lady’s maid, sent us the telegram. All it said was that he had died, and when the funeral would be.”
She took his free hand, and they walked toward the door. “And where did Mr. Marlin hail from?”
“Meopham.”
“Ah, Kent’s lovely this time of year.” She rubbed his shoulders again. “Travel safely, darling. Be aware... of your surroundings. Of who’s watching.” She let the weight of the last word hang in the air. Despite the gravity of her warning, it cheered James a little — perhaps his safety was all that was on her mind, not her own struggle having a pouf for a son. “And do give me a ring when you get home,” she added.
“I will, Mum.”
Right then, the black rotary phone on the kitchen counter rang.
“Speaking of. Wait a moment, don’t go yet, darling.” She bustled into the kitchenette, the summer humidity forming a T of sweat on the back of her striped pussy bow blouse. His mother picked up the receiver. “Hello?” Then... “Hello... hello? I can hear you breathing, you know. Say something for God’s sake... Ugh. Bastard. Pervert!” She slammed the receiver down.
“Mum, what in the world—?”
She hurried back to him, and stroked his arm again like he was frightened animal. “It’s nothing, love. I’ve had a rash of prank calls. Some blighter calls and doesn’t say anything. Lord, it happens at least twice a week. Since... February, perhaps.”
“Mum! Have you called the constables?” James made as if to go to the phone himself, but she stopped him, yanking his elbow.
“Darling, it’s nothing really. Some men... well. You know. Tossers. Besides, I don’t trust the police, knowing what they’d do to you and Arthur.”
“Now I’m going to fret all day about you,” he said, though he let her lead him back to the door. Her comment about the bobbies left him warm.
She kissed his cheek. “That’s sweet of you, dear. Please ring me when you get back, yeah? And again, so sorry. And...”
He raised an auburn eyebrow, arched it high in anticipation.
“Tell Arthur I’ve said hello.”
He kissed her cheek
again. “Cheerio, Mum.”
“Be careful on the tube,” she called after him as he trotted down the small walk through her spotty lawn. “And don’t forget to pack a brelly and your overshoes.”
By the time he reached the end of the lane, he heard her cursing the heavy-breathing caller again, her voice shrill through her open windows.
Chapter 3
One of the principal pleasures in Arthur’s life was to watch James when James didn’t know he was being watched. Now, for instance, as James read on the train to Meopham, curled up in a seat by the window in the otherwise deserted compartment, Arthur abandoned the newspaper he’d brought and sank into the trance of his love.
Some gazes of desire are hungry, starving even — or predatory; aggressive. The way Arthur looked at James, the way he’d always looked at him — ever since they’d evacuated to Willowind House over ten years ago — was the way a country tourist might examine a painting on the wall of the Louvre. A man might stand there in the bustle, surrounded, encased in beautiful rooms full of beautiful things that he could always and forever admire, but would never fully comprehend. An uneducated observer, lucky to have walked through the front door of the museum in the first place, would suddenly be awestruck by the beauty within.
The way James crinkled his freckled nose when he read something particularly interesting - how the sun haloed his auburn hair freshly cut in what the barber had called the “college contour” — his eyes, nearly the same emerald shade as Arthur’s — his nimble hands and fingers — everything about James, when he wasn’t aware Arthur was watching, was as perfect and unchanging as a work of art.
Oh, they’d had their squabbles, to be sure. A few rows that could have awakened the dead (but did not wake Mrs. Wylit, for they were late enough at night that she was pissed beyond repair and had lapsed into unconsciousness). James was rubbish at milestones and important dates — Arthur only half-jokingly suggested he have their birthdays tattooed on him somewhere. When James was writing, he was not present; even after he’d stopped for the day, and put the typewriter away, Arthur could see the wheels spinning behind his eyes, the words weaving in and out of the clouds in his mind like so much smoke. It could be infuriating at times, speaking to James and knowing that the words were barely sinking in, that fictional people occupied his mind.
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