But no matter the strife, Arthur came back to these quiet moments where he put James on a pedestal like a last-of-its-kind archaeological relic, something to be preserved at all costs because of the exceptional beauty it brought to the world.
Arthur watched James place his marker back in his book. It was his beaten paperback copy of Idylls of the King by Tennyson. Their autographed first edition was locked away in the vault with the rest of the treasures Nim had bequeathed them at the time of her death. Arthur had once noted James always turned to that particular text when he was troubled.
James put his chin in his hand and leaned on the armrest as the fertile fields of waving wheat rolled past as the train cut through the lush, fruitful countryside of Kent.
“What’s the matter?” Arthur leaned forward on the edge of the seat facing James. His legs were so long their knees practically met.
James didn’t look at him, his eyes distant. Their glassy green surface reflected the puffy clouds of the glorious summer day outside. “We should have kept in touch,” he murmured as he played with his full lower lip. “He was one of the best men I ever knew.”
“Wish we could have said goodbye, as well.” Arthur folded the newspaper and slid it into the inside pocket of his own suit, one that Mr. Conner had to fashion especially for him to accommodate his height. “I pray he knew how much he meant to us.”
“Quite.” James sniffed, and artfully snuck a tear away from his cheek with his sleeve.
Arthur leaned forward and caught one of James' long, nimble hands to stroke the knuckles. James stole a glance at the glass of the cabin door to the hallway outside. He gave Arthur’s palm a furtive squeeze and then pulled away.
“Why are you so afraid?” Arthur asked, though he knew in his heart that this was not the time or the place for this conversation. Perhaps it was the rawness of his grief for Mr. Marlin, but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted James' comfort, not his fear of being discovered. “There’s no one on this train we know.”
“What do you think would happen if either of us were arrested? It’s the law, Arthur. Nothing we do is going to change that.” James rubbed his eyes and deflated back into his chair.
“If anyone bothered us, I’d make them regret it.” Arthur leaned back as well. His head nearly brushed the luggage rack above.
“You can defend yourself. No one would dare get into a scrap with you. Look at me. I’m as dangerous as a tea towel.”
“I’ll always protect you.” Arthur resisted the urge to lean forward again to touch his boyfriend, take him by the hand or the knee, to make some kind of physical connection.
“I know you will.” James shook his head with a sigh. “I’m sorry. I don’t want a row. I’m really knackered and need a kip, I suppose. Besides, that man in the long brown coat...” He cut himself off and waved the words away like so much smoke. “Mum’s got me paranoid.”
“What man? And what’s this about your mum?” Arthur put his elbows on his knees to catch every word. The suit, which he rarely wore, strained against his muscled shoulders, even with the tailor’s smart alterations.
James rubbed his chin with a little groan. “I had to pop by Mum’s yesterday for my suit. She’s got me looking over my shoulder. She’s had dozens of these eerie hang-up calls. Some bloke calls her and breathes into the phone. Makes you wonder about what kind of perverts are out there.”
“You mean besides us?” Arthur crafted a little sideways smile that he knew James liked.
James allowed a little laugh to slip out. “Anyway, when I got home with the suit, right before you came home for supper, I saw a man sort of... lingering about on the corner near the house. I noticed him because he had on this old-fashioned long brown coat. Seems like it would have been rather hot for summer. It was like something you’d see a gangster wearing in a film. He had on a fedora as well.”
“Was it Al Capone’s ghost?”
James smiled again; he couldn’t help it. “No, not nearly so thick. He was sort of pale and spindly. I don’t know. There was something familiar about him. I couldn’t quite make out what it was.”
“Perhaps he’s a customer of Mr. Conner’s?”
James snorted — it was meant to be rude, but Arthur found it adorable. “Not the way he was dressed.”
“So why did he make you so nervous, pet?”
James slapped his hands down on his knees and rolled his eyes. “You’re going to think me daft.”
“Come on, then.”
He shook his head.
“James.”
James bit his rosy bottom lip. “I swear I saw the same man get on the train with us this morning. Same brown coat and everything. But I can’t be sure — it was only for a moment,” he hesitated, looking up for a reaction from Arthur. “There, I’ve said it, now have your laugh.”
Arthur did not laugh. Instead, he stood and brushed some lint from his suit. “Better have a look, then.”
“Oh, really, Arthur,” James pretended to protest. But his bitten-lip smile was enough to send Arthur out into the car to search the train. He went up and down both directions, even lingered awhile in the dining car, but saw no one who fit the description James gave. On the way back to their cabin, he did notice a middle-aged man, thin, like James had said — but his coat was bundled up against the window and he slept on it for a pillow. His hair was salt and peppered, rather too long to be fashionable, and his clothes were rumpled. He reminded Arthur of what a professor should look like, right down to the gold-rimmed spectacles carefully tucked in his breast pocket. Harmless and bumbling. And an easily beaten opponent, should anything happen.
James' expectant green eyes caught him as soon as he returned to their cabin. When Arthur shook his head, James relaxed back into his seat with a grateful whoosh of air from his lungs. “Silly of me,” he said. “But you know how it is... what if he’s some kind of detective? Watching us?”
“I’m worried about these calls to your Mum. She called the bobbies?” Arthur settled back down in his chair and removed the newspaper from his coat — Hillary and Norgay were on the front page.
“Not yet. She told me she doesn’t trust them. Because of how they’d treat us if they knew.”
Arthur lowered the paper a few inches. “That was...”
“I know. Quite nice of her to say. I think she’s getting used to the idea of you. She’s not used to the danger, though.”
“Well,” Arthur sighed, “we aren’t, either. Keeps us sharp, doesn’t it?”
“As a needle.”
It wasn’t long before the train slowed and stopped at the platform of Meopham Station. Arthur carried his suit jacket over his arm as they exited into the station and out onto the street. A rare sunshiny day was a treat, but sweat prickled his brow as the rays sunk into their black suits. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught James craning his neck to scan the crowd of people who had stepped off with them. “Looking for your shadow?”
James blushed and nodded. “Never mind. You’re here with me — what have I to fear?”
A kindly woman, likely from the village, pulled over in her sleek little Ford Prefect and offered them a lift to the church. Their clothing, apparently, marked them as funeral-goers.
“No, I didn’t know Harold Marlin.” Their new chauffeur smiled appreciatively as Arthur steadied her sacks of groceries in the cramped back seat. “But I know his daughter, I believe — Mrs. Alice Benwick. Her mother died when she was rather young. Her father went to work for the Baroness Lady Barlow over at Willowind House in Lincolnshire and she stayed with her aunt here in Meopham. Married one of our constables, Kerr Benwick, good man, too gentle with the drunks if you ask me.”
“Mummy,” said the tow-headed child in the backseat with Arthur and the grocery sacks. “Why have you picked up a giant on the side of the road?” Arthur turned to the little boy and tried to smile his innocence.
“He’s going to grind my bones to make his bread,” the child shouted, rather enthusiastically, cons
idering he referenced his own death.
“Ugh, bone bread? That sounds wretched. I like toad-in-the-hole.” Arthur winked, and the child giggled.
“I’m so sorry, sir.” The mother shook her curly red head. “Ricky, don’t be rude.”
“It’s all right.” James grinned into the rear view mirror at Arthur in the back. “He’s got quite the imagination.”
“If you have a chance, stop by the George.” The woman pointed to the steep-roofed inn built of whitewashed brick as they passed. “Try the steak and kidney pie.” Not long after the inn, the churchyard came into view. The woman pulled off to the side and let them out before she continued on her way with a cheery beep of her horn.
St. John the Baptist was a stone church with the flat-topped steeple, skirted by a pastoral burying-ground dotted with mossy stones. Though Arthur had thought their arrival early, a small group of soberly-dressed people already gathered around a hole in the ground near a large oak; the fine weather, apparently, had encouraged a graveside service. One of the mourners was a bobby in his dress uniform, no doubt Mr. Marlin’s son-in-law. Arthur strode forward and followed the little path until the way necessitated turning onto the lawn. James followed hesitantly behind. Arthur wanted to say something reassuring about the presence of an officer of the law, but didn’t know what to say.
As soon as they arrived, the white-haired priest began with the fair summer breeze rustling his white robes and purple stole. “My friends, we are gathered here today to bid farewell to Mr. Harold Marlin and wish him a safe journey as he goes to God’s waiting arms. Please join me as we begin with ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’.”
Arthur rumbled along quietly. He knew full well he was tone-deaf; James had told him so on several occasions. Arthur’s eyes climbed over the faces of the other mourners in search for someone they knew. A decade had passed, a war had ended, the rebuilding after was all but complete — it might as well have been fifty years. The two of them were so young back then...
One group of mourners was a collection of men in their mid 60’s. They had arrived together, and were unaccompanied by women or families. One of them had the sleeve of his jacket pinned to his side, as he had no arm to fill it. Mr. Marlin’s war mates, to be sure. Arthur thought perhaps he recognized a woman in a dark dress with a small hat pinned into her dishwater hair. A veil fell over half of her face. She was accompanied by three impeccably dressed and frighteningly well-behaved children, as well as a portly, pleasant-looking fellow with sandy hair. Could that possibly be Miss Ivaine?
Another woman with long dark hair, her locks streaked with gray at the temples and twisted back into an elegant, but old-fashioned, chignon, sniffed into her handkerchief and leaned into the bobby. He put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head. When she looked up at the priest, Arthur was able to see the color of her eyes. They were the same steel-gray as Mr. Marlin’s had been. On the other side of Mr. Marlin’s daughter stood a young man. He had the Marlin family eyes, though his hair was textured and blonde, which must have been a Benwick trait.
The hymn ended, and the priest continued. “Harold Marlin was a son of Meopham, raised here by his mother and father, both of whom were household domestics. Harold worked for the grocer before meeting his lovely wife Katherine, whom he lovingly called Kit. Their daughter Alice is here with us today, along with her family. Harold served with distinction in the Great War, and was awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal for his courage during the Battle of the Somme. Sadly, a few years after he returned home, the village lost Katherine to illness. Harold took a position in the household of Lord and Lady Barlow, and served the Baroness until her death in 1942. He remained there until his retirement, when he returned to Meopham. He was known as a man of few words, but of deep wisdom. His grandson, Lance, wishes to speak.”
Mr. Marlin’s grandson stepped forward to stand at the head of the casket that rested on the lush grass near the open grave, decorated with a spray of flowers. He coughed into his fist and said, “Good afternoon. I really met my grandfather when I was twelve years old. Of course, he came home from Willowind House from time to time, but much of his life was dedicated to the care of others. When he retired and moved home to be with us, I, well, I didn’t much care for it to be honest.” He cracked a grin through the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. The smile revealed perfect white teeth and accentuated his square, dimpled jaw.
There were some sad chuckles from the audience. “I thought, ‘Who is this man, this quiet old man come here to move into my bedroom?’ Like Father Haley said, he was a man of few words, but of a tremendous capacity to love. Well, I couldn’t help but love him; he took me fishing.”
Alice Benwick laughed through her tears, and her husband squeezed her tight again.
“He had a wonderful way with young people. I don’t know where he learnt it — he left my mother with relatives when she was wee, only four or five years old. I know it was hard for Mum, growing up with cousins, without her father. But he had to leave the village, I think — he missed my grandmother too much.” Lance Benwick looked at the ground for a long time, and composed himself with a series of long breaths. Arthur felt his own throat go tight at the sight of this barely-concealed grief.
After a time, Lance continued. “Anyway, the point is that my grandfather was a good man, a brave man, a man who always put the needs of others before his own. He taught me how to stand up for myself and take pride in my work. The strangest thing...” He sniffed, and took another pause to catch his tears again. “The strangest thing is that now that he’s not snoring up the whole house, I can’t sleep. I was so used to it. Dad, you’re going to have to start snoring.”
“Don’t you dare,” Alice laughed through her weeping, and gave her husband a playful tap on the chest.
Arthur resisted every pulse that ran through his muscles. His instinct wanted to grab James' hand. James could barely contain his own tears, his cheeks a violent red over his trembling jaw. It was evil that right now, in this moment, he could not comfort his boyfriend because of who might witness it. Arthur’s eyes flicked over to the bobby, a man who so sweetly comforted his wife in her grief, but who would arrest him for loving James. They could be locked away for years, or forced to take drugs that would effectively castrate them. And that was better than being caught out on the street by ruffians who knew their secret. Men had been killed, stomped to death, for expressing their love. Sorrow, hate, and even shame boiled in Arthur’s chest, and he clenched his meaty fists at his sides.
“I’d like to end with a poem. Tennyson was always Granddad’s favorite. He told me Lady Barlow introduced him to his work.” He withdrew a folded piece of notepaper from the jacket pocket of his dark suit, and read:
“Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.”
Lance returned to stand with his family. Psalms were read, prayers said, responses chanted, and at last, Mr. Marlin went to his rest as the gravediggers lowered the casket into the hole with ropes.
The immediate family followed the priest into the church to light candles as the war mates stood about and murmured somber remembrances. The woman in the veiled hat dragged two of her children along by the hand as she hurried over to Arthur and James. The sandy-haired husband followed with their youngest in his arms.
“Arthur, it must be you.” S
he let go of the children and embraced him.
“Miss Ivaine?” A sudden recognition lit up his face and chased away the dreadful crimson of suppressed weeping.
“Yes, yes!” Lady Barlow’s former lady’s maid dabbed at her eyes with a wadded-up handkerchief after she embraced James as well. Motherhood had filled her out perfectly, Arthur thought — she’d been skin and bone back at Willowind House. “Though I’m blessed to call myself Mrs. Edwardson now. Oh, it’s lovely to see you both again. Look how much you’ve, well, grown.”
“Martha.” Her husband hefted the suddenly squirming toddler.
“Yes, of course.” She tucked the rosy-cheeked little girl into her hip. “Gilbert, this is James Wilde and Arthur Pensinger. They were with the class of children evacuated to Willowind House during the war as part of Pied Piper. Mr. Marlin — God rest him — and I helped care for them there. These two were quite the favorites, let me tell you. Lady Barlow adored them.” She beamed her gapped teeth. “I’m so glad you could come. I was hoping to see you. I’m so pleased you’re still...” She glanced at her husband, and it drove an icy needle into Arthur’s heart, the horrid, necessary charade. “Best mates,” she finished.
James reached out to tickle the little girl’s chin. “You have a lovely family.”
As they caught up and enjoyed a good chinwag, Arthur noticed Lance Benwick exit the church without the rest of Mr. Marlin’s family. He strolled through the churchyard with absent steps, a cigarette at his lips as he glanced at the names carved into the mossy headstones. Meanwhile, the former Miss Ivaine launched into a long narrative about her children’s recent bout with chicken pox. James listened with intent politeness, but Arthur’s mind and body drifted away. He and Mr. Edwardson grunted at each other about football and cricket for a few moments before falling silent. Then, movement caught his eye again, this time from across the road. Someone was standing idly on the walk across from the cemetery gate, half-obscured by a hedge, smoking in an attempt to look nonchalant, perhaps. Arthur couldn’t be sure — the sun was at an angle now, and right in his eyes — but he could have sworn the loiterer was wearing some kind of long coat.
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