FIC: Roses of Picardy [12/12]
Aug. 22nd, 2012 01:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Roses of Picardy
Author: Alex
Fandom: War Horse
Rating: Varies, G to NC-17
Pairing: Jamie Stewart/Jim Nicholls
Disclaimer: No money made, no harm intended. Michael Morpurgo owns War Horse and its characters.
Summary: Captured in battle, Major Jamie Stewart faces an uncertain fate.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sexual content.
Notes: Canon divergent [see pairing]
Can also be read on AO3
I am alive
Only that I may find you at the end
Of these slow-striking hours I toil to spend,
Putting each one behind me, knowing but this—
That all my days are turning toward your kiss;
That all expectancy awaits the deep
Consoling passion of your eyes, that keep
Their radiance for my coming, and their peace
For when I find in you my love’s release.
---Siegfried Sassoon, Parted
*
On some days, it was necessary to remind oneself that the beauty of England’s green and pleasant land was entirely due to the profligacy of England’s grey and endless rain, and it was a far more challenging task in the city, where the green and pleasant was seldom in evidence. Jamie crossed Sloane Square in haste, wielding his umbrella against the wet, sooty deluge hammering upon it and the street, splashing his shoes and trousers, and streaking the already soot-stained buildings with charcoal-sketch shades of black and grey. It was practically high summer, but Jamie wore his trench-coat against the damp chill. Still, it might have been worse; he could have been thigh-deep in a stinking, mud-filled hole in the ground, desperately fighting to stay alive and kill as many of the enemy as possible. In the vast, confusing scheme of things, a bit of rain wasn’t such a hardship after all.
Jamie had never been able to accuse himself of much introspection before the war, or even a great deal of abstract thought. Yet in its aftermath he found himself if not precisely philosophical, at least more thoughtful, less apt to take the smaller blessings in life for granted. He guessed that in time, that thoughtfulness, like the shedding of a carapace, would most likely lead to new awareness of hurts and discouragements, but measured against the war, those could be surmounted.
He passed the Christian Science church, moving away from the pavement to avoid a tremendous splattering from a passing omnibus, and nearly collided with a man sitting on the church steps, huddled in a wet-weather coat and hat. He began to apologise and saw that the man had no legs. Poor devil. “Terribly sorry about that.”
“It’s all right, sir - no harm done. Could you spare a sixpence for a crippled soldier?” The man extended a wet tin cup not overburdened with coin.
“Why, certainly….” Jamie felt in his coat pocket and came up with a half-crown. He’d taken to carrying coins in his pockets of late. There had been more and more of these sad-eyed, polite men crowding the streets, and the sight burdened him with grief and guilt. Philip had been with him once when he’d dropped some change into a man’s cup, and accused him of being a bleeding-heart, but Jamie didn’t care a fig. Philip’s taunts weren’t enough to stop him from what amounted to minuscule acts of charity. “There. God bless you.”
“God bless you, s –“ The man stared up at him uncertainly. “It’s not Major Stewart, is it? Major Jamie Stewart?”
“Yes.” Jamie frowned. The man – quite young, Jamie realised – looked familiar, and had used Jamie’s old rank. All at once he gasped. The young man had been in his lost cavalry regiment. “Peniston! That’s right, isn’t it? Your Christian name escapes me –“
“Alastair. And that’s it exactly, sir. Corporal Ally Peniston, from the 17th.” He offered a hand.
Jamie shook it heartily. “Christ, man, we’d given you up for dead.”
“No, sir! I was captured along with you. Got ill so they stuck me in a ruddy barn to sweat it out, but managed to rally when we were rescued.”
“Rescued? I hadn’t heard. Captain Nicholls – Jim Nicholls, do you remember him?”
“Everyone remembers Captain Nicholls, sir. We thought he was turning up daisies in Flanders.”
“No, he survived. It was the most extraordinary thing.” Jamie hesitated, unsure whether to tell the young man the news of his own rescue. “He was wounded, but he managed a full recovery, and went back to England to work at the War Office.” Jamie became cognizant of the rain cascading down the poor young man’s hat and mackintosh and hastened to shelter him with his own umbrella. “At any rate, he tried to learn the fate of the survivors of the 17th and didn’t have much luck. Most of the chaps who were captured that day were written up as missing, presumed dead. But some of you must have got word home?”
“It’s a bit of a story, sir.”
“I’m on my way to luncheon. Can’t I persuade you to come along? Jim will be there – he’ll be delighted to see you, I’m certain of it.”
Peniston seemed to fold in on himself a bit, and an expression of chagrin fell briefly over his countenance. “Oh, I couldn’t do that, sir. Kind of you to ask, though. I won’t keep you.”
Jamie nodded, suddenly aware of the contrast between his own clothes and Peniston’s shabby state. No smart restaurant would admit him. Chiding himself for his carelessness and wanting to preserve the man’s fragile dignity, he pressed on. “But at least tell me how you were rescued.”
“The jerries were bloody unlucky, that’s all there is to it. It started when you escaped. They came in madder than all hell, tearing up the place looking for you. They thought we were hiding you, as if you’d be daft enough to take shelter among other prisoners. But when we realised what they were raging about and that you’d got out – well, it was as if each one of us had escaped as well. Christ, sir, you never heard such a hullaballoo. We were cheering fit to split the rooftops.”
“That’s…it’s too generous, Peniston. It was Captain Nicholls who rescued me, you know, and we both felt dreadful beyond reckoning that we couldn’t save you all. He got shot liberating me. I told the Red Cross of your whereabouts –“
“And they told the battalion who came to our rescue. The truth is we'd never have got out at all if they hadn't turned up, sir. There weren’t a lot of us left – twenty-two when they finally found us. Some of the lads had been shot after you escaped, for inciting rebellion or some such rubbish. Reprisals, sir. Nothing but reprisals.”
Jamie bowed his head. “Dear God.”
“It wasn’t your fault, and you mustn’t feel bad, sir. Those lads went down fighting. Your escape gave us courage. We knew you’d come back for us, or send someone, and you did.” Peniston grinned, a new twinkle in his eyes. “After you did the bolt, we made life hell for the jerries. Sabotaged ‘em every way we could. Stole from them, dug rabbit holes, damaged their kit when they weren’t looking – I think they were ready to hang the lot of us when the West Riding showed up.”
“I’m amazed, Corporal, simply amazed. And I’m astonished that you didn’t lose your life along with your legs if they were only keeping you in a barn whilst you were wounded.”
“Ah, no, that was just a fever, sir. No, I joined up with an artillery company and lost my legs in the first battle of the Somme. Shell got me. Blast my rotten luck anyhow.” Peniston smiled bravely.
“And you were invalided home.” Jamie shook his head in sympathy. “I presume you lost your job.”
“I was a solicitor’s clerk, sir, but a clerk who can’t run errands and dash about isn’t much good. I don’t blame them, really. They did try me for a bit, with a wheelchair, but it wasn’t a success. Too many narrow spaces, and it’s a job climbing ladders in a wheelchair, don’t you know.”
“Haven’t you family who can help you? And what about your pension?”
“Pension’s just enough to keep me in my flat, sir, but not enough to feed me. I've tried looking for a flatmate, but no-one wants to live with a cripple - they're all afraid they'll wind up having to nursemaid me, no matter what I say. As to your first question, my mum died last year. She was the only one I had left. I stop by the Labour Exchange every week, but there are lots of fellows like me, and not jobs enough for all of us. Most firms want able-bodied blokes. Can’t…can’t blame them, like I said.”
Jamie ached for the young man. It was a dire situation for one so young. “Look here, Corporal, can’t I give you some more –“
“Sir,” Peniston said a bit sharply, “that’s kind of you, but I couldn’t accept. Thank you all the same.” He ducked his head. “I know I oughtn’t to be begging, but….” He held his hands up and turned them palm-out, staring at them. “I’m glad my mum’s dead. She’d not be able to hold her head up, seeing me this way. There’s nothing wrong with my hands, or my head…just my legs.” He attempted a smile, but it withered and died at once, and he lowered his hands and stared down at the ground.
Jamie was paralysed by a pity so strong it robbed him of speech and movement. This – this was the reward of the soldier who gave his health and very nearly his life in defence of his country? He wondered about the solicitor who’d sacked the young man – had the work truly been too much, or had it been an embarrassment to have a crippled clerk? They should have been proud to employ him; they should have made accommodations for him. To be reduced to begging – it was more than mortifying, it was unconscionable. How many other soldiers, he wondered, had returned home after exemplary service only to face similar destitution?
A passing pedestrian dropped sixpence into Peniston’s cup. It landed with a jingle, a cheerful-sounding counterpoint to the falling rain.
“God bless you, sir!” Peniston called.
Jamie tried to think of something comforting to say. “Peniston –“
“Mustn’t keep you from your luncheon, sir. It was good to see you again.” Ally Peniston reached a hand out to Jamie. His hand was wet and chilly, but there was strength in it still.
“Look after yourself, Corporal,” Jamie said at last.
“I will, sir. Best of luck to you.”
Jamie nodded abruptly and moved down the street. He had been keenly looking forward to his meal, but his hunger was now nothing so much as a dull knot in his midsection. It occurred to him that he too received some sort of pension because he’d been wounded, but he’d hardly glanced at the paperwork; his father’s banker had given it to him as part of a sheaf of things that had needed signing and he assumed the money was regularly dispatched to his account. He had no idea how much the pension was. If he hadn’t had independent means…judging by Alastair Peniston’s unhappy state, it wasn’t enough to keep body and soul together.
His luncheon companions – Jim and Pansy Nicholls, and Billy and Charlotte Thorpe – were already assembled at the table and bade him a friendly greeting. “Late!” Billy crowed. “Getting slow in your old age, Colonel.”
“Don’t I know it,” Jamie replied. “Took me forever to get here. Have you ordered without me?” He slid into the chair across from Jim and got a wink. Jim had taken to combing marcel waves into his hair, which suited him admirably, in Jamie’s estimation. Jim's extraordinary good looks also attracted a growing number of young women eager to strike up friendship and more – it was vaguely irritating, but Jim managed the feminine attention with his usual kindness and charm, letting them down so gently they hardly knew they’d been refused.
“Just soup,” Jim said. “I ordered you oxtail. I knew you wouldn’t want vichyssoise.”
“Damned right I don’t. Well done, Jim - thanks.”
“Honestly, Jamie, you are the most provincial soul I’ve ever known,” Charlotte said airily, handing him a menu. “How many years did you spend in France?”
“Tinned peas and chicken paste were about the most exotic viands I ate in France,” Jamie returned. “Did you think I spent all my time drifting from restaurant to restaurant in search of the perfect bouchées à la reine, Charlie?”
“I thought everyone above the rank of captain did that,” Charlotte said, with a flash of a smile made extraordinarily vivid by her crimson mouth. “And at least you can pronounce ‘bouchées à la reine’ better than most Englishmen, so your time wasn’t entirely wasted.”
“Charlotte, you are terribly naughty,” Pansy said with a shake of her head. She’d cropped her hair into a bob with a severe fringe and had taken to putting black stuff around her eyes in imitation of Charlotte, with whom she’d become fast friends. Jim had privately expressed some concern to Jamie as Charlotte lived in rather madcap and extravagant style, but he hadn’t the heart to lecture since Charlotte was so obviously fond of her and treated her with enormous affection.
“Jamie knows I’m just teasing him. Don’t you, darling?”
“Of course I do, you goose. Now leave me in peace so I can read the menu.”
The conversation was lively, but Jamie found himself reflecting on Ally Peniston and his plight. When his food came, he ate without much pleasure. The combined cost of their meals likely could have bought the young veteran a month’s worth of food. The elaborate arrangement of drowsy peonies, roses, and ivy on the table would have been at least the cost of tram fare for a week.
“You’re very quiet,” Jim observed during a break in the chatter.
Jamie managed a smile. “Just woolgathering, old man.”
“They must be awfully large bales of wool by now.”
Jamie sighed. “Well, I might as well tell you.” He described his meeting with Peniston, and his disheartening situation.
“I can’t believe they were rescued – that’s marvellous news,” Jim said. “Thank God.”
“Some of them, anyway,” Jamie said. “And poor Peniston didn’t fare so well afterward.”
“How sad,” Pansy said. “Do you think his employers turned him out because they were ashamed of his condition, or do you really think it was because he couldn’t do the work? Surely there must be one or two other clerks to run errands.”
“That was my thought as well,” Jamie said, lighting a cigarette. “The very thought of the former is disgraceful, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. I suppose employers can couch dismissal in whatever terms they like.”
“It’s a pity, all right,” Billy said. “What sort of pension does a crippled soldier get, anyhow?”
“Forty shillings a week,” Jim said quietly. “That’s for a permanently disabling injury.”
Billy’s eyes widened. “Forty – how do you know that?”
“I’ve seen the records.”
“Good Christ,” Billy muttered. “That’s a pittance.”
“There are so many charities for the disabled, though,” Charlotte said. “Can’t he find help with them?”
“Perhaps he’s too proud,” Jamie said.
“He isn’t too proud to beg on the street,” Billy pointed out. “Look here, it’s certainly sad, but there isn’t much you can do for him.”
Jamie stubbed out his cigarette. “I suppose not.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Jim said. “Maybe there’s room amongst all those charities for a sort of private Labour Exchange. Something to help men get back on their feet with dignity, without coddling them or making them feel as if they’re a burden.”
“But how would you do that?” Charlotte wanted to know.
“Well, I expect one would have to make inquiries with the Labour Ministry. See if they’ve got rehabilitation programmes, getting fellows back to work in jobs they can manage. If they do, improve upon them. If they don’t – invent them. Speak to hospital committees. Gather volunteers.” Jim smiled. “It would take someone who knows how to get things done in an efficient and orderly fashion. Someone imaginative and persuasive and influential.”
Charlotte laughed. “So speaks the brother of our industrious little suffragette.” She patted Pansy’s hand. “Jamie darling, I think he means you.”
Jamie blinked. “Me? Start a labour charity?”
“Why not?” Jim asked. “You said you were looking for something to do.”
Pansy nodded. “Like St. Dunstan’s for the blind.”
“Yes, but – I don’t know the first thing about starting something like that. And I wouldn’t say I’m imaginative. You’re being a bit generous.”
“But you know about organisation. Chain of command. Delegation. How to lead fellows. Who says you can’t learn the rest?” Jim ate a spoonful of summer pudding with cream and smiled at Jamie.
Jamie rubbed his chin. The thought immediately appealed, though he was too cautious to say so. He missed the military more than he’d believed possible; he missed the crisp orderly life of a soldier, but the thought of going to some foreign outpost without Jim was inconceivable. To work with crippled men – to help them get back on their feet in practical fashion…. “I’d never thought of it before.”
“Sounds like a lot of work,” Billy said with a touch of dour humour.
“It would be,” Jamie mused. “Indeed, yes.”
“You’re not actually thinking about going through with it?” Billy demanded. “That is – it’s a worthy cause and all that, Jim, and a fine idea, but think of the time it’ll take.”
Jamie turned to Billy. “Instead of what? Hunting and shooting and dressing up every damned night for another ridiculous dinner or dance?”
Billy shrugged. “Some of those dinners are for charity.”
“And doubtless they cost nearly as much as they raise,” Jamie said. “Look here, Billy, instead of banging on about what an awful idea it is, maybe you should be my first patron. Or better yet, come along and give it all a go with me. Make yourself useful for a change.”
“Oh, God,” Billy said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “I’m useful! Christ, I mucked out my own bloody stables last week – what more do you want from me?”
“I’ll be your first patroness,” Charlotte said softly. She took a quick sip from her wine glass and looked down at the golden liquid as she swirled it around. “When they brought Robin back to England, I went down to visit him, and he – well, if he’d lived, he would have been in a worse state than your Corporal Peniston, let’s say that much. And he didn’t have money, or come from a good family – Mother and Dad never approved of me walking out with him. Said he wouldn’t be able to support me, as if I didn’t have money of my own. As if I cared.” She blinked hard and gave Jamie a watery smile. “If he’d recovered, he’d have needed something like that, Jamie.”
Pansy reached out and pressed Charlotte’s hand. “Oh, darling.”
Charlotte squeezed back and kissed Pansy’s cheek. “It’s…it’s all right, sweetness.” Her smile brightened. “I quite fancy being your first patroness, Jamie. In memory of Robin.”
Jim raised his glass. “To Robin.”
“To Robin,” everyone murmured, and drank.
At length Billy sighed, a great heaving exhalation of breath. “Oh, all right, Bossy Knickers. Count me in. But I’m not going to sit at a bloody desk all day.”
Jamie smiled. “I’d never dream of asking you to do that, old chap.”
“Huh,” Billy muttered, then chuckled. “God, what have you got me into?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Jamie confessed. He glanced at Jim and surreptitiously nudged his foot beneath the table. “But I doubt we’ll be bored.”
*
“I’m thinking of taking a flat,” Jamie announced at dinner.
Margaret looked up from her crepes. “Why on earth?”
“Splendid idea,” Charles said. “Young fellows should be out on their own for a bit before settling down. Wouldn’t be such a bad idea if you found a place as well, Philip.”
Philip spooned raspberry sauce over his crepe. “I’m quite comfortable here. I’m with Mother – why in God’s name would I want to get some miserable three-room hovel when we’re situated in the centre of things right here? Ridiculous. Besides, I’ve never felt a particular need for a garçonnière. Can’t think why you do, sprat. You live like a monk.”
Jamie refrained from an inelegant snort. “Until Billy and I can find a proper office, I need a room where I can speak with the chaps we’re trying to help, and I doubt Mother and Dad would want crippled soldiers coming and going most of the day.”
Margaret frowned a little. “You make me sound heartless. I’m not. It just makes extra work for the servants, that’s all.”
“Bit off more than you can chew, sprat,” Philip observed triumphantly.
Jamie ignored this, and turned to his mother. “Precisely. I don’t wish to overburden them.”
“Well, I think it’s grand,” Charles said around a mouthful of food. “Where are you thinking of going, Jamie? Some nice flats in Belgravia, so I hear.”
“Actually, I was thinking of Hampstead.”
“Hampstead!” Philip said. “That’s hardly convenient for crippled soldiers. Why not here in the city?”
“There aren’t many crippled soldiers who can afford to live round here,” Jamie pointed out. “Besides, we’ll compensate them for the tram or the tube. And it’s only until we can get an office sorted out, as I said.”
“Hampstead can be quite nice,” Margaret said. “A bit Bohemian, so I understand. Artists and writers and what-not.”
“There’s a flat that’s become available next to Jim Nicholls’ place,” Jamie said. “It’s a quiet neighbourhood, very near the Heath. Might be nice for some of the soldiers to have a green place and ponds and so on. Good for the nerves.”
Charles beamed, polishing his plate with the last of his crepe. “Always knew you had a good deal of common sense, lad. I’m glad to see you put it to use. Told Philip he could do worse than go along with you.”
“No, thank you,” Philip sighed.
Charles appeared not to hear him. He took a sip of coffee, and tilted his head to one side. “In fact….”
“Yes, sir?” Jamie studied his father.
“I might just go along with you myself. It’s a worthwhile thing – a very worthwhile thing, Jamie. I could chivvy a few old pals at Whitehall for some names and support. Shame to waste all those fellows who could be helping to rebuild this country. No point in throwing them all on the salvage heap when they’re still able to work.”
“Work at what?” Philip said. “Some of those men are so badly crippled they’re better off dead. And most men aren’t going to want to live on charity – you’ll see.”
“It’s not charity we have in mind,” Jamie explained. “It’s labour rehabilitation.” He wasn’t about to dignify the comment regarding the men being better off dead with a reply.
“Dress it up in feathers and furbelows and call it what you will, it amounts to the same thing,” Philip pronounced with an air of finality. “It won’t work, and you’ll be a laughing-stock. I’d avoid the whole debacle, Father. You’ll be lending your name and reputation to flower and apple sellers.”
“Don’t throw cold water on the thing before it’s begun, Philip,” Charles said.
Jamie glared at Philip for a moment. “I don’t suppose you can think of someone besides yourself for just a moment? The state can’t or won’t do it all – private citizens need to step in and do their bit for the men who fought to preserve the nation’s safety.”
“You’re beginning to sound dangerously socialist, sprat. Rather like your pal J – ohh.” A knowing gleam settled in Philip’s eye. “That’s it, isn’t it? Jim Nicholls. No wonder you’re moving next door to him. Did he put you up to all this, Jim and his Catholic conscience? Christ.”
“Boys,” Margaret cautioned. “Really –“
“Socialist,” Jamie interrupted softly. “Listen to yourself. Good God – have you ever envisioned a life of immobility? A day without the use of your arms or your legs? Can you imagine a moment deprived of sight or hearing? Did none of that occur to you during the war? These men must live the rest of their days with those problems, and they need more than the uncertainty of day-to-day begging. Yes, Jim planted the seed of this idea, and I’m damned grateful to him for it.”
Philip got to his feet. “I’ll see what I can do about getting a crucifix and some rosary beads for you. And perhaps some dark glasses for myself so I’m not blinded by the halo round your head.” He tossed down his napkin and left the table.
Margaret stirred and sighed. “He’s tired.”
“If he’s tired, he ought to sleep,” Charles snapped. “He’s a grumpy little beggar, and I’m sick of it.” He exhaled heavily and turned to Jamie. “I meant what I said, lad. Perhaps tomorrow we can have a chat about your plans. I might be of some use to you.”
“I’d be very grateful, sir,” Jamie said. “Thank you.”
“If you really intend to take a flat, darling, there’s a great deal of furniture in the attics. Solid things, if not the most fashionable.” Margaret smiled at him.
“Thank you, Mother. I’ll have a look tomorrow. Please excuse me.” He rose to his feet and left the dining room, heading upstairs at once. He went down the corridor toward his rooms and saw Philip heading for the servants’ stairs. Philip saw him and stilled.
“St. James the Greater.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“I hear you’ve got Billy Thorpe caught up in your scheme as well. Poor bastard likely never knew what hit him – he never was very bright. Charlie’s worth ten of him.” Philip sauntered closer.
“Charlie’s decided to be a patroness,” Jamie informed him.
“Oh, well done you. Christ, you’re so fucking sanctimonious. And that Nicholls oik, cut from the same cloth. The pair of you, you’re –“ Philip broke off with a sharp inhalation. His handsome face split into a broad grin. “Oh, God.”
Jamie scowled, but a cold unease tightened in his belly. “What?”
“Can’t believe it took me so long to work it out.” Philip’s smile widened. “The pair of you. No wonder you’re moving to Hampstead. Dad’s offer must be putting a spanner in your works.” He laughed and patted Jamie’s cheek. “Christ almighty. That’s marvellous, sprat.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Jamie opened the door to his rooms.
“I was wrong about you being a monk. Who’s the catamite? You – or St. James the Lesser?”
Jamie rounded on Philip. “Watch what you’re saying, you bastard.”
Slowly, deliberately, Philip reached out and grasped the lapels of Jamie’s dinner jacket and moved close enough for Jamie to smell the gin on his breath. “You’re not denying it, are you? You can’t. Oh, God, it’s priceless. Honestly. I can’t conceive of anything more disgusting.”
“Let go.” Jamie shoved Philip backward, and Philip stumbled and fell, landing awkwardly on his backside. Jamie was upon him in a flash, and dragged him up, forcing him against the wall and holding him there, surprised at how easy it had been. He’d never once attempted to overpower his brother; he’d never had the advantage before. “I’m not some cowed child any longer, Philip. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I am.”
“Fucking sod,” Philip hissed, batting ineffectually at Jamie’s hands.
“Watch your tongue. I’m not the only one with secrets.” Satisfied with the sudden look of apprehension – not fear, Philip would die before he showed fear to Jamie – in his brother’s eyes, Jamie let Philip go and wiped his hands on his trousers. “You’re disgusting. Get out.” He opened the door to his rooms and banged it shut. He listened and waited, ready for Philip to barge in, but he heard nothing, and at length heard Philip making his way back toward the servants’ staircase.
Jamie sighed and rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that Philip wouldn’t make trouble, no matter how much Jamie threatened him. He had to leave, and quickly. Philip was too indolent to attack a distant target. He hoped.
Impulsively, he went to his wardrobe and opened a drawer that held his handkerchiefs and cufflink and stud box. He slipped a hand beneath the crisp white kerchiefs and withdrew a tiny photograph in a little gilt frame, a miniature of Jim he’d had made up just after the war had ended. He gazed at Jim’s face, then pressed the picture to his lips.
Soon.
*
“All work and no play make Jamie a very dull boy!” Billy shouted, handing Jamie a glass of champagne. “Bottoms up.”
“Much obliged.” Jamie accepted the glass and drank obediently, cocking a sceptical brow at Billy. “And it’s not all work. I turned up, didn’t I?”
“Grudgingly, old man, very grudgingly! Thank God you came, though – look what you’d have missed otherwise!” Billy flung out a hand, indicating the jazz band playing at raucous volume and the dancers who crowded the floor: men in formal evening dress and women like strange, glittering birds of paradise in short, colourful dresses ablaze with fringe and sequins and beads, and quantities of jewellery worn exotically – bracelets pushed up to clasp upper arms like the serpentine armbands of Egyptian queens, necklaces worn strapped across foreheads and fastened with diamond brooches. Even an occasional flash of fire showed in a jewel pinned daringly to a stocking-garter. And every man and woman danced with abandon, if not with much regard for metre or grace as they hurled themselves to and fro across the floor.
Jamie watched them, feeling a trifle elderly. “What do you call that dance?”
“Haven’t a deuced idea, but it looks rather easy, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose so.” Jamie drew on his cigarette and let his eyes roam. He saw Philip in a corner with two young women, his arms round their waists. He saw Charlotte and Pansy together on the dance floor, kicking their feet out in unison and giggling, surrounded by a number of handsome admirers. There was Edwin Hollis-Barton with Ronnie Colborne, who’d been released from a plush insane asylum a month before and who looked twenty years older than the rest of his friends. Nearby was Dickie Hedrick in earnest conversation with Alfred Sellers, a young veteran whose novel Jim was editing. It was all so familiar in an utterly changed world, and yet he felt strangely contented.
He’d moved into the flat beside Jim’s, and they’d exchanged keys to the back-garden door, so it was almost as if they were living together. His days were busier than he’d ever anticipated; the blossoming charity, which Jim had christened the Society of St. Sebastian after the warrior saint, had been besieged by hundreds of requests for assistance, requiring Jamie and Billy and Charles Stewart to court more donors, dun more manufactories and already harried Labour Exchange officials, and to hire more help. They’d started off with Ally Peniston and Pansy Nicholls and now had a staff of six, all crippled veterans except for Pansy, and an office in Westminster. Jamie came home exhausted every evening – raising money and chivvying the rich, he told Jim, was tiring work – and he and Jim would eat the dinner that Jim’s housekeeper had prepared, discuss their day, and then read or do some work before retiring to Jim’s bedroom to make love to each other and fall asleep. It was absurdly domestic, and Jamie had never been happier.
Now if only Jim would turn up. He’d gone to Kent for the Christmas holidays; Jamie had stayed at Stewart House for a few days as well. There was no avoiding family at Christmas. Jim had promised to persuade his father to take part in the charity’s training program and hire a few veterans for his bathtub factory. He’d said he would turn up for Charlotte’s New Year’s Eve party, though, and Pansy had said he’d planned to take the six o’clock train and take the tube to Soho once he’d dressed. It was half past ten now, though, and he still hadn’t arrived.
Jamie waded into the throng of dancers and caught Pansy by the arm. She squealed in delight and began pushing Jamie to and fro. “That’s it, Jamie. Nothing to it!”
“Where do you suppose Jim’s got to?” he shouted in her ear.
“Who knows? Maybe he missed the train! Maybe my parents wanted him to spend New Year’s with them and locked him in his room!” Pansy laughed. “Oh, don’t look so glum. He’ll be along! Come on, dance with me. It’s almost 1920! Brand new world, Jamie.” Pansy kissed his cheek.
Jamie grasped Pansy’s hand and waist and whirled her into a waltz, despite the much faster rhythm of the jazz ensemble. “I feel like waltzing!”
“You’re the silliest man!” Pansy lifted her hand from Jamie’s shoulder to pat his cheek. She still flirted with him despite his suspicion, if not complete certainty, that she no longer had a girlish crush on him. He liked her enormously; she was almost as sweet as Jim, and just as serious when it came to work. The veterans adored her cheeky grin and short skirts, and in the second-hand car Billy had donated to the cause, she trundled them back and forth to training, to job inquiries, to factories and printers, railways and shops. With the unflagging energy of the young, she worked for the suffragette cause as well, not content with the recent measure granting the vote to married women over thirty, and still had enough vim to dance madly until the small hours.
“A waltz?” Jamie turned to see Charlotte slipping her arm round Pansy’s waist and pulling her away. “Jamie, you’re mad. And you’ve stolen my dance partner, shame on you.” She grabbed Jamie’s hand and executed a flirtatious little step, then waved to someone at the far end of the room. “Look, it’s Jim! Go say hallo to him and for God’s sake wipe that dour look off your face.” Charlotte gave him a little push and wiggled her fingers in farewell.
Jamie moved quickly through the writhing crowd and hurried to Jim. “There you are at last! I was just asking Pansy where you’d got to. Did you miss the train?”
Jim shook his head. “No. Sorry, it took me longer than I thought to get ready.” He smiled wanly. “I hope there’s alcohol on the premises.”
“Naturally. When Charlotte creates a jazz palais, she doesn’t do it by halves. In the co –“ Jamie stopped. “Are you all right?” It was difficult to see Jim’s expression in the dimly lit room, but his face looked a bit odd, as if he were upset and trying not to show it.
“Of course.” Jim gave him another smile, wider this time.
“Something’s wrong.” Jamie peered at Jim closely.
Jim averted his face. “Not now, eh? Let’s talk about it later.”
“Did your father decide not to open a programme for our lads?”
Jim sighed, and his entire body seemed to sag. “That’s part of it, yes.”
Disappointed, Jamie shook his head. “I thought surely he would. Well, look here, perhaps I can persuade him myself, or have my father speak to him. Don’t let’s think about it now – it’s New Year’s Eve. Almost 1920, Jim. Can you imagine?”
“No.” Jim reached out and briefly squeezed Jamie’s hand. “I can’t. Not without you, at any rate.”
Jamie returned the surreptitious caress. “Champagne?”
“Why not? Let’s celebrate.” They went to the bar and got their drinks, greeting people here and there. Their worlds had begun to mesh; writers, poets, and artists were finding their way into society, sometimes adopted by patrons, sometimes clawing their way up by sheer dint of work, determination, and audacity. Or perhaps it was a true blending of class, propelled along by the war. Whatever the case, it made for a fascinating mixture, and Jim introduced Jamie to a few Bohemian types he’d likely never have spoken to before the war. They were a bit daring in the matter of dress and mannerism, flamboyant and somewhat demonstrative for Jamie’s tastes, but he supposed he’d become used to it in time.
Despite the social press, or perhaps because of it, Jamie was feeling possessive. He manoeuvred Jim into a dim corner and held up the shallow glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” They touched glasses and drank. Jim looked out at the dancers and frowned. “Is that your brother with my sister?”
Jamie turned and heaved a sigh. Philip was indeed dancing with Pansy, holding her closer than propriety allowed even in the decadent milieu of Charlotte’s party. Pansy looked uncomfortable. As they watched, Philip’s hand drifted from Pansy’s shoulder to caress her breast. “Oh, God. I’ll have a word.”
“No, I will.” Jim set his glass down on the floor and strode toward the dancing couples.
“Jim –“ Jamie shook his head and stared after Jim’s retreating figure, but his dismay turned to alarm when he saw the speed at which Jim was moving – as if he intended to give Philip a pounding. “Oh, God.” He set his own glass down and rushed toward the dance floor, shouldering his way through laughing couples. “Jim!”
Jim had reached Philip and Pansy and was tugging Pansy by the arm. She looked embarrassed, and Jim was saying something inaudible to Philip, and his face was contorted with anger, quite evident even under the dim lighting. Several nearby couples had stopped to watch with interest.
“ – no harm done,” Philip said as Jamie reached them. “And you ought to mind your own business, old boy.”
“My sister is my business…old boy.” Jim’s voice trembled a bit, and his hands curled into fists, but he kept them at his sides. Despite his control, though, his entire body seemed to thrum with tension and rage, as if he were about to spring on Philip.
Jamie drew Pansy away and leant to speak into her ear. “Go get Jim a drink, darling.” He gave her a gentle push and put a placating hand onto Jim’s arm. “Jim –“ He saw Philip smirk and wheeled on him, grasping the lapel of his tailcoat, suddenly furious. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Apologise at once!”
“Piss off, Jamie. This isn’t your affair,” Philip snarled, pushing Jamie’s hand away.
“It’s all right, Jamie,” Jim replied. “I think an apology is in order, though.”
Philip laughed. “You can whistle for it, Nicholls.”
“Not to me. To Pansy.”
“Apologise? Christ, I was doing her a favour.” More couples had stopped dancing and gathered round to watch, though the jazz band tootled and thumped on, utterly oblivious to the quarrel on the floor.
“Philip!” Jamie roared. “God damn it –“
“I told you to piss off. Your sweetheart can defend himself.”
The words fell into a sudden pocket of silence as the song ended, and there was a gasping, rustling murmur in response. Jamie stood frozen in mute horror as Philip snickered, flicked idly at an imaginary wrinkle in his coat where Jamie had grabbed at it, and turned nonchalantly on his heel. There was a brief silence, then a rush of air as Jim tore past him, wrenched Philip around with one hand, and grasped his lapels, shaking him back and forth. “Apologise, you ruddy bastard.”
Philip looked comically stunned, then recovered himself, reared back, and plowed a fist into Jim’s midsection. Jim staggered, then aimed and punched Philip in the face. The crack of knuckles driving into the delicate cartilage of Philip’s nose and the resulting gush of blood, bright against Philip’s shirt even in the darkness, was startling enough to cause the crowd to groan and wince in response.
Oh, Christ. Jamie tried to insinuate himself between the two men mercilessly pummeling each other, but they tumbled to the floor, out of his reach. Philip had managed to straddle Jim’s thighs and had gained a momentary advantage, slamming his fists into Jim’s ribs, but Jamie caught one of his upraised hands by the wrist and yanked him backward hard enough to drag him off Jim’s supine form.
“Bloody hell!” Billy Thorpe appeared at Jamie’s elbow and reached down to haul Philip up, wrapping an arm round his neck and pressing him close to his body so that Philip’s wild blows had little effect. “Christ almighty, Phil! Get hold of yourself!” He turned to someone in the crowd. “Rupert, for God’s sake, help me.”
A burly young man that Jamie vaguely recognised pinned Philip’s arm and helped Billy drag his shouting, flailing brother away from the dance floor. The crowd parted to let them pass; most of them had watched in utter fascination, as if the fight had been nothing more than another one of the evening’s brash entertainments.
Jamie hastened to Jim’s side and knelt beside him. “Are you all right?”
Jim sat up gingerly, accepting Jamie’s hand, and nodded. He felt his jaw and winced. “I’m fine. Help me up, will you?” He groaned as Jamie hoisted him to his feet and steadied himself with a bit of effort. He looked down at his shirt, spattered with blood from Philip’s nose, and let out a rueful chuckle. “I suppose I’ve nobody but myself to blame for that.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Jamie muttered. He put an arm round Jim’s waist to steady him, conscious of the stares and excited murmurings surrounding them. The worst had been said; nothing for it now but to face it. He helped Jim off the floor, holding him tightly.
Billy loomed in front of them. “I’m putting him in his motor, Jamie. Think he’s had quite enough for one night.” He shook his head and patted Jim’s arm. “You all right, old chap?”
“Just a few bruises,” Jim said. “I think I’ve had enough for one night too, though. Jamie, do you mind if we leave?”
“Of course not.”
Jim nodded. “Billy, will you look after Pansy? I’m afraid she’ll be dreadfully upset by all this.”
“’Course I will, Jim. Not to worry.” He gave Jamie an apologetic glance. “Sorry about all this.”
“Wasn’t your fault, Billy,” Jamie sighed. “Look here, you haven’t got a motorcar I could borrow, have you? I was going to get a lift with Philip, but under the circumstances –“
“Say no more. It’s the white Sunbeam. Cahill should be snoozing behind the wheel – he’ll drive you home. Just tell him it’s perfectly fine with me.”
“Thanks. Ring me up on Sunday.” Jamie helped Jim to the cloakroom and fetched their things, then made his way outside, Jim in tow. Jamie craned his neck, searching through the sleek automobiles for the Thorpes’ Sunbeam. He passed his parents’ Rolls-Royce, glancing at Murchison settling Philip into the back seat.
Philip saw them and made an obscene gesture with his hand.
Jim reversed direction and moved toward the Rolls-Royce.
“Jim,” Jamie said, catching his arm. “Please don’t.”
“I’m not going to touch him. I want to speak with him.”
“Oh, God.” Feeling very confused and as if the situation was once more sliding out of his grasp, Jamie followed Jim to the motorcar, ready to pull him away if another fight broke out. He gave Murchison a warning glance, which the driver seemed to comprehend.
Jim nodded at Murchison and addressed Philip. “If you ever so much as touch my sister again, I’ll ruin you.”
“Ruin me?” Philip barked a disdainful laugh. “What could you possibly do to me, you dirty little sod?”
“I could tell people the truth about you.”
“Jim –“ Jamie began, praying that he wouldn’t mention the tenant girl and the hanging. It was ridiculous, on the face of it – Jamie knew where his loyalty lay – but it would dredge up far too much unpleasantness. Philip was vengeful by nature. “Jim, please –“
Philip sat up. The leather of the seat creaked. “The truth. Oh, pray do tell.”
“It was you I saw in Piccadilly that day, wasn’t it?” Jim asked softly. “You were meant to be back in France, but instead you were in London.”
“What the hell are you –“ Philip froze.
“So I got interested. And I did a bit of digging, and managed to turn up the most fascinating tidbit of information.” Jim turned to Jamie. “Philip wasn’t in France for the remainder of the war, because he was in London. Where, I can’t imagine, but it certainly wasn’t at your parents’ house, was it? They’d be heartbroken if they knew the truth.”
Philip stared. His face turned red.
“The truth?” Jamie scowled, then turned to Philip. “My God. Did you desert?”
“No,” Jim said. “He was dishonourably discharged. For drunkenness. And rape.”
Jamie pressed his hands together, unable to speak. Shock coursed through his body, tempered with a measure of cynicism. I should have known. Jamie had discharged two men in his own battalion for rape; neither of them were like Philip, in truth, but both, he’d learned from other men in the company, had committed the act more than once before being caught. Men like that, like Philip, never changed. He watched Philip’s face blanch and his mouth open and close like a beached fish, and held his brother’s gaze for a moment. “How dare you,” he said softly. “How dare you insult him when you’re such a low excuse for a man.”
Philip struggled for composure. “You won’t tell,” he said. “You haven’t got the stomach for it.”
“If you threaten him again,” Jamie said, “or Pansy, rest assured I won’t hesitate to do so. You’d be a pariah, Philip. No decent family would ever receive you again. Your friends who fought honourably in the war would cut you dead in the street. Women would go out of their way to avoid you. You would be utterly persona non grata, and believe me, nothing would give me more pleasure. Nothing.”
“You’d kill Mother and Dad if you did.”
“I wonder if they would be surprised. It would be difficult for them, but you’ve already managed to make quite a reputation for yourself, and so – fortunately for you – it wouldn’t be a long slide to the bottom. Do they know about the girl? Maisie, wasn’t that her name?”
Philip looked away. “Murchison, home. Now.”
Jamie stepped away from the motor. “I’m sorry you had to hear all that, Murchison.”
Murchison shook his head. “I’d better get him home, sir. Shall I come back for you and Mr. Nicholls?”
“Not necessary, but thank you.” Jamie turned to Jim, who looked utterly miserable, and pressed his hand in reassurance, not caring now who saw him.
“Very well. Good night, sir. Mr. Nicholls.”
“Good night,” Jim echoed quietly, and turned away.
Jamie watched Murchison drive down the street. Philip was slumped in the back seat. He wondered if his threat would be enough to hold Philip at bay. Possibly – for a while, at least. He guessed he couldn’t hold his malice off forever.
He turned and looped his arm through Jim’s. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
*
Jamie touched the wet flannel to Jim’s swollen mouth. “I’ve never seen you so angry.”
Jim sighed. “I’ve never been so angry,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by the cloth. He moved it away and stared earnestly at Jamie. “Pansy’s silly, but there’s no way for a girl to escape that sort of situation without raising a fuss, and all I saw – besides a cloud of red – was Philip manoeuvring her off the dance floor and into the cloakroom or some secluded corner. I couldn’t stand the thought of it.” He sighed. “I’m sorry if I caused you embarrassment, Jamie. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to get so furious.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“About Philip?” Jim sighed again and took Jamie’s hand. “You’d told me about that girl in Scotland and I suppose I…I don’t really know. I didn’t want to add to your burden, but I thought perhaps if he were properly ignored, he’d go away. Stupid of me. And worse still to keep the information from you.” Jim sat up and twisted the cloth in his hands. “And I suppose it was dreadfully dishonest of me to go looking for the records when I became suspicious. I’m so sorry.”
“I suppose it’s better knowing,” Jamie said, faltering. “I don’t blame you for it. I reckon under the same circumstances I’d have gone digging as well.” He plucked the cloth from Jim’s hand and laid it against his cheek. “That bruised quite quickly, didn’t it?”
Jim let out a cynical little laugh. “That wasn’t Philip.”
Jamie frowned. “What do you mean? You –“
“It was…it happened this afternoon, at home.” Jim stared up at the ceiling. “I told my parents, Jamie. They were nagging at me and nagging at me, and they’d invited a young lady for tea, the daughter of a friend, and when I didn’t fall to my knees and propose, they pushed until I –“ He laughed again, a short, sharp, bitter chuckle. “I told them I hadn’t any interest in girls.”
“Good God.”
“We had a terrible row. Terrible. My first of the day.” Jim smiled, but tears sprang to his eyes. He blinked fiercely. “My mother cried – I’ve never seen her so heartbroken. And my father…well, you see.” Jim indicated his bruised cheek.
Jamie’s heart ached for Jim. “Did you tell them about us?”
Jim nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, perhaps I could visit them…speak to them.”
“Oh, God, no. They’d cut you, Jamie. I couldn’t bear that.” Jim swallowed. “Father ordered me out of the house. Mother tried to reason with him and eventually she grew angry – God bless her, it was like watching a kitten spit at a mastiff – but he wouldn’t hear of it, and he threw me out, bag and baggage. I’m not to return unless I decide to come to my senses.”
Helplessly, Jamie caught Jim’s hand in his. “Oh, Jim, I’m sorry. Small wonder you were so angry tonight.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Jim closed his eyes for a moment. “And I suppose everyone at the party heard Philip’s taunt, too.”
“Maybe it’s better that people know.” It was an audacious thought; Jamie had never considered it, let alone voiced it. “Perhaps it’s preferable to hiding and skulking.”
“Ask Oscar Wilde. He mightn’t agree.” Jim reached out and caressed Jamie’s arm. As he did, the mantel clock in the parlour struck twelve. “Oh, good heavens. It’s 1920. What a way to begin the New Year.” He offered Jamie a ragged smile. “Happy New Year, Jamie.”
Jamie gazed at him for a moment, and listened to the faint chiming of the clock. Outside came a distant racket of shouts and the clatter of spoons on pots and pans. “Happy New Year, Jim.” He smiled, then chuckled. Jim let out a snort. Their gazes slid away from each other, met again, and they collapsed in ridiculous laughter, clinging desperately to one another, shaking with near-hysterical mirth. “Oh, for the love of God.”
“Why are we laughing?”
“I don’t know, it’s not remotely funny,” Jamie said, and the laughter bubbled up inside him again. Jim howled, clutching his bruised ribs. His sides aching, tears pouring from his eyes, Jamie dropped to the mattress beside Jim and curled close, his laughter finally tapering off to hitching chuckles and sniffs.
“My word.” Jim wiped his streaming eyes. “What a pair of nincompoops we are.”
“Who else would have us?” Jamie moved closer to Jim and draped an arm over his belly.
“I don’t know. I suppose we’re lucky at that.”
“I know I am, at any rate.” Jamie kissed Jim’s ear. “Listen here, Jim. We might be social outcasts tomorrow – but I’m not so certain. There are chaps like us in my circle, as I told you, and surely some of those writers and artists you favour –“
“Yes, but they’re writers and artists. They’re meant to be outrageous.”
“Still. Perhaps times are changing a bit.” He stroked Jim’s curls. “What with votes for women and short skirts and jazz and this bold new era, perhaps people won’t bother so much about us. In any event, it doesn’t matter. If –“ He paused, aware that Jim was watching him intently. Heat began to creep up his neck. “If I’ve got you, then I can withstand any cruelty.”
Jim said nothing for a moment, but he smiled, his eyes crinkling pleasantly. “What a glorious thing to say,” he murmured at last.
“I mean every word.”
“I know you do. Kiss me.”
Jamie bent down and touched his lips to Jim’s.
It was a happy new year after all.
*
Epilogue
1967
The day was brilliantly sunny, warm and almost syrupy. Bees hummed drowsily round the phlox and Queen Anne’s Lace that grew wild at the edge of the churchyard, and the stone bench upon which Jamie sat radiated a lovely heat into his body. It seemed he was always cold lately – the past few days even more so – but today he felt warm and almost replete. He curled his hand round his walking stick and turned his face up to the sun, letting the warm breeze carry the lush, rippling scents of newly mown grass and newly turned earth to his nose.
Mostly everyone had gone, leaving him for a few moments of contemplation: Pansy, her children Jilly and Freddie and Nicholas, their spouses, and Pansy’s eight grandchildren; Charlie and her family; the entire staff, it seemed, of Herald Press; Ally and the few remaining men from the 17th; some of the men from St. Sebastian’s. He hadn’t seen so much khaki in an age. He wasn’t sorry for this solitude, although everything he’d wanted to say had been said, and long ago at that. If one couldn’t say what was in one’s heart after fifty years, things had come to a very sad pass indeed.
He brushed his hand over the folded flag on his lap, and raised his eyes to the flowers surrounding the grave. Simple, Jim had said. Nothing fussy or ostentatious. But people had sent masses of flowers just the same. Nothing for it, in the end. Jamie pictured Jim’s resigned grace, a shrug, a sweet smile – always sweet, that smile.
Jamie’s vision blurred.
“Uncle Jamie?”
It was Nicholas. Tall and blond like Pansy, like Jim. The same blue eyes.
“Are you ready? The others are at the hall, but you needn’t rush if you want to stay a bit. I can come back for you.”
“No, no.” Jamie planted a frail hand on his stick and heaved himself up, nodding as Nicholas supported his other arm. “Take that flag, Nicholas. Don’t let it drop.”
“No, sir. I’ll take it to the car and bring it round for you. Will you be all right?”
The path to the gate was daunting, but Jamie bristled nonetheless. “Of course I’ll be all right. Off you go.”
Nicholas nodded and turned to look at the grave. “He’d have been glad to see so many people here, I think.”
“He always was social,” Jamie said.
“I’ll miss him.”
Jamie nodded. The walls of his heart were paper-thin after so many years, and the blood flowed sluggishly through his veins, but it wasn’t his faltering arterial system that produced the ache in his chest. Such an ache, even after more than fifty years. Had they said all there was to say? Suddenly, he thought not. He wanted to tell Jim about the people who’d come, the droning voice of the priest, the silly extravagance of the flowers. He wanted to tell him that he’d fussed over choosing a shirt and tie, that Jilly had had to help him with his elderly cufflinks now that Jim couldn’t. He wanted to show him the phlox, the blue sky that shone as brightly as the day they’d charged the German encampment, the day they’d thought they would be riding to glory. And they had, the two of them, even if the path had been roundabout.
At the end, there had been no words, only Jim’s blue eyes and sweet smile. And now, only a profound ache, a hole in his ancient and fragile heart.
Nicholas squeezed his arm gently. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Jamie turned back to the grave. Carefully, he put his hand in his pocket and withdrew a brittle, folded sheet of paper, yellowed, its old-fashioned copperplate penmanship faded with age. With the greatest caution, he unfolded it and read the words on the page, though he knew them by heart. As he read, the ache began to diminish, and he heard a familiar, beloved voice and felt a warmth surrounding him.
My dearest Jamie….
End.
Top image by me; beautiful lower image [with lyrics by Mumford & Sons] by the incomparable![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sithdragn
Author: Alex
Fandom: War Horse
Rating: Varies, G to NC-17
Pairing: Jamie Stewart/Jim Nicholls
Disclaimer: No money made, no harm intended. Michael Morpurgo owns War Horse and its characters.
Summary: Captured in battle, Major Jamie Stewart faces an uncertain fate.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sexual content.
Notes: Canon divergent [see pairing]
Can also be read on AO3
I am alive
Only that I may find you at the end
Of these slow-striking hours I toil to spend,
Putting each one behind me, knowing but this—
That all my days are turning toward your kiss;
That all expectancy awaits the deep
Consoling passion of your eyes, that keep
Their radiance for my coming, and their peace
For when I find in you my love’s release.
---Siegfried Sassoon, Parted
*
On some days, it was necessary to remind oneself that the beauty of England’s green and pleasant land was entirely due to the profligacy of England’s grey and endless rain, and it was a far more challenging task in the city, where the green and pleasant was seldom in evidence. Jamie crossed Sloane Square in haste, wielding his umbrella against the wet, sooty deluge hammering upon it and the street, splashing his shoes and trousers, and streaking the already soot-stained buildings with charcoal-sketch shades of black and grey. It was practically high summer, but Jamie wore his trench-coat against the damp chill. Still, it might have been worse; he could have been thigh-deep in a stinking, mud-filled hole in the ground, desperately fighting to stay alive and kill as many of the enemy as possible. In the vast, confusing scheme of things, a bit of rain wasn’t such a hardship after all.
Jamie had never been able to accuse himself of much introspection before the war, or even a great deal of abstract thought. Yet in its aftermath he found himself if not precisely philosophical, at least more thoughtful, less apt to take the smaller blessings in life for granted. He guessed that in time, that thoughtfulness, like the shedding of a carapace, would most likely lead to new awareness of hurts and discouragements, but measured against the war, those could be surmounted.
He passed the Christian Science church, moving away from the pavement to avoid a tremendous splattering from a passing omnibus, and nearly collided with a man sitting on the church steps, huddled in a wet-weather coat and hat. He began to apologise and saw that the man had no legs. Poor devil. “Terribly sorry about that.”
“It’s all right, sir - no harm done. Could you spare a sixpence for a crippled soldier?” The man extended a wet tin cup not overburdened with coin.
“Why, certainly….” Jamie felt in his coat pocket and came up with a half-crown. He’d taken to carrying coins in his pockets of late. There had been more and more of these sad-eyed, polite men crowding the streets, and the sight burdened him with grief and guilt. Philip had been with him once when he’d dropped some change into a man’s cup, and accused him of being a bleeding-heart, but Jamie didn’t care a fig. Philip’s taunts weren’t enough to stop him from what amounted to minuscule acts of charity. “There. God bless you.”
“God bless you, s –“ The man stared up at him uncertainly. “It’s not Major Stewart, is it? Major Jamie Stewart?”
“Yes.” Jamie frowned. The man – quite young, Jamie realised – looked familiar, and had used Jamie’s old rank. All at once he gasped. The young man had been in his lost cavalry regiment. “Peniston! That’s right, isn’t it? Your Christian name escapes me –“
“Alastair. And that’s it exactly, sir. Corporal Ally Peniston, from the 17th.” He offered a hand.
Jamie shook it heartily. “Christ, man, we’d given you up for dead.”
“No, sir! I was captured along with you. Got ill so they stuck me in a ruddy barn to sweat it out, but managed to rally when we were rescued.”
“Rescued? I hadn’t heard. Captain Nicholls – Jim Nicholls, do you remember him?”
“Everyone remembers Captain Nicholls, sir. We thought he was turning up daisies in Flanders.”
“No, he survived. It was the most extraordinary thing.” Jamie hesitated, unsure whether to tell the young man the news of his own rescue. “He was wounded, but he managed a full recovery, and went back to England to work at the War Office.” Jamie became cognizant of the rain cascading down the poor young man’s hat and mackintosh and hastened to shelter him with his own umbrella. “At any rate, he tried to learn the fate of the survivors of the 17th and didn’t have much luck. Most of the chaps who were captured that day were written up as missing, presumed dead. But some of you must have got word home?”
“It’s a bit of a story, sir.”
“I’m on my way to luncheon. Can’t I persuade you to come along? Jim will be there – he’ll be delighted to see you, I’m certain of it.”
Peniston seemed to fold in on himself a bit, and an expression of chagrin fell briefly over his countenance. “Oh, I couldn’t do that, sir. Kind of you to ask, though. I won’t keep you.”
Jamie nodded, suddenly aware of the contrast between his own clothes and Peniston’s shabby state. No smart restaurant would admit him. Chiding himself for his carelessness and wanting to preserve the man’s fragile dignity, he pressed on. “But at least tell me how you were rescued.”
“The jerries were bloody unlucky, that’s all there is to it. It started when you escaped. They came in madder than all hell, tearing up the place looking for you. They thought we were hiding you, as if you’d be daft enough to take shelter among other prisoners. But when we realised what they were raging about and that you’d got out – well, it was as if each one of us had escaped as well. Christ, sir, you never heard such a hullaballoo. We were cheering fit to split the rooftops.”
“That’s…it’s too generous, Peniston. It was Captain Nicholls who rescued me, you know, and we both felt dreadful beyond reckoning that we couldn’t save you all. He got shot liberating me. I told the Red Cross of your whereabouts –“
“And they told the battalion who came to our rescue. The truth is we'd never have got out at all if they hadn't turned up, sir. There weren’t a lot of us left – twenty-two when they finally found us. Some of the lads had been shot after you escaped, for inciting rebellion or some such rubbish. Reprisals, sir. Nothing but reprisals.”
Jamie bowed his head. “Dear God.”
“It wasn’t your fault, and you mustn’t feel bad, sir. Those lads went down fighting. Your escape gave us courage. We knew you’d come back for us, or send someone, and you did.” Peniston grinned, a new twinkle in his eyes. “After you did the bolt, we made life hell for the jerries. Sabotaged ‘em every way we could. Stole from them, dug rabbit holes, damaged their kit when they weren’t looking – I think they were ready to hang the lot of us when the West Riding showed up.”
“I’m amazed, Corporal, simply amazed. And I’m astonished that you didn’t lose your life along with your legs if they were only keeping you in a barn whilst you were wounded.”
“Ah, no, that was just a fever, sir. No, I joined up with an artillery company and lost my legs in the first battle of the Somme. Shell got me. Blast my rotten luck anyhow.” Peniston smiled bravely.
“And you were invalided home.” Jamie shook his head in sympathy. “I presume you lost your job.”
“I was a solicitor’s clerk, sir, but a clerk who can’t run errands and dash about isn’t much good. I don’t blame them, really. They did try me for a bit, with a wheelchair, but it wasn’t a success. Too many narrow spaces, and it’s a job climbing ladders in a wheelchair, don’t you know.”
“Haven’t you family who can help you? And what about your pension?”
“Pension’s just enough to keep me in my flat, sir, but not enough to feed me. I've tried looking for a flatmate, but no-one wants to live with a cripple - they're all afraid they'll wind up having to nursemaid me, no matter what I say. As to your first question, my mum died last year. She was the only one I had left. I stop by the Labour Exchange every week, but there are lots of fellows like me, and not jobs enough for all of us. Most firms want able-bodied blokes. Can’t…can’t blame them, like I said.”
Jamie ached for the young man. It was a dire situation for one so young. “Look here, Corporal, can’t I give you some more –“
“Sir,” Peniston said a bit sharply, “that’s kind of you, but I couldn’t accept. Thank you all the same.” He ducked his head. “I know I oughtn’t to be begging, but….” He held his hands up and turned them palm-out, staring at them. “I’m glad my mum’s dead. She’d not be able to hold her head up, seeing me this way. There’s nothing wrong with my hands, or my head…just my legs.” He attempted a smile, but it withered and died at once, and he lowered his hands and stared down at the ground.
Jamie was paralysed by a pity so strong it robbed him of speech and movement. This – this was the reward of the soldier who gave his health and very nearly his life in defence of his country? He wondered about the solicitor who’d sacked the young man – had the work truly been too much, or had it been an embarrassment to have a crippled clerk? They should have been proud to employ him; they should have made accommodations for him. To be reduced to begging – it was more than mortifying, it was unconscionable. How many other soldiers, he wondered, had returned home after exemplary service only to face similar destitution?
A passing pedestrian dropped sixpence into Peniston’s cup. It landed with a jingle, a cheerful-sounding counterpoint to the falling rain.
“God bless you, sir!” Peniston called.
Jamie tried to think of something comforting to say. “Peniston –“
“Mustn’t keep you from your luncheon, sir. It was good to see you again.” Ally Peniston reached a hand out to Jamie. His hand was wet and chilly, but there was strength in it still.
“Look after yourself, Corporal,” Jamie said at last.
“I will, sir. Best of luck to you.”
Jamie nodded abruptly and moved down the street. He had been keenly looking forward to his meal, but his hunger was now nothing so much as a dull knot in his midsection. It occurred to him that he too received some sort of pension because he’d been wounded, but he’d hardly glanced at the paperwork; his father’s banker had given it to him as part of a sheaf of things that had needed signing and he assumed the money was regularly dispatched to his account. He had no idea how much the pension was. If he hadn’t had independent means…judging by Alastair Peniston’s unhappy state, it wasn’t enough to keep body and soul together.
His luncheon companions – Jim and Pansy Nicholls, and Billy and Charlotte Thorpe – were already assembled at the table and bade him a friendly greeting. “Late!” Billy crowed. “Getting slow in your old age, Colonel.”
“Don’t I know it,” Jamie replied. “Took me forever to get here. Have you ordered without me?” He slid into the chair across from Jim and got a wink. Jim had taken to combing marcel waves into his hair, which suited him admirably, in Jamie’s estimation. Jim's extraordinary good looks also attracted a growing number of young women eager to strike up friendship and more – it was vaguely irritating, but Jim managed the feminine attention with his usual kindness and charm, letting them down so gently they hardly knew they’d been refused.
“Just soup,” Jim said. “I ordered you oxtail. I knew you wouldn’t want vichyssoise.”
“Damned right I don’t. Well done, Jim - thanks.”
“Honestly, Jamie, you are the most provincial soul I’ve ever known,” Charlotte said airily, handing him a menu. “How many years did you spend in France?”
“Tinned peas and chicken paste were about the most exotic viands I ate in France,” Jamie returned. “Did you think I spent all my time drifting from restaurant to restaurant in search of the perfect bouchées à la reine, Charlie?”
“I thought everyone above the rank of captain did that,” Charlotte said, with a flash of a smile made extraordinarily vivid by her crimson mouth. “And at least you can pronounce ‘bouchées à la reine’ better than most Englishmen, so your time wasn’t entirely wasted.”
“Charlotte, you are terribly naughty,” Pansy said with a shake of her head. She’d cropped her hair into a bob with a severe fringe and had taken to putting black stuff around her eyes in imitation of Charlotte, with whom she’d become fast friends. Jim had privately expressed some concern to Jamie as Charlotte lived in rather madcap and extravagant style, but he hadn’t the heart to lecture since Charlotte was so obviously fond of her and treated her with enormous affection.
“Jamie knows I’m just teasing him. Don’t you, darling?”
“Of course I do, you goose. Now leave me in peace so I can read the menu.”
The conversation was lively, but Jamie found himself reflecting on Ally Peniston and his plight. When his food came, he ate without much pleasure. The combined cost of their meals likely could have bought the young veteran a month’s worth of food. The elaborate arrangement of drowsy peonies, roses, and ivy on the table would have been at least the cost of tram fare for a week.
“You’re very quiet,” Jim observed during a break in the chatter.
Jamie managed a smile. “Just woolgathering, old man.”
“They must be awfully large bales of wool by now.”
Jamie sighed. “Well, I might as well tell you.” He described his meeting with Peniston, and his disheartening situation.
“I can’t believe they were rescued – that’s marvellous news,” Jim said. “Thank God.”
“Some of them, anyway,” Jamie said. “And poor Peniston didn’t fare so well afterward.”
“How sad,” Pansy said. “Do you think his employers turned him out because they were ashamed of his condition, or do you really think it was because he couldn’t do the work? Surely there must be one or two other clerks to run errands.”
“That was my thought as well,” Jamie said, lighting a cigarette. “The very thought of the former is disgraceful, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. I suppose employers can couch dismissal in whatever terms they like.”
“It’s a pity, all right,” Billy said. “What sort of pension does a crippled soldier get, anyhow?”
“Forty shillings a week,” Jim said quietly. “That’s for a permanently disabling injury.”
Billy’s eyes widened. “Forty – how do you know that?”
“I’ve seen the records.”
“Good Christ,” Billy muttered. “That’s a pittance.”
“There are so many charities for the disabled, though,” Charlotte said. “Can’t he find help with them?”
“Perhaps he’s too proud,” Jamie said.
“He isn’t too proud to beg on the street,” Billy pointed out. “Look here, it’s certainly sad, but there isn’t much you can do for him.”
Jamie stubbed out his cigarette. “I suppose not.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Jim said. “Maybe there’s room amongst all those charities for a sort of private Labour Exchange. Something to help men get back on their feet with dignity, without coddling them or making them feel as if they’re a burden.”
“But how would you do that?” Charlotte wanted to know.
“Well, I expect one would have to make inquiries with the Labour Ministry. See if they’ve got rehabilitation programmes, getting fellows back to work in jobs they can manage. If they do, improve upon them. If they don’t – invent them. Speak to hospital committees. Gather volunteers.” Jim smiled. “It would take someone who knows how to get things done in an efficient and orderly fashion. Someone imaginative and persuasive and influential.”
Charlotte laughed. “So speaks the brother of our industrious little suffragette.” She patted Pansy’s hand. “Jamie darling, I think he means you.”
Jamie blinked. “Me? Start a labour charity?”
“Why not?” Jim asked. “You said you were looking for something to do.”
Pansy nodded. “Like St. Dunstan’s for the blind.”
“Yes, but – I don’t know the first thing about starting something like that. And I wouldn’t say I’m imaginative. You’re being a bit generous.”
“But you know about organisation. Chain of command. Delegation. How to lead fellows. Who says you can’t learn the rest?” Jim ate a spoonful of summer pudding with cream and smiled at Jamie.
Jamie rubbed his chin. The thought immediately appealed, though he was too cautious to say so. He missed the military more than he’d believed possible; he missed the crisp orderly life of a soldier, but the thought of going to some foreign outpost without Jim was inconceivable. To work with crippled men – to help them get back on their feet in practical fashion…. “I’d never thought of it before.”
“Sounds like a lot of work,” Billy said with a touch of dour humour.
“It would be,” Jamie mused. “Indeed, yes.”
“You’re not actually thinking about going through with it?” Billy demanded. “That is – it’s a worthy cause and all that, Jim, and a fine idea, but think of the time it’ll take.”
Jamie turned to Billy. “Instead of what? Hunting and shooting and dressing up every damned night for another ridiculous dinner or dance?”
Billy shrugged. “Some of those dinners are for charity.”
“And doubtless they cost nearly as much as they raise,” Jamie said. “Look here, Billy, instead of banging on about what an awful idea it is, maybe you should be my first patron. Or better yet, come along and give it all a go with me. Make yourself useful for a change.”
“Oh, God,” Billy said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “I’m useful! Christ, I mucked out my own bloody stables last week – what more do you want from me?”
“I’ll be your first patroness,” Charlotte said softly. She took a quick sip from her wine glass and looked down at the golden liquid as she swirled it around. “When they brought Robin back to England, I went down to visit him, and he – well, if he’d lived, he would have been in a worse state than your Corporal Peniston, let’s say that much. And he didn’t have money, or come from a good family – Mother and Dad never approved of me walking out with him. Said he wouldn’t be able to support me, as if I didn’t have money of my own. As if I cared.” She blinked hard and gave Jamie a watery smile. “If he’d recovered, he’d have needed something like that, Jamie.”
Pansy reached out and pressed Charlotte’s hand. “Oh, darling.”
Charlotte squeezed back and kissed Pansy’s cheek. “It’s…it’s all right, sweetness.” Her smile brightened. “I quite fancy being your first patroness, Jamie. In memory of Robin.”
Jim raised his glass. “To Robin.”
“To Robin,” everyone murmured, and drank.
At length Billy sighed, a great heaving exhalation of breath. “Oh, all right, Bossy Knickers. Count me in. But I’m not going to sit at a bloody desk all day.”
Jamie smiled. “I’d never dream of asking you to do that, old chap.”
“Huh,” Billy muttered, then chuckled. “God, what have you got me into?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Jamie confessed. He glanced at Jim and surreptitiously nudged his foot beneath the table. “But I doubt we’ll be bored.”
*
“I’m thinking of taking a flat,” Jamie announced at dinner.
Margaret looked up from her crepes. “Why on earth?”
“Splendid idea,” Charles said. “Young fellows should be out on their own for a bit before settling down. Wouldn’t be such a bad idea if you found a place as well, Philip.”
Philip spooned raspberry sauce over his crepe. “I’m quite comfortable here. I’m with Mother – why in God’s name would I want to get some miserable three-room hovel when we’re situated in the centre of things right here? Ridiculous. Besides, I’ve never felt a particular need for a garçonnière. Can’t think why you do, sprat. You live like a monk.”
Jamie refrained from an inelegant snort. “Until Billy and I can find a proper office, I need a room where I can speak with the chaps we’re trying to help, and I doubt Mother and Dad would want crippled soldiers coming and going most of the day.”
Margaret frowned a little. “You make me sound heartless. I’m not. It just makes extra work for the servants, that’s all.”
“Bit off more than you can chew, sprat,” Philip observed triumphantly.
Jamie ignored this, and turned to his mother. “Precisely. I don’t wish to overburden them.”
“Well, I think it’s grand,” Charles said around a mouthful of food. “Where are you thinking of going, Jamie? Some nice flats in Belgravia, so I hear.”
“Actually, I was thinking of Hampstead.”
“Hampstead!” Philip said. “That’s hardly convenient for crippled soldiers. Why not here in the city?”
“There aren’t many crippled soldiers who can afford to live round here,” Jamie pointed out. “Besides, we’ll compensate them for the tram or the tube. And it’s only until we can get an office sorted out, as I said.”
“Hampstead can be quite nice,” Margaret said. “A bit Bohemian, so I understand. Artists and writers and what-not.”
“There’s a flat that’s become available next to Jim Nicholls’ place,” Jamie said. “It’s a quiet neighbourhood, very near the Heath. Might be nice for some of the soldiers to have a green place and ponds and so on. Good for the nerves.”
Charles beamed, polishing his plate with the last of his crepe. “Always knew you had a good deal of common sense, lad. I’m glad to see you put it to use. Told Philip he could do worse than go along with you.”
“No, thank you,” Philip sighed.
Charles appeared not to hear him. He took a sip of coffee, and tilted his head to one side. “In fact….”
“Yes, sir?” Jamie studied his father.
“I might just go along with you myself. It’s a worthwhile thing – a very worthwhile thing, Jamie. I could chivvy a few old pals at Whitehall for some names and support. Shame to waste all those fellows who could be helping to rebuild this country. No point in throwing them all on the salvage heap when they’re still able to work.”
“Work at what?” Philip said. “Some of those men are so badly crippled they’re better off dead. And most men aren’t going to want to live on charity – you’ll see.”
“It’s not charity we have in mind,” Jamie explained. “It’s labour rehabilitation.” He wasn’t about to dignify the comment regarding the men being better off dead with a reply.
“Dress it up in feathers and furbelows and call it what you will, it amounts to the same thing,” Philip pronounced with an air of finality. “It won’t work, and you’ll be a laughing-stock. I’d avoid the whole debacle, Father. You’ll be lending your name and reputation to flower and apple sellers.”
“Don’t throw cold water on the thing before it’s begun, Philip,” Charles said.
Jamie glared at Philip for a moment. “I don’t suppose you can think of someone besides yourself for just a moment? The state can’t or won’t do it all – private citizens need to step in and do their bit for the men who fought to preserve the nation’s safety.”
“You’re beginning to sound dangerously socialist, sprat. Rather like your pal J – ohh.” A knowing gleam settled in Philip’s eye. “That’s it, isn’t it? Jim Nicholls. No wonder you’re moving next door to him. Did he put you up to all this, Jim and his Catholic conscience? Christ.”
“Boys,” Margaret cautioned. “Really –“
“Socialist,” Jamie interrupted softly. “Listen to yourself. Good God – have you ever envisioned a life of immobility? A day without the use of your arms or your legs? Can you imagine a moment deprived of sight or hearing? Did none of that occur to you during the war? These men must live the rest of their days with those problems, and they need more than the uncertainty of day-to-day begging. Yes, Jim planted the seed of this idea, and I’m damned grateful to him for it.”
Philip got to his feet. “I’ll see what I can do about getting a crucifix and some rosary beads for you. And perhaps some dark glasses for myself so I’m not blinded by the halo round your head.” He tossed down his napkin and left the table.
Margaret stirred and sighed. “He’s tired.”
“If he’s tired, he ought to sleep,” Charles snapped. “He’s a grumpy little beggar, and I’m sick of it.” He exhaled heavily and turned to Jamie. “I meant what I said, lad. Perhaps tomorrow we can have a chat about your plans. I might be of some use to you.”
“I’d be very grateful, sir,” Jamie said. “Thank you.”
“If you really intend to take a flat, darling, there’s a great deal of furniture in the attics. Solid things, if not the most fashionable.” Margaret smiled at him.
“Thank you, Mother. I’ll have a look tomorrow. Please excuse me.” He rose to his feet and left the dining room, heading upstairs at once. He went down the corridor toward his rooms and saw Philip heading for the servants’ stairs. Philip saw him and stilled.
“St. James the Greater.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“I hear you’ve got Billy Thorpe caught up in your scheme as well. Poor bastard likely never knew what hit him – he never was very bright. Charlie’s worth ten of him.” Philip sauntered closer.
“Charlie’s decided to be a patroness,” Jamie informed him.
“Oh, well done you. Christ, you’re so fucking sanctimonious. And that Nicholls oik, cut from the same cloth. The pair of you, you’re –“ Philip broke off with a sharp inhalation. His handsome face split into a broad grin. “Oh, God.”
Jamie scowled, but a cold unease tightened in his belly. “What?”
“Can’t believe it took me so long to work it out.” Philip’s smile widened. “The pair of you. No wonder you’re moving to Hampstead. Dad’s offer must be putting a spanner in your works.” He laughed and patted Jamie’s cheek. “Christ almighty. That’s marvellous, sprat.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Jamie opened the door to his rooms.
“I was wrong about you being a monk. Who’s the catamite? You – or St. James the Lesser?”
Jamie rounded on Philip. “Watch what you’re saying, you bastard.”
Slowly, deliberately, Philip reached out and grasped the lapels of Jamie’s dinner jacket and moved close enough for Jamie to smell the gin on his breath. “You’re not denying it, are you? You can’t. Oh, God, it’s priceless. Honestly. I can’t conceive of anything more disgusting.”
“Let go.” Jamie shoved Philip backward, and Philip stumbled and fell, landing awkwardly on his backside. Jamie was upon him in a flash, and dragged him up, forcing him against the wall and holding him there, surprised at how easy it had been. He’d never once attempted to overpower his brother; he’d never had the advantage before. “I’m not some cowed child any longer, Philip. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I am.”
“Fucking sod,” Philip hissed, batting ineffectually at Jamie’s hands.
“Watch your tongue. I’m not the only one with secrets.” Satisfied with the sudden look of apprehension – not fear, Philip would die before he showed fear to Jamie – in his brother’s eyes, Jamie let Philip go and wiped his hands on his trousers. “You’re disgusting. Get out.” He opened the door to his rooms and banged it shut. He listened and waited, ready for Philip to barge in, but he heard nothing, and at length heard Philip making his way back toward the servants’ staircase.
Jamie sighed and rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that Philip wouldn’t make trouble, no matter how much Jamie threatened him. He had to leave, and quickly. Philip was too indolent to attack a distant target. He hoped.
Impulsively, he went to his wardrobe and opened a drawer that held his handkerchiefs and cufflink and stud box. He slipped a hand beneath the crisp white kerchiefs and withdrew a tiny photograph in a little gilt frame, a miniature of Jim he’d had made up just after the war had ended. He gazed at Jim’s face, then pressed the picture to his lips.
Soon.
*
“All work and no play make Jamie a very dull boy!” Billy shouted, handing Jamie a glass of champagne. “Bottoms up.”
“Much obliged.” Jamie accepted the glass and drank obediently, cocking a sceptical brow at Billy. “And it’s not all work. I turned up, didn’t I?”
“Grudgingly, old man, very grudgingly! Thank God you came, though – look what you’d have missed otherwise!” Billy flung out a hand, indicating the jazz band playing at raucous volume and the dancers who crowded the floor: men in formal evening dress and women like strange, glittering birds of paradise in short, colourful dresses ablaze with fringe and sequins and beads, and quantities of jewellery worn exotically – bracelets pushed up to clasp upper arms like the serpentine armbands of Egyptian queens, necklaces worn strapped across foreheads and fastened with diamond brooches. Even an occasional flash of fire showed in a jewel pinned daringly to a stocking-garter. And every man and woman danced with abandon, if not with much regard for metre or grace as they hurled themselves to and fro across the floor.
Jamie watched them, feeling a trifle elderly. “What do you call that dance?”
“Haven’t a deuced idea, but it looks rather easy, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose so.” Jamie drew on his cigarette and let his eyes roam. He saw Philip in a corner with two young women, his arms round their waists. He saw Charlotte and Pansy together on the dance floor, kicking their feet out in unison and giggling, surrounded by a number of handsome admirers. There was Edwin Hollis-Barton with Ronnie Colborne, who’d been released from a plush insane asylum a month before and who looked twenty years older than the rest of his friends. Nearby was Dickie Hedrick in earnest conversation with Alfred Sellers, a young veteran whose novel Jim was editing. It was all so familiar in an utterly changed world, and yet he felt strangely contented.
He’d moved into the flat beside Jim’s, and they’d exchanged keys to the back-garden door, so it was almost as if they were living together. His days were busier than he’d ever anticipated; the blossoming charity, which Jim had christened the Society of St. Sebastian after the warrior saint, had been besieged by hundreds of requests for assistance, requiring Jamie and Billy and Charles Stewart to court more donors, dun more manufactories and already harried Labour Exchange officials, and to hire more help. They’d started off with Ally Peniston and Pansy Nicholls and now had a staff of six, all crippled veterans except for Pansy, and an office in Westminster. Jamie came home exhausted every evening – raising money and chivvying the rich, he told Jim, was tiring work – and he and Jim would eat the dinner that Jim’s housekeeper had prepared, discuss their day, and then read or do some work before retiring to Jim’s bedroom to make love to each other and fall asleep. It was absurdly domestic, and Jamie had never been happier.
Now if only Jim would turn up. He’d gone to Kent for the Christmas holidays; Jamie had stayed at Stewart House for a few days as well. There was no avoiding family at Christmas. Jim had promised to persuade his father to take part in the charity’s training program and hire a few veterans for his bathtub factory. He’d said he would turn up for Charlotte’s New Year’s Eve party, though, and Pansy had said he’d planned to take the six o’clock train and take the tube to Soho once he’d dressed. It was half past ten now, though, and he still hadn’t arrived.
Jamie waded into the throng of dancers and caught Pansy by the arm. She squealed in delight and began pushing Jamie to and fro. “That’s it, Jamie. Nothing to it!”
“Where do you suppose Jim’s got to?” he shouted in her ear.
“Who knows? Maybe he missed the train! Maybe my parents wanted him to spend New Year’s with them and locked him in his room!” Pansy laughed. “Oh, don’t look so glum. He’ll be along! Come on, dance with me. It’s almost 1920! Brand new world, Jamie.” Pansy kissed his cheek.
Jamie grasped Pansy’s hand and waist and whirled her into a waltz, despite the much faster rhythm of the jazz ensemble. “I feel like waltzing!”
“You’re the silliest man!” Pansy lifted her hand from Jamie’s shoulder to pat his cheek. She still flirted with him despite his suspicion, if not complete certainty, that she no longer had a girlish crush on him. He liked her enormously; she was almost as sweet as Jim, and just as serious when it came to work. The veterans adored her cheeky grin and short skirts, and in the second-hand car Billy had donated to the cause, she trundled them back and forth to training, to job inquiries, to factories and printers, railways and shops. With the unflagging energy of the young, she worked for the suffragette cause as well, not content with the recent measure granting the vote to married women over thirty, and still had enough vim to dance madly until the small hours.
“A waltz?” Jamie turned to see Charlotte slipping her arm round Pansy’s waist and pulling her away. “Jamie, you’re mad. And you’ve stolen my dance partner, shame on you.” She grabbed Jamie’s hand and executed a flirtatious little step, then waved to someone at the far end of the room. “Look, it’s Jim! Go say hallo to him and for God’s sake wipe that dour look off your face.” Charlotte gave him a little push and wiggled her fingers in farewell.
Jamie moved quickly through the writhing crowd and hurried to Jim. “There you are at last! I was just asking Pansy where you’d got to. Did you miss the train?”
Jim shook his head. “No. Sorry, it took me longer than I thought to get ready.” He smiled wanly. “I hope there’s alcohol on the premises.”
“Naturally. When Charlotte creates a jazz palais, she doesn’t do it by halves. In the co –“ Jamie stopped. “Are you all right?” It was difficult to see Jim’s expression in the dimly lit room, but his face looked a bit odd, as if he were upset and trying not to show it.
“Of course.” Jim gave him another smile, wider this time.
“Something’s wrong.” Jamie peered at Jim closely.
Jim averted his face. “Not now, eh? Let’s talk about it later.”
“Did your father decide not to open a programme for our lads?”
Jim sighed, and his entire body seemed to sag. “That’s part of it, yes.”
Disappointed, Jamie shook his head. “I thought surely he would. Well, look here, perhaps I can persuade him myself, or have my father speak to him. Don’t let’s think about it now – it’s New Year’s Eve. Almost 1920, Jim. Can you imagine?”
“No.” Jim reached out and briefly squeezed Jamie’s hand. “I can’t. Not without you, at any rate.”
Jamie returned the surreptitious caress. “Champagne?”
“Why not? Let’s celebrate.” They went to the bar and got their drinks, greeting people here and there. Their worlds had begun to mesh; writers, poets, and artists were finding their way into society, sometimes adopted by patrons, sometimes clawing their way up by sheer dint of work, determination, and audacity. Or perhaps it was a true blending of class, propelled along by the war. Whatever the case, it made for a fascinating mixture, and Jim introduced Jamie to a few Bohemian types he’d likely never have spoken to before the war. They were a bit daring in the matter of dress and mannerism, flamboyant and somewhat demonstrative for Jamie’s tastes, but he supposed he’d become used to it in time.
Despite the social press, or perhaps because of it, Jamie was feeling possessive. He manoeuvred Jim into a dim corner and held up the shallow glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” They touched glasses and drank. Jim looked out at the dancers and frowned. “Is that your brother with my sister?”
Jamie turned and heaved a sigh. Philip was indeed dancing with Pansy, holding her closer than propriety allowed even in the decadent milieu of Charlotte’s party. Pansy looked uncomfortable. As they watched, Philip’s hand drifted from Pansy’s shoulder to caress her breast. “Oh, God. I’ll have a word.”
“No, I will.” Jim set his glass down on the floor and strode toward the dancing couples.
“Jim –“ Jamie shook his head and stared after Jim’s retreating figure, but his dismay turned to alarm when he saw the speed at which Jim was moving – as if he intended to give Philip a pounding. “Oh, God.” He set his own glass down and rushed toward the dance floor, shouldering his way through laughing couples. “Jim!”
Jim had reached Philip and Pansy and was tugging Pansy by the arm. She looked embarrassed, and Jim was saying something inaudible to Philip, and his face was contorted with anger, quite evident even under the dim lighting. Several nearby couples had stopped to watch with interest.
“ – no harm done,” Philip said as Jamie reached them. “And you ought to mind your own business, old boy.”
“My sister is my business…old boy.” Jim’s voice trembled a bit, and his hands curled into fists, but he kept them at his sides. Despite his control, though, his entire body seemed to thrum with tension and rage, as if he were about to spring on Philip.
Jamie drew Pansy away and leant to speak into her ear. “Go get Jim a drink, darling.” He gave her a gentle push and put a placating hand onto Jim’s arm. “Jim –“ He saw Philip smirk and wheeled on him, grasping the lapel of his tailcoat, suddenly furious. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Apologise at once!”
“Piss off, Jamie. This isn’t your affair,” Philip snarled, pushing Jamie’s hand away.
“It’s all right, Jamie,” Jim replied. “I think an apology is in order, though.”
Philip laughed. “You can whistle for it, Nicholls.”
“Not to me. To Pansy.”
“Apologise? Christ, I was doing her a favour.” More couples had stopped dancing and gathered round to watch, though the jazz band tootled and thumped on, utterly oblivious to the quarrel on the floor.
“Philip!” Jamie roared. “God damn it –“
“I told you to piss off. Your sweetheart can defend himself.”
The words fell into a sudden pocket of silence as the song ended, and there was a gasping, rustling murmur in response. Jamie stood frozen in mute horror as Philip snickered, flicked idly at an imaginary wrinkle in his coat where Jamie had grabbed at it, and turned nonchalantly on his heel. There was a brief silence, then a rush of air as Jim tore past him, wrenched Philip around with one hand, and grasped his lapels, shaking him back and forth. “Apologise, you ruddy bastard.”
Philip looked comically stunned, then recovered himself, reared back, and plowed a fist into Jim’s midsection. Jim staggered, then aimed and punched Philip in the face. The crack of knuckles driving into the delicate cartilage of Philip’s nose and the resulting gush of blood, bright against Philip’s shirt even in the darkness, was startling enough to cause the crowd to groan and wince in response.
Oh, Christ. Jamie tried to insinuate himself between the two men mercilessly pummeling each other, but they tumbled to the floor, out of his reach. Philip had managed to straddle Jim’s thighs and had gained a momentary advantage, slamming his fists into Jim’s ribs, but Jamie caught one of his upraised hands by the wrist and yanked him backward hard enough to drag him off Jim’s supine form.
“Bloody hell!” Billy Thorpe appeared at Jamie’s elbow and reached down to haul Philip up, wrapping an arm round his neck and pressing him close to his body so that Philip’s wild blows had little effect. “Christ almighty, Phil! Get hold of yourself!” He turned to someone in the crowd. “Rupert, for God’s sake, help me.”
A burly young man that Jamie vaguely recognised pinned Philip’s arm and helped Billy drag his shouting, flailing brother away from the dance floor. The crowd parted to let them pass; most of them had watched in utter fascination, as if the fight had been nothing more than another one of the evening’s brash entertainments.
Jamie hastened to Jim’s side and knelt beside him. “Are you all right?”
Jim sat up gingerly, accepting Jamie’s hand, and nodded. He felt his jaw and winced. “I’m fine. Help me up, will you?” He groaned as Jamie hoisted him to his feet and steadied himself with a bit of effort. He looked down at his shirt, spattered with blood from Philip’s nose, and let out a rueful chuckle. “I suppose I’ve nobody but myself to blame for that.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Jamie muttered. He put an arm round Jim’s waist to steady him, conscious of the stares and excited murmurings surrounding them. The worst had been said; nothing for it now but to face it. He helped Jim off the floor, holding him tightly.
Billy loomed in front of them. “I’m putting him in his motor, Jamie. Think he’s had quite enough for one night.” He shook his head and patted Jim’s arm. “You all right, old chap?”
“Just a few bruises,” Jim said. “I think I’ve had enough for one night too, though. Jamie, do you mind if we leave?”
“Of course not.”
Jim nodded. “Billy, will you look after Pansy? I’m afraid she’ll be dreadfully upset by all this.”
“’Course I will, Jim. Not to worry.” He gave Jamie an apologetic glance. “Sorry about all this.”
“Wasn’t your fault, Billy,” Jamie sighed. “Look here, you haven’t got a motorcar I could borrow, have you? I was going to get a lift with Philip, but under the circumstances –“
“Say no more. It’s the white Sunbeam. Cahill should be snoozing behind the wheel – he’ll drive you home. Just tell him it’s perfectly fine with me.”
“Thanks. Ring me up on Sunday.” Jamie helped Jim to the cloakroom and fetched their things, then made his way outside, Jim in tow. Jamie craned his neck, searching through the sleek automobiles for the Thorpes’ Sunbeam. He passed his parents’ Rolls-Royce, glancing at Murchison settling Philip into the back seat.
Philip saw them and made an obscene gesture with his hand.
Jim reversed direction and moved toward the Rolls-Royce.
“Jim,” Jamie said, catching his arm. “Please don’t.”
“I’m not going to touch him. I want to speak with him.”
“Oh, God.” Feeling very confused and as if the situation was once more sliding out of his grasp, Jamie followed Jim to the motorcar, ready to pull him away if another fight broke out. He gave Murchison a warning glance, which the driver seemed to comprehend.
Jim nodded at Murchison and addressed Philip. “If you ever so much as touch my sister again, I’ll ruin you.”
“Ruin me?” Philip barked a disdainful laugh. “What could you possibly do to me, you dirty little sod?”
“I could tell people the truth about you.”
“Jim –“ Jamie began, praying that he wouldn’t mention the tenant girl and the hanging. It was ridiculous, on the face of it – Jamie knew where his loyalty lay – but it would dredge up far too much unpleasantness. Philip was vengeful by nature. “Jim, please –“
Philip sat up. The leather of the seat creaked. “The truth. Oh, pray do tell.”
“It was you I saw in Piccadilly that day, wasn’t it?” Jim asked softly. “You were meant to be back in France, but instead you were in London.”
“What the hell are you –“ Philip froze.
“So I got interested. And I did a bit of digging, and managed to turn up the most fascinating tidbit of information.” Jim turned to Jamie. “Philip wasn’t in France for the remainder of the war, because he was in London. Where, I can’t imagine, but it certainly wasn’t at your parents’ house, was it? They’d be heartbroken if they knew the truth.”
Philip stared. His face turned red.
“The truth?” Jamie scowled, then turned to Philip. “My God. Did you desert?”
“No,” Jim said. “He was dishonourably discharged. For drunkenness. And rape.”
Jamie pressed his hands together, unable to speak. Shock coursed through his body, tempered with a measure of cynicism. I should have known. Jamie had discharged two men in his own battalion for rape; neither of them were like Philip, in truth, but both, he’d learned from other men in the company, had committed the act more than once before being caught. Men like that, like Philip, never changed. He watched Philip’s face blanch and his mouth open and close like a beached fish, and held his brother’s gaze for a moment. “How dare you,” he said softly. “How dare you insult him when you’re such a low excuse for a man.”
Philip struggled for composure. “You won’t tell,” he said. “You haven’t got the stomach for it.”
“If you threaten him again,” Jamie said, “or Pansy, rest assured I won’t hesitate to do so. You’d be a pariah, Philip. No decent family would ever receive you again. Your friends who fought honourably in the war would cut you dead in the street. Women would go out of their way to avoid you. You would be utterly persona non grata, and believe me, nothing would give me more pleasure. Nothing.”
“You’d kill Mother and Dad if you did.”
“I wonder if they would be surprised. It would be difficult for them, but you’ve already managed to make quite a reputation for yourself, and so – fortunately for you – it wouldn’t be a long slide to the bottom. Do they know about the girl? Maisie, wasn’t that her name?”
Philip looked away. “Murchison, home. Now.”
Jamie stepped away from the motor. “I’m sorry you had to hear all that, Murchison.”
Murchison shook his head. “I’d better get him home, sir. Shall I come back for you and Mr. Nicholls?”
“Not necessary, but thank you.” Jamie turned to Jim, who looked utterly miserable, and pressed his hand in reassurance, not caring now who saw him.
“Very well. Good night, sir. Mr. Nicholls.”
“Good night,” Jim echoed quietly, and turned away.
Jamie watched Murchison drive down the street. Philip was slumped in the back seat. He wondered if his threat would be enough to hold Philip at bay. Possibly – for a while, at least. He guessed he couldn’t hold his malice off forever.
He turned and looped his arm through Jim’s. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
*
Jamie touched the wet flannel to Jim’s swollen mouth. “I’ve never seen you so angry.”
Jim sighed. “I’ve never been so angry,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by the cloth. He moved it away and stared earnestly at Jamie. “Pansy’s silly, but there’s no way for a girl to escape that sort of situation without raising a fuss, and all I saw – besides a cloud of red – was Philip manoeuvring her off the dance floor and into the cloakroom or some secluded corner. I couldn’t stand the thought of it.” He sighed. “I’m sorry if I caused you embarrassment, Jamie. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to get so furious.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“About Philip?” Jim sighed again and took Jamie’s hand. “You’d told me about that girl in Scotland and I suppose I…I don’t really know. I didn’t want to add to your burden, but I thought perhaps if he were properly ignored, he’d go away. Stupid of me. And worse still to keep the information from you.” Jim sat up and twisted the cloth in his hands. “And I suppose it was dreadfully dishonest of me to go looking for the records when I became suspicious. I’m so sorry.”
“I suppose it’s better knowing,” Jamie said, faltering. “I don’t blame you for it. I reckon under the same circumstances I’d have gone digging as well.” He plucked the cloth from Jim’s hand and laid it against his cheek. “That bruised quite quickly, didn’t it?”
Jim let out a cynical little laugh. “That wasn’t Philip.”
Jamie frowned. “What do you mean? You –“
“It was…it happened this afternoon, at home.” Jim stared up at the ceiling. “I told my parents, Jamie. They were nagging at me and nagging at me, and they’d invited a young lady for tea, the daughter of a friend, and when I didn’t fall to my knees and propose, they pushed until I –“ He laughed again, a short, sharp, bitter chuckle. “I told them I hadn’t any interest in girls.”
“Good God.”
“We had a terrible row. Terrible. My first of the day.” Jim smiled, but tears sprang to his eyes. He blinked fiercely. “My mother cried – I’ve never seen her so heartbroken. And my father…well, you see.” Jim indicated his bruised cheek.
Jamie’s heart ached for Jim. “Did you tell them about us?”
Jim nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, perhaps I could visit them…speak to them.”
“Oh, God, no. They’d cut you, Jamie. I couldn’t bear that.” Jim swallowed. “Father ordered me out of the house. Mother tried to reason with him and eventually she grew angry – God bless her, it was like watching a kitten spit at a mastiff – but he wouldn’t hear of it, and he threw me out, bag and baggage. I’m not to return unless I decide to come to my senses.”
Helplessly, Jamie caught Jim’s hand in his. “Oh, Jim, I’m sorry. Small wonder you were so angry tonight.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Jim closed his eyes for a moment. “And I suppose everyone at the party heard Philip’s taunt, too.”
“Maybe it’s better that people know.” It was an audacious thought; Jamie had never considered it, let alone voiced it. “Perhaps it’s preferable to hiding and skulking.”
“Ask Oscar Wilde. He mightn’t agree.” Jim reached out and caressed Jamie’s arm. As he did, the mantel clock in the parlour struck twelve. “Oh, good heavens. It’s 1920. What a way to begin the New Year.” He offered Jamie a ragged smile. “Happy New Year, Jamie.”
Jamie gazed at him for a moment, and listened to the faint chiming of the clock. Outside came a distant racket of shouts and the clatter of spoons on pots and pans. “Happy New Year, Jim.” He smiled, then chuckled. Jim let out a snort. Their gazes slid away from each other, met again, and they collapsed in ridiculous laughter, clinging desperately to one another, shaking with near-hysterical mirth. “Oh, for the love of God.”
“Why are we laughing?”
“I don’t know, it’s not remotely funny,” Jamie said, and the laughter bubbled up inside him again. Jim howled, clutching his bruised ribs. His sides aching, tears pouring from his eyes, Jamie dropped to the mattress beside Jim and curled close, his laughter finally tapering off to hitching chuckles and sniffs.
“My word.” Jim wiped his streaming eyes. “What a pair of nincompoops we are.”
“Who else would have us?” Jamie moved closer to Jim and draped an arm over his belly.
“I don’t know. I suppose we’re lucky at that.”
“I know I am, at any rate.” Jamie kissed Jim’s ear. “Listen here, Jim. We might be social outcasts tomorrow – but I’m not so certain. There are chaps like us in my circle, as I told you, and surely some of those writers and artists you favour –“
“Yes, but they’re writers and artists. They’re meant to be outrageous.”
“Still. Perhaps times are changing a bit.” He stroked Jim’s curls. “What with votes for women and short skirts and jazz and this bold new era, perhaps people won’t bother so much about us. In any event, it doesn’t matter. If –“ He paused, aware that Jim was watching him intently. Heat began to creep up his neck. “If I’ve got you, then I can withstand any cruelty.”
Jim said nothing for a moment, but he smiled, his eyes crinkling pleasantly. “What a glorious thing to say,” he murmured at last.
“I mean every word.”
“I know you do. Kiss me.”
Jamie bent down and touched his lips to Jim’s.
It was a happy new year after all.
*
Epilogue
1967
The day was brilliantly sunny, warm and almost syrupy. Bees hummed drowsily round the phlox and Queen Anne’s Lace that grew wild at the edge of the churchyard, and the stone bench upon which Jamie sat radiated a lovely heat into his body. It seemed he was always cold lately – the past few days even more so – but today he felt warm and almost replete. He curled his hand round his walking stick and turned his face up to the sun, letting the warm breeze carry the lush, rippling scents of newly mown grass and newly turned earth to his nose.
Mostly everyone had gone, leaving him for a few moments of contemplation: Pansy, her children Jilly and Freddie and Nicholas, their spouses, and Pansy’s eight grandchildren; Charlie and her family; the entire staff, it seemed, of Herald Press; Ally and the few remaining men from the 17th; some of the men from St. Sebastian’s. He hadn’t seen so much khaki in an age. He wasn’t sorry for this solitude, although everything he’d wanted to say had been said, and long ago at that. If one couldn’t say what was in one’s heart after fifty years, things had come to a very sad pass indeed.
He brushed his hand over the folded flag on his lap, and raised his eyes to the flowers surrounding the grave. Simple, Jim had said. Nothing fussy or ostentatious. But people had sent masses of flowers just the same. Nothing for it, in the end. Jamie pictured Jim’s resigned grace, a shrug, a sweet smile – always sweet, that smile.
Jamie’s vision blurred.
“Uncle Jamie?”
It was Nicholas. Tall and blond like Pansy, like Jim. The same blue eyes.
“Are you ready? The others are at the hall, but you needn’t rush if you want to stay a bit. I can come back for you.”
“No, no.” Jamie planted a frail hand on his stick and heaved himself up, nodding as Nicholas supported his other arm. “Take that flag, Nicholas. Don’t let it drop.”
“No, sir. I’ll take it to the car and bring it round for you. Will you be all right?”
The path to the gate was daunting, but Jamie bristled nonetheless. “Of course I’ll be all right. Off you go.”
Nicholas nodded and turned to look at the grave. “He’d have been glad to see so many people here, I think.”
“He always was social,” Jamie said.
“I’ll miss him.”
Jamie nodded. The walls of his heart were paper-thin after so many years, and the blood flowed sluggishly through his veins, but it wasn’t his faltering arterial system that produced the ache in his chest. Such an ache, even after more than fifty years. Had they said all there was to say? Suddenly, he thought not. He wanted to tell Jim about the people who’d come, the droning voice of the priest, the silly extravagance of the flowers. He wanted to tell him that he’d fussed over choosing a shirt and tie, that Jilly had had to help him with his elderly cufflinks now that Jim couldn’t. He wanted to show him the phlox, the blue sky that shone as brightly as the day they’d charged the German encampment, the day they’d thought they would be riding to glory. And they had, the two of them, even if the path had been roundabout.
At the end, there had been no words, only Jim’s blue eyes and sweet smile. And now, only a profound ache, a hole in his ancient and fragile heart.
Nicholas squeezed his arm gently. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Jamie turned back to the grave. Carefully, he put his hand in his pocket and withdrew a brittle, folded sheet of paper, yellowed, its old-fashioned copperplate penmanship faded with age. With the greatest caution, he unfolded it and read the words on the page, though he knew them by heart. As he read, the ache began to diminish, and he heard a familiar, beloved voice and felt a warmth surrounding him.
My dearest Jamie….
End.
Top image by me; beautiful lower image [with lyrics by Mumford & Sons] by the incomparable
sithdragn
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2012-08-22 09:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-22 03:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-22 01:51 pm (UTC)This whole story has just been perfection from start to finish. Nobody does period as well as you, and I'm including published authors in that.
Bravo!
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Date: 2012-08-22 03:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-22 02:44 pm (UTC)“If I’ve got you, then I can withstand any cruelty.” Sweet dreams are made out of this..
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Date: 2012-08-22 03:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-22 05:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-23 03:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-23 01:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-23 03:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-23 11:10 am (UTC)Thank-you!
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Date: 2012-08-23 03:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-23 02:22 pm (UTC)*sniffle* I'm so glad they had a good long life together. *bawls*
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Date: 2012-08-23 03:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-23 05:39 pm (UTC)And I'm SO GLAD that I did. I gulped the whole twelve chapters down in one night, and I know I'll go back and reread it at some point.
The love between Jim and Jamie felt very real to me. The awkwardness at the beginning, their longing while apart, the way they talk to each other, it all feels not only realistic but so, so sweet and honest. Their characters are very well-done, too--I can't help but want to meet them, if that makes sense.
The way you wrote about the war was also very real. Thank you for not glossing over any of that stuff, or how it can affect people to go through something like that.
Augh, I wish I had more to say about this story other than "OMG that was awesome"! I'm trying to get better at leaving detailed comments, haha.
I must say, though, that I noticed when I went to your LJ page that you also wrote Staircase Wit! I've had that open in a tab for a while because I've been meaning to write up a rec on my tumblr. (I have a terrible habit of keeping tabs open for weeks and weeks!) I did reblog emma's rec for this on tumblr and add some (borderline incoherent) comments here: http://april-likes-things.tumblr.com/post/30027029618/rec-roses-of-picardy-by-splix
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Date: 2012-08-24 03:57 am (UTC)Thank you so much for reading and commenting, and for the rec on your tumblr! I'm still trying to find my way around tumblr and am a hopeless noob, god. Oh, and I'm glad you liked Staircase Wit too! I'm going to take a break for a bit and start a new Sherlock fic. No rest for the wicked. :) Thanks again!
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Date: 2012-08-23 07:31 pm (UTC)As soon as the fight between Jim and Phillip started, I completely forgot that something had been troubling Jim. Poor guy :(
I had been hoping for an epilogue, but ouch, my feels!
It's been a fun run. Thank you! I look forward to whatever else you're up to!
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Date: 2012-08-24 04:01 am (UTC)Thank you again! I'm going to take a short break and then start another Sherlock fic, I think. :D
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Date: 2012-08-25 01:48 pm (UTC)I read this earlier, but couldn't comment then, as I was too tearful. This was an absolutely beautiful story and I found the ending so moving. It was a happy ending really, as they had spent a long and productive life together, but so poignant and the letter...!
I loved the way that they found a way to help their wounded comrades and also how Jim dealt with Philip, although his fate was not as nasty as he deserved.
Thank you for another wonderful read. *Hugs*
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Date: 2012-08-26 05:15 am (UTC)Thank you so very much. *hug*
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Date: 2012-08-31 03:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-31 03:53 am (UTC)