Chapter Text
If the shame of their last meeting hadn’t managed to kill James, and he almost wished it had, this, for certain would. A knock, and a familiar voice asking if he was home. James tried ignoring it, but the knocking came again.
“Go away!” James said. “I’m not home!”
A pause, and then that voice again, the one that had haunted his waking days, came muted through the door.
“Sir. Please.”
“No.”
“James. Open the door. It’s the least you could do.”
Blast him. James could just walk away, remain silent until Havers left. His traitorous hands had other ideas, finding the deadbolt, then the doorknob, his fingers resting on the cool metal for a moment before turning it open, the hinges squeaking with disuse.
Standing on his step was Anthony Havers. No longer Lieutenant. Captain? Major? Did it matter now that the war was over? No uniform, but rather a faded blue button up shirt with a loose camp collar, slimmer cut trousers, a holdover from fabric rationing, and dark leather shoes, a little careworn. He’d never seen Havers in anything other than a uniform or cricket kit.
James knew he looked awful, but he hadn’t expected to see it register in Havers’ face, the way surprise had subtly shifted to shock and pity. He nearly slammed the door shut in response.
“Yes?” he managed.
“Oh. Right. Well, I wanted to see how you were doing after-”
After I passed out from the sheer embarrassment of having to sneak into Button House and pretend to be someone else, someone more impressive than myself just to see you again?
“I’m fine,” James said, his voice rough from disuse. His eyes focused on one of Havers’ shirt buttons, a safe enough landing spot.
“You had a coronary.”
“That I survived.”
Something hard crossed over Havers. “You did seem to indicate you’d wanted to see the officers. Me, in particular. Maybe it was a mistake to come here. Were you always so grouchy?”
“I am not grouchy!”
Havers smiled the tiniest bit. “Of course not.”
God, what he wouldn’t do to be in the warmth of that man’s smile. He had to be very careful. They were on dangerous terrain. His neighbors might overhear.
“I do. Or, I did. Want to see the old place. And perhaps some of those I had come to know, who might be there.” He looked down, rubbing his knuckles. “Whatever there was, or wasn’t, it’s best to leave it in the past. I’ve endured more than enough humiliating flights of fancy for a lifetime. I’m sure you understand.” Every word was bitter in his mouth, the corrosive taste of propriety.
“Yes, I think I do.” Havers nodded sadly as he reached into his pocket. “I was going to drop this off if you weren’t home. I’ve got a little place on the coast. My door’s always open. To you.” He held out a small envelope, his hand shaking slightly.
James took it, careful of their fingers touching. He nearly died the last time that happened. He brought the envelope up, touching it briefly to his forehead before closing the door. A drawn-out farewell was unwise. He heard a small sound of surprise and a quiet, “Well. Goodbye then.” Would that the door wasn’t between them, or anything it had come to represent. James slumped against it, resting his forehead on the wood. In here, he was safe. Shame and guilt and jealously all lived here too, comfortable in any size space, no matter how small. Here, they kept him company.
James’ free hand traced the door, nearly down to the doorknob, drawing away as though it was poisonous. He retreated to the careworn couch, sinking into it, turning the envelope over in his hands. He wanted to tear it up. Or burn it. Or toss it out the window. Instead, he set it facedown on the table.
He had work to do. Another manuscript to edit. Fortune has granted him a small reprieve to his misery. A friend from school had come to see him in his convalescence, mentioning that he’d had his last copyeditor leave, and maybe James would like to help with the work. It didn’t pay much, but he could work from his apartment, and he could work as much or as little as he wanted, assuming he was any good at it. James had bristled a bit. He had done very well in school, thank you very much, and had made a small amount of pocket change copyediting other students’ work at university. He’d originally only taken one project, which let him rest as much as his doctors had ordered, but it was dull and lonely recuperating alone, the hours stretching out into days and weeks and months.
In editing, James could get lost, depart from his dreary existence. Even the driest of text transported him to a world of anatomy of small mammals, or the history of a tiny, forgotten castle in the French Alps, or the countless, endless war stories. He’d gotten a letter yesterday. Three new manuscripts ready to get picked up.
James waited two hours to leave. The letter went pointedly ignored. He knew better than to indulge in the promise of an unopened letter, even from Havers.
- - - - -
Anthony slumped against the door. This was an old building, so no peephole. If James opened the door, he’d fall right over the threshold. He’d risk it. Maybe the Captain, er, James would see reason, maybe he’d catch Anthony in his arms. See him, truly see him, not just the uniform and the medals and the battle scars.
He briefly considered simply pounding on the door until James let him in, or the door broke, but there were five other units on this floor alone. If only this was Button House, with its many spare rooms and offices, several locations for assignations or just a quiet word with someone, away from nosy ears. Hell, there’d been more privacy on the front than this slummy little place.
Anthony had walked out of Button House that day in June 1940, knowing he’d never see the Captain again. The surety comforted him. If he died, they would have had their goodbyes. The idea of seeing him again was a safe delusion. If he did get home, James would likely have been promoted or transferred.
Many nights, Anthony drifted off to delightful imaginings. A hug. A slow dance. An afternoon in the summer on a picnic blanket at the beach. A kiss. Two kisses. Something more. It took him away from the noise, the heat, god, the interminable heat, the bone-numbing cold at night, and the fear. Nobody talked about it, it was cowardice to admit, but he couldn’t be the only one. Would it hurt when he died? Would his life flash before his eyes, and would he be confronted with the banality of his half-lived life right before he expired? What a waste to have it laid bare right before expiring, when nothing about it could be done.
Then there’d been the explosion. Grenade, he learned later, after the medic had sewn his face closed. The taste of blood and flesh and a shattered tooth. He’d never forget that taste, and the smell, like pennies and charcoal and burnt leather.
They’d had a war to win, and he had a home, people, family that he needed to get back to.
Anthony settled into his seat on the train taking him back to Brighton. The comfort of his own bed called to him after this rejection, which hurt, acutely, somewhere below his breastbone. Rest did not come easily, and he needed to consider whether it was worth trying to see James again. His pride was worth something, after all.
He also had a book to finish.
The end of the war and his return to England opened a chasm of possibilities. What was Anthony, if not a dutiful soldier? The freedom felt like a threat. While in Africa, his free time was curtailed severely, Anthony guarding and treasuring any leisure time as a sacred gift. He’d started writing a bit as a distraction. Letters home, some that went unsent, destroyed instead. Short stories and drawings, doodles mostly. A commanding officer became an Alsatian. Another soldier transformed into a large orange cat.
“These are lovely!” His sister’s face lit up as she looked at the drawings. Before moving to Brighton, Anthony stayed with her at her home in London, sharing, haltingly, more of the details of service that hadn’t made it into any letters to her. She’d been even more enchanted by his short stories. “I’ve got an editor friend who was just complaining to me about writers not having any new ideas. I’m going to pass these along.” She’d taken it out of his hands with a smile. Anyone other than Sarah and he’d have tried to recover it, but she was the only family he had left. Besides, he could use a hobby.
“Delightful! Do you have more?” The editor, now his editor, wanted everything he had. “Short stories aren’t usually much of a moneymaker, but everyone wants something…simpler these days.” He sat back, chewing on his cigar. “And any war stories, too.”
Anthony blanched.
“Sorry lad. Didn’t mean anything by it. I’m assuming that’s from the front,” he said, gesturing at Anthony’s face. He banged one of his legs on the floor with a dull, hollow sound. “Lost it in Belgium, nearly 30 years ago. I found that writing it down helped some with the nightmares. Made for a cracking good read, too. Consider it, even if you don’t want to publish. In the meantime, I’ll take as many of these as you can give me!” He patted the stack of drawings and scribbled out stories.
Maybe his editor was right.
Brighton was good for him. The beach helped, the bracing cold keeping Anthony sharp on his constitutionals. But every once in a while, the scream of a child, or a sudden gust of sand to the face brought him back to the front in Africa. He couldn’t wade deeper than about his ankles, lest he be back in Sicily, storming up the beach.
One morning, after a particularly rough night, plagued by dreams full of noise and confusion and terror, he sat down at his little writing desk with the window looking out on the garden. Tears pricked his eyes, the scars on his face feeling tight and hot. He’d lost so many friends, some good men, some not as good but not bad enough to deserve their fate. The one he missed most hadn’t even died, though the absence of James hurt near as much as a death. Anthony suspected that if showed up again, James wouldn’t even answer the door. He’d have to climb up the gutter.
Brushing back the one tear that escaped, Anthony began to write.
- - - - -
The textbooks took ages to edit. Not only were they exceptionally technical, the authors seemed to have a tenuous grasp on the basic rules of grammar.
“Was this written by children?” James groused as he dropped them off, his editor eyeing the numerous red marks splashed across the pages.
“No. But I do have some short stories-”
“No. No fiction.”
“We’ll pay you half again your fee. And we may have another memoir soon.”
James pursed his lips. Rent was overdue and he’d been eating a lot of stale bread and wilted vegetables. Beggars, choosers, etcetera, etcetera.
“Fine.”
Home again after the long walk back, the manuscript was spread across his desk, the small stack of money at the corner. James took a moment to look around at what his rent afforded him. A large room. Two closets. His own WC, though the hot water ran out fast. One window looking out onto the alley, another onto the street. A shabby kitchen, half the appliances broken. Laundry machine in the basement and a small drying rack he’d set up in the corner for his wet clothes.
Most of his belongings could fit into a suitcase. Clothes, bordering on being out of fashion, repaired and repaired and repaired. A few odds and ends from his time at Button House, clothes, knickknacks from childhood and school. The swagger stick. A handful of books, including a well-thumbed volume of poetry. James didn’t much care for poetry, but this poet was different. Wilfred Owen. James had found it secondhand. He couldn’t say he particularly liked it but it seemed to resonate with him.
He wasn’t fully alone. A stray cat had adopted him, a little grey thing with large yellow eyes who tended to roam free and come back when he was bored or hungry. James had bathed him and picked off the fleas. The cat had tolerated it, somewhat, only scratching him once. The cat had gotten one more bath since then, submitting to weekly de-fleaings with a comb. James had gone through a variety of proposed names, finally settling on Wully, short for Sir William Robertson. A masterful name for a masterful cat. Or he would be, if Wully put a bit more meat on his bones.
James had found that some days, since moving to his little hovel, he could not bring himself to rise from bed. He woke up at 5am nearly every day, even without an alarm. Habit had worn a deep groove. Rise, bathe, back to bed until the early afternoon. Edit until late in the evening, when the ache of inactivity led him back to bed. Lie away for at least another hour, then get up and do it again the next day. He’d lost most of his appetite. If he ate anything, it was the small meal of a condemned man. His body didn’t agree. He felt weak, his clothes starting to hang off him as his hips and cheekbones became more pronounced.
Wully, a pitiless animal, would have none of this. He preferred his meals on a regular basis, and would sit on James’ chest and yell. If that didn’t work, he walked up and down the length of James’ prone body and as a final resort, meow directly into James’ ear.
“What an amoral creature you are,” he said as Wully jumped up onto his desk. Wully kept him entertained, and a purring cat on his lap helped James focus on his editing.
The short stories were unexpected. He was sure they were going to be pointlessly self-indulgent and overly moralistic, but they were charming. Recollections of a childhood in the country. A series of ghost stories, only they weren’t particularly frightening. Sad, mostly. Thoughtful. Almost as an afterthought, there had been a handful of delightful little pen and ink drawings tucked in with the manuscript. James found himself ignoring other editing tasks just to work on the collection.
“Any more of these?” he asked, trying not to sound too excited at his next visit to the office.
His editor eyed him warily.
“Yes. But not until I get back that technical draft I gave you a month ago.”
“It’s nearly done. It’s just so dull, and-”
“No buts. I need those edits yesterday.”
James slunk back two days later, edits in hand.
“See, that wasn’t so difficult. Oh, and I’ve got another manuscript. Same author. War memoirs. I’ve gotten so many. You’d think that every man younger than forty was at Normandy.” He stuffed the typed pages into a large manila envelope. “You served, didn’t you? See action?”
He shook his head. “Serving on the home front, I’m afraid. Would really rather not…if there’s anything else to edit.”
“This is it. A deeply inconsistent work pattern, I know. I can give it to someone else if you-”
Rent was coming due again, the constant wolf at the door.
“I’ll take it.”