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In a call box outside Nottingham Station, Arthur rang his mother, Matilda. As usual, she was ecstatic to hear from him, and rambled on for some minutes about his father’s new plastic surgeon, and the artist who had helped create a partial facial prosthetic that looked so much like him before the war that in dim light you could hardly tell the difference. “I know you hated selling that suit of armor,” she said after she’d paused to breathe. “But at least you were able to keep the sword. And you must know how much it meant to your father and me.”
“‘S all right, Mum.” Arthur kept his voice low to prevent her hearing the nearly unconcealable disappointment threaded through it. “Didn’t fit me anymore anyway. Medieval blokes were shrimps.”
She laughed gaily. There was a pause, and a crumpling sound as she put the receiver against her ample bosom a moment. “George?” she called. There was no response. She put the phone back up to her ear. “How’s our James?”
Arthur’s mother knew. She knew everything about him, and he never had to open his mouth and say a single word. He supposed it came from all those years of stuttering — he’d rarely even tried to talk. She was a good mother, and she adapted, learning to read all of his nonverbal signals, sense his moods and needs with almost telepathic certainty. The first time she’d seen him with James, when they’d returned to London, she knew they were more than best friends.
But they’d never told his father. It was never a “good time” to tell his father. Implying that his father had suffered enough. Mum always said that Arthur’s father, once they’d told him, would learn to accept it, but that his “heart was weak” or “he’s in so much pain.” Arthur had come to believe that his father would die not knowing who he really was.
“James is...” He gave an impatient sigh, and tried to find the right words. “We’re traveling. I can’t say more. But is there any money from the armor left?”
She exhaled in shock. “Well, yes. A little. Why?”
“I need you to wire it to Lloyd’s Bank in Lincoln. Trip’s lasting longer than we thought.”
“Arthur.” She said his name with suspicious slowness. “You aren’t in any trouble, are you?”
“No, no.” He knew what she was thinking. Because his identity, who he was, who he loved, it was all illegal, wasn’t it? “Trying to get something done for a friend. It’s important.”
“All right. There should be a little over forty quid waiting for you, if you think it’ll be enough.”
“More than enough.”
“When will you be home?” Matilda asked, no doubt threading the phone cord through her fingers as she always did, ever since he was a child. She was a knitter; her hands hated idleness.
“Dunno.”
“Oh, Arthur.”
He sighed and tried again. “Sorry, but I really don’t know.” What would James say? “The situation is... delicate. ‘N a long story.”
“Swear to me on Excalibur that you aren’t in trouble.”
“I swear.”
“Please ring me as soon as you get back.”
Arthur rang off and exhaled to make his chest as small as possible. This was necessary to fit out the door of the call box. He pushed to exit and looked up at the plump clock tower that adorned the red brick station. He'd meant to check the time, but found himself musing at the tower’s charmingly pudgy shape. If James had been there at that moment, his first instinct would have been to laugh and share his observation. But James was in the station waiting with Lance and Mrs. Wylit. One of the most important things in his life, Arthur thought, as he shoved his meaty fists into his pockets and hung his head, was that he had someone that he not only loved, but could share everything with, every thought and whim, without fear of judgment or reprisal. He only hoped that James felt the same, that there would never be any secrets between them. But ever since they'd begun this journey, James seemed somehow remote, far away. Arthur longed to be back at the flat, with Mrs. Wylit tucked downstairs, the two of them on the couch watching the new telly.
They had about an hour to wait for the train to Lincoln. Arthur fingered the coins in his pocket, and went to the newsstand for a paper. Then he returned to the bench where the rumpled crew lounged, baggage tucked between their feet.
“How’s your mum?” Mrs. Wylit leaned forward toward the match flame that Lance offered her.
“She’s well.” Arthur tucked the paper under his arm. He locked eyes with James and jerked his head towards an empty bench about three meters away. James stood and followed him. They sat, and Arthur handed him the front page whilst he spread the sports on his lap.
“Something you want to talk about?” James asked after a few minutes of half-hearted flipping.
“Wanted you to myself for a few minutes.”
James gave him a secretive, sideways smile and a chuckle. “Selfish, selfish.”
“I should apologize properly.” Arthur turned the page and pretended to examine the cricket scores. To the passerby, they were two young blokes reading the news. Maybe they didn’t even know each other.
“For what?”
“The man in the brown coat.” Arthur licked his finger to flip the page. The newsprint came up black on his thumb. “Should have told you right away about what I saw back in Meopham.”
“There’s loads of things on your mind right now. On all of our minds. I could see why you...” James trailed off.
“I didn’t forget about it.” Arthur put his elbows on his knees with a smart snap of his newspaper. “I chose not to say anything.”
“Arthur.” James dropped the news into his lap and turned sharply toward his boyfriend.
“Lower your voice.”
James obliged him, and lifted the newspaper over his face again. Arthur stole a glance from the corner of his eye. James' cheeks were pink and his eye twitched, his jaw tight. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. Thought you were... under stress. I was worried. Didn’t want to play into it if it wasn’t real.” He paused, bit his lip. “But I did chase him for you. ‘N now that you’ve seen him again, I believe it all.”
“You mean now that Lance has seen him. Look, perhaps we shouldn’t talk about this, all right?”
“I’m trying to apologize.” Arthur’s hands crumpled the sports page.
“No need.” James said it breezily, but the color didn’t leave his cheeks. He took a breath, and handed Arthur back the newspaper. “Let’s forget about it.”
“Don’t you want to try and solve it?” Arthur hissed after him, but James had already walked away. Lance had Mr. Marlin’s little black book, and was triple-checking the last known address of a Mr. William Blanchard.
***
The summer rain began again as their train pulled away from Nottingham Station, headed up to Lincoln. It was a short ride, and the little storm had worn itself out by then, a child throwing a temper tantrum. As the clouds cleared, James' tea called to him, and he left their cabin to find the loo. He was forced to pass three chaps in football scarves who loitered in the hallway, probably on their way to a match. James walked quickly, with his shoulders hunched, as images of Morgan and the gas mask flitted through his brain. They ignored him, God be praised, too busy shoving one another’s shoulders and laughing.
“No, you’re going to ask Rosie out, and that’s final,” one of them declared as James slunk down the hallway.
“I heard she’s pretty fresh,” another said, and they guffawed again. “You’ll get a return on your investment like.”
“What’s taking you so long?” another berated his friend, an arm around his neck in a friendly choking gesture. “What are you, some kinda queerie?”
“If anyone’s a damn queer, it’s you,” his friend fired back. More rough laughter.
At the toilets, a mother stood by the half-open door as her son combed his hair in the mirror. As James ducked into another toilet, she snarled at the boy, “Hurry up, will you? Acting like a sissy poof — what would your father say?”
James could cleary imagine the brokenhearted look in the boy’s eyes as he gazed into the mirror. He knew, because he’d seen his own so many times. He put his hands on either side of the filthy metal train sink and pressed his head against the mirror, ragged breaths tearing into his chest as his face burned.
They were nearly to Lincoln station before James was able to compose himself and return to the cabin. As usual, Mrs. Wylit had drawn the curtains on the small windows leading into the hall. She was asleep on Lance’s shoulder, and Lance himself nodded, his eyes half-closed. James slid into the seat next to Arthur, who looked at him quizzically as he pulled Arthur’s hand off of his knee and clutched it in both of his own.
“What is it?” Arthur saw James' bloodshot eyes and the angry flush that blossomed on his cheeks.
James' mouth was pressed into a thin white line. Finally, he said, “How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world.”
“What happened?” Arthur half-rose from his seat, and lifted his free hand as if to ask, who needs to be punched?
James kept hold of his other hand and pulled him back into the seat. “Nothing like that. Only things you can’t protect me from.”
“Tell me.” Arthur’s green eyes were earnest, angry, and expectant beneath his thick black brows.
James gifted him a sad smile, and reached up to brush an errant ebony curl from his forehead. “We should wake them. It’s our stop.”
Lance jerked awake at James' gentle touch, but Mrs. Wylit needed to be hauled to her feet. She’d had a “dry throat” on the journey. As Arthur lifted her by the arms to steady her, the seam in the armpit of her blouse gave way. “I can fix it,” James promised. “Get her bag, Lance.”
Together, they managed the baggage, including Mrs. Wylit. James sat with her sagged against him on a bench while Arthur and Lance looked at the bus schedule. Though he always took a moment, forced himself to admire anything beautiful that his eyes fell upon, James had no patience for the 1850s Tudor revival facade of the station, done in stately brick. He put his arm around Mrs. Wylit and hugged her close like an overboard sailor clutching a life preserver. A life preserver that stank of sweat and whiskey and perfume ten years old.
Mrs. Wylit knew. She had to know. And yet she’d come all this way in a pathetic attempt to take care of them, to see them through the journey, determined to try to help even though she was far more of a hindrance than an asset. But she knew who he was, who Arthur was, perhaps even who Lance was, and she stuck by them, left the cave-like cluttered flat she haunted to come with them. Passengers streamed out of the station, and swirled in eddys around their bench like the tide around a rock. There went the football hooligans, and the mother, dragging her son along behind her with an angry hand.
Mrs. Wylit sat up, burped, and turned to the side to vomit a brown stream flaked with what might have been a biscuit. “Maggie,” she muttered — or, at least, that was what it sounded like — and heaved again. James pulled her wild hair back away from her face, and when she finished, mopped her mouth with her handkerchief.
“What’s wrong with you, Vi?” He rocked her gently in his arms. “Tell me why you do this to yourself.”
“Maggie,” she whispered again.
At that moment, Lance and Arthur returned. “It’s close enough to walk.” Lance held up the black address book.
“I don’t think Vi’s up to walking,” James said, then warned Arthur, “Mind the sick.”
“Oof.” Arthur stopped his huge foot in time and avoided the puddle.
“Let’s go.” Mrs. Wylit stood up, so fast that she pitched forward into Arthur’s arms. He steadied her, and she opened her bleary eyes. Vi pushed her wild curls back again with an oddly dignified gesture and held out her hand. Lance gave her the bag, and she shouldered it. Then she crooked her arm out to him, and he took it. Leaning into Lance like a crumbling watchtower, she shuffled down the street. Arthur and James followed.
“She’s a tough bird.” James shook his head.
“Speaking of birds,” Arthur said, “Always knew she ate like one. Never realized just how little it really was.”
“She’s sick, Arthur.” James shifted his suitcase to the other hand. “Now that she’s with us all the time I see it.”
Arthur nodded, but did not speak. There was nothing more to say, James thought, at least not now. One thing they did know about Mrs. Wylit was that she had no relatives. “No kin to call my own. Not anymore,” she had told them on more than one occasion, the liquor giving her declaration the maudlin flair of a radio drama. So, there was no one to tell, to send her to, to help her.
None but us, James thought, and winced as Mrs. Wylit stumbled over a crack in the pavement, though Lance was there to catch her.
Soon enough, they found themselves standing in front of the arched door of a small brick row house about a mile from the train station. The cardboard sign in the upper right window said ROOMS TO LET.
Arthur’s stomach rumbled. James’ echoed in solidarity. He hoped Mr. Blanchard would be as accommodating as Mrs. Galhad. It was nearly teatime anyway.
The person who stomped to the door after they’d had to ring the bell several times was, at first glance, definitely not William Blanchard. He was far too young, perhaps ten years older than Arthur and James, although the years had not been kind. They revealed themselves in his thinning mud brown hair and quivering tum. Mr. Conner had one as well, which he affectionately called his “pony keg.” While the tummy lump was fatherly and endearing on a man of Mr. Conner’s age, it seemed unhealthy when paired with this fellow’s youthful arms and sallow skin. He wore a dirty undershirt and pajama trousers.
“Keep your knickers on,” he snapped, and yanked the door open wider. “Lookin’ for a room? It’s fifteen quid a month, no private bathrooms.” He fixed his watery brown eyes on Mrs. Wylit. The whites were threaded through with blood. “No women.” He leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “Christ, especially her. She looks pissed.”
“We just had a very long train ride,” James explained as Lance drew Mrs. Wylit back from the door out onto the sidewalk again.
The man at the door took a toothpick from behind his ear and made as if to say something rude. Arthur stepped forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with James, which let his height speak for itself.
“Don’t need a room,” Arthur rumbled in his deep bass. “We’re looking for someone.”
“Does a Mr. William Blanchard live here?” James asked.
The man stared at him, and gnawed the toothpick.
“He’d be in his seventies.” James choked back a nervous cough. “Military man from the Great War.”
“I know of him.” The man used his large wet tongue to migrate the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “What’s it to you?”
“We’re trying to find him.” James shifted uncomfortably to his other foot.
“Well, that’s bloody obvious, innit?” The man removed the toothpick from his mouth and stuck it behind his ear again. “You his relatives? Old codger owes me back rent.”
“He was friends with my granddad,” Lance tried as he adjusted Mrs. Wylit’s weight against his hip. “They were in the war together.”
The man spit at their feet. “Well, ain’t that a sweet little story.”
“Do you know where he is?” Arthur inched forward again.
“You may want to step back, boy.” The man unfolded his arms and drew himself up to his unimpressive height. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall, innit what they say?”
“We’re not looking for trouble.”
“Could have fooled me.” The man spat again. His body odor tingled in James’ nose, and he winced at its bitter potency. “Say I do know where he is. What’s it worth to you?”
“We have some... money.” James nudged Arthur, who dug into his coat pocket for his wallet.
“Unless you want to pay me his three months back rent, don’t bother.” The toothpick went back into the man’s snaggle-toothed mouth.
“Then, what can we offer you?” James guided Arthur back with one hand and inched forward himself, eyes open wide and innocent. “Please, there must be something you want. We desperately need to find Mr. Blanchard. It’s a matter of a man’s dying wish.”
The man laughed, quietly at first, and then with a loud, shrill, mean openness. “Oh, I suppose, if you’re that desperate, and it’s a matter of the heart, well, wouldn’t I be cruel if I didn’t tell you.” He broke to laugh again, a donkey yelp. “All right, if you want to know what happened to old Blanchard, I do have something you can do for me. Get me what I want, and I’ll tell you everything.”
“Yes,” James agreed. They were getting somewhere.
The man laughed again, hard enough this time that he had to bend down and slap his knee.
“What d’you want?” Arthur pushed against James' warning elbow.
“I want my damned football cup, that’s what I want.” The man ripped the toothpick out of his mouth and threw it at their feet, next to his glob of spittle. “My mates and I won a tournament in upper school and I kept the cup. Well, times was hard, you know how it goes — and I had to hock it, didn't I? Well, the arsehole who bought it’s Mr. King — his daughter’s some slag I went with for a time — and he keeps it behind his bar to use as goddamned ashtray. That’s right, down at the Hawk and Chick. He does it just to mock me, to mock my mates, y’see. Get the cup back from him. Bring it here and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
“How are we supposed to do that?” James wondered.
“If I knew how to do it, I wouldn’t be asking some Frankenstein and his pet poof for help, now would I?” He moved to slam the door.
Arthur’s hand shot out and caught it, massive fingers splayed out over the weathered wood. “Promise,” he growled. “If we get the cup, promise you’ll tell us about Mr. Blanchard.”
“You have my word, Frankenstein. Now get your damn hand off my door.”
Arthur drew his limb back, and the door slammed.
“It’s Frankenstein's monster, you twit,” James grumbled under his breath as they turned to go.
Lance patted his shoulder reassuringly with the free hand that wasn’t supporting Mrs. Wylit. “And Arthur’s obviously your pet, not the other way round.”