Work Text:
Date: 14-08-2013
Sender: Swanny
To: Cook, Alastair; Jimmy A
Subject: Photos
Hi both,
As promised, edited highlights of the snaps from our jaunt in the countryside yesterday.
Don’t panic, pictures not included aren’t being kept for blackmail, they were just too blurred or taken at bizarre angles. (It might be time to abandon your dream of a second career as a photographer, Jimmy.) Think there’s quite a good selection, though.
S xx
PS. Cooky: my wife (and definitely not me) wants it to be known that you’re ridiculously photogenic. Shame you’re so homely in real life, eh? Win some, lose some.
--
IMAG_3720: Medium shot, interior of a car (grey upholstery) taken from the left-hand side of the back seat. The driver is Graeme, and he’s half-turned towards Jimmy, who’s in the passenger seat; Jimmy is largely obscured by the head rest, but appears to be facing straight ahead. He’s wearing a pair of sunglasses. Dual carriageway is visible through the windscreen: there are numerous cars in front but traffic is not heavy. The sun is shining, although some cloud can be seen on the horizon.
They’d only been in the car five minutes or so when Swanny announced they were going to take a slight detour.
That was how he’d phrased it: slight detour. He was a lying bastard, reflects Jimmy, as he opens up the first photo attached to Swanny’s email. It was less a detour, more like Swanny kidnapping him and Ali for the sake of several hours of tramping round some glorified park.
It was meant to be a straightforward run back down south from Durham, after the fourth Test. They’d arranged in advance that Swanny would drive them both as far as Leeds, where they’d left their cars.
(The drive up together had been fun. It hadn’t involved any detours.)
They whinged, when Swanny told them what he had planned.
Okay, Jimmy whinged. Ali mostly stayed quiet and played with Swanny’s camera.
“It’s a National Trust place,” Swanny said. “Somewhere I used to visit with my grandmother when I was a kid.”
“National Trust? We’re too young for a middle-class midlife crisis, Swanny.”
“Come on, it’ll be nice. A stroll in the countryside. Let’s enjoy the day off that Broady earned us.”
Jimmy groaned, rolling his head back against the headrest until his face was tilted towards the roof of the car. “Do we have to?”
--
IMAG_3722: Partial reverse of the previous shot, with the car now in a car park surrounded by large trees. Close-up of car interior taken from driver’s seat. Jimmy (passenger seat) and Alastair (directly behind him) are both looking directly at the camera; Alastair is pouting, bottom lip protruding, while Jimmy looks less jokingly unimpressed.
Alastair laughs when the second photo loads. Swanny took two versions of this, as he recalls. The first had Alastair smiling and Jimmy looking grumpy. For the second, Swanny said, “Okay, and now… Jimmy miserable.” Alastair hastily rearranged himself; Jimmy didn’t move a muscle.
The photo taken, Swanny checked the display on the camera. “Beautiful work, both of you. Especially you, James; I can see why you’re a model. Such expressive features.”
Jimmy stuck his tongue out, and Alastair knew them both well enough – the rhythms of their relationship – to know that Swanny had won and Jimmy was on the slow upswing out of grumpiness.
Jimmy’s lack of enthusiasm wasn’t going to go down without a fight, though. While Alastair and Swanny dug out spare backpacks and water bottles and – after a long look at the sky – waterproofs, Jimmy just shrugged on a lightweight jacket and leaned against the car, watching from behind his sunglasses as the other two prepared. At one point Alastair found himself stumbling as he walked past him, and when he looked back Jimmy still wasn’t smiling, but his shades were now sitting low enough on his nose that Alastair could see the other man’s eyes were alight with mischief. Also, he was sliding a foot back against the car in a slow, deliberate way that made it clear what had just happened.
Alastair took a step towards Jimmy and swung his backpack at him, playfully. Mostly playfully. Jimmy caught it and pulled it sharply against his chest, making Alastair stumble into him. Then there was a whole tug of war over the bag until Swanny stepped in and prised them apart. By then, they were both grinning.
Alastair decides he’s enjoying that memory more than he probably ought to, and moves on to the conversation after it.
“I swear,” said Swanny, “it’s like I’m taking a pair of kids out for the day.” He looked Jimmy up and down. “At least put some trainers on, not those fancy shoes.”
Jimmy made a face. “Yes, Dad.” He sloped off to the boot.
Swanny leaned on the open passenger door and shook his head. “Worse than kids.”
“If you’re our dad,” said Alastair, “where’s mum?”
Swanny gave a soulful sigh. “Well, I suppose you have to learn the truth sooner or later.” He put a hand on Alastair’s shoulder, said earnestly, “Your mum ran off with a Greek waiter two years ago. Sorry, kids.”
Jimmy called, from behind the open boot, “I’m surprised she stayed married to you as long as she did.”
“She left a note saying she couldn’t take any more of you two.” Swanny closed the passenger door. “Come on, let’s get going.”
--
IMAG_3725: Long shot of Jimmy (sunglasses and jacket) and Alastair (short-sleeved t-shirt) walking towards the camera, along a broad, flat expanse of grass. This avenue is flanked to either side by a single, straight line of oak trees, evenly spaced. To the left-hand side, the land beyond the trees rises into hilly fields of grazing sheep; to the right, it slopes gently away to a single-track road with a meadow beyond. The line of trees continues for perhaps twenty feet behind the two men and ends just beside a two-storey stone building, which is roughly the width of the grassy avenue and fronted with a small colonnade and a pair of shallow staircases flanking, and leading up to, an open door.
Having been thwarted on the café front (Swanny had physically dragged Jimmy away from it and said they weren’t going in until they’d had a walk, prompting another chorus of Yes, Dads), Jimmy sat out the visit to the old chapel. He still had a bit more sulking to do, to keep up appearances.
But by the time Ali and Swanny emerged from the building, Jimmy was having to admit (at least to himself) that – what with the sunshine and the trees and the birdsong and everything – this was actually rather pleasant. It was even quite peaceful , except for a couple of games of jumpers-for-goalposts football going on nearby.
Swanny was right. (He definitely wasn’t going to admit that.) It did make a change. Thinking back, now, as he looks at the photo, Jimmy decides it also didn’t hurt that he was getting plenty of chances to enjoy the sight of Ali without having to concentrate on fielding. Sunshine suits his captain, and not just because it means he wears things that show off his arms.
He doesn’t remember much of what they talked about as they walked along the avenue, away from the chapel, except for the one unguarded moment (for which he blamed, still blames, the sun and the way Ali looked when he smiled) where he accidentally admitted to having watched some costume drama.
“I feel like I’m in Pride and Prejudice or something.”
There was a silence, mostly involving Ali and Swanny looking surprised at each other.
“…You’re a fan?” said Swanny at last.
“Uh, no.” Jimmy was already regretting saying anything. “My wife made me watch the tv series once. The one with Colin Firth. All ten hours or however long it is.”
“And did you like it?”
Jimmy shrugged. “S’okay.” (He’d got into it a little bit. It was funnier than he’d expected. He obviously wasn’t about to admit that.)
“Well, well,” said Swanny. “Translated from Jimmyspeak to the enthusiasm scale of normal people, that’s a ringing endorsement.”
Jimmy had a feeling he wasn’t going to hear the last of this. He was right.
--
IMAG_3727: Very long shot, reverse angle of previous image; view down the avenue towards a mass of trees and, beyond them, a tall column with a statue on top of it, not identifiable from this distance. Focus is on Jimmy (now without his sunglasses) and Graeme, who are playing football: Jimmy has the ball, Graeme appears to be preparing to block him. In the foreground, two piles of coats mark out the goal, and a child in a Newcastle United shirt – seen from the back – stands guard.
IMAG_3729: Medium shot of Graeme throwing a football, underarm, to a small boy. Four other children wait nearby, and a small white dog looks on with eager interest.
IMAG_3732: Long shot, motion blurred, of Jimmy tackling Graeme from behind, at almost full stretch.
IMAG_3733: Long shot of Jimmy on the ball, being chased by a pack of small children.
IMAG_3736: Medium shot of Jimmy lying on his back on the ground, legs in the air; behind him, out of focus, Graeme and some of the children have their arms raised in celebration.
Alastair sat out the impromptu football session, dug Swanny’s camera back out of his pack, and had some fun trying to be a sports photographer. Several of the pictures came out as blurry spot-the-ball competition material, but he’s pleased with this set.
After he’d taken the last one, he wandered over to the prone, panting Jimmy and offered him a hand up. Jimmy hid his hesitation well, if not completely; but he did smile.
Upright again, Jimmy commented that he was too warm, and took off his jacket. He was surprisingly unbothered by the streak of mud down the back of it. Alastair handed him back the shades he’d agreed to hold during the game, but Jimmy left them off, tucking them into the neck of his t-shirt instead.
Swanny bounded over, pink-cheeked and beaming, and after some negotiation he stowed Jimmy’s jacket in his backpack. “Fine, I’ll be your packhorse,” he said, his tone a mixture of sarcasm and fondness.
“Thanks, dear,” said Jimmy, sweetly. Alastair studied the camera.
--
IMAG_3737: Medium shot of Jimmy and Graeme standing beside a dark, roughly circular pool of water, about twenty-five feet in diameter and bordered with undergrowth. Clouds are reflected in the pool, and the light is noticeably gloomier than in the previous images. There’s a narrow strip of grass alongside the pool, beyond which it’s surrounded with tall trees. Graeme has his back to the camera, and is holding out both arms to the pool; Jimmy, standing side on, looks sceptical.
The sign called it the Octagon Pool, and explained that it used to be part of the scenery for well-to-do guests of the estate when they were dining in the small building with ornate leaded windows further up the hillside. These days, apparently, the water was home to newts; it certainly looked the part, more pond than pool.
As they reached the edge, Swanny gave a sweeping bow, gesturing extravagantly towards the pool. “If you fancy a dip, Mr Darcy…?”
It took Jimmy a second to get the reference. He pretended it took longer.
“Hang on, you’ve watched it too?”
“Did I say I hadn’t?”
“No, but… the way you were mocking me before…”
“I always mock! Mocking’s my natural state. Anyway, everyone knows about the bit with Colin Firth and the lake. My wife thinks it’s the greatest thing to happen on TV ever. Possibly the greatest thing in all of human history.” Swanny gestured again. “Come on, Jimmy, do the honours. You’re the one who looks best in a wet shirt.”
Jimmy snorted. “I am not going in there.”
From behind them, Ali said, “Dare I ask?”
“Best not,” said Jimmy, but Swanny was already off.
“One day, Colin Firth arrives home, and he’s really hot, so he dives into his own private lake to cool off. As you do. Then after he’s got out he bumps into the heroine, who just happens to be touring his grounds – that’s not a euphemism, although maybe it should be – and there’s a whole wet shirt thing going on. It’s like the costume drama equivalent of—”
“Bet you’re really glad you asked, Cooky,” said Jimmy, quickly, before Swanny could go any further. “I have a suggestion,” he went on, pointing up at the darkening sky. “How about we get a move on before we all end up soaked?”
--
IMAG_3739: Medium shot of Jimmy and Alastair standing side by side, holding a dark green waterproof jacket over their heads. Jimmy, on the left, has his left arm raised to hold up the jacket; Alastair, on the right, uses his right arm. Their other arms are not visible. Their heads are tilted towards each other and their faces towards the sky, as they peer out from under the edge of the waterproof. Both are grinning. Both of them have wet hair.
IMAG_3740: Close-up of Jimmy and Alastair under the waterproof jacket. Jimmy is looking down out of shot, and laughing; Alastair has his head turned to the left, looking at Jimmy and smiling. Slight motion blur.
The rain held off until they were halfway down the hill, where the broad path bent round to the right past a steep, wooded slope. As the first drops fell, Jimmy, lagging behind, made an aggravated noise in Swanny’s general direction.
Swanny calmly put up his hood and said, “Should’ve come prepared, James.”
“How could I have come prepared? You hijacked me!” Jimmy glared up at the sky and held his hands over his head like a small, ineffectual umbrella.
Alastair paused in the middle of unrolling his own waterproof. “It won’t last long,” he said. “There’s blue sky right behind it.” He remembers looking down at the coat in his hands – a huge thing that, when he wears it, comes down to his knees – and back up at the increasingly damp and discomfited-looking Jimmy. “Want to use mine until then?”
Jimmy eyed the thing dubiously.
“Come on,” said Alastair, rolling it up again and throwing it to him. “As long as it keeps you dry, does it matter what it looks like?”
Jimmy caught it; hesitated. “I can’t nick your coat off you.”
He held it back out to Alastair, who shook his head. A drop of rain trickled down the side of Alastair’s face, tickling him as it went. “I don’t mind, honestly.”
Stand off. The shower was getting noticeably heavier. Which was by no means all bad: the rain was drawing long damp streaks down Jimmy’s white t-shirt, and starting to make the shoulders of it see-through. Thinking back over this the following day, blushing even though he’s on his own in front of the computer, Alastair blames Swanny for the fact that he even noticed; if it hadn’t been for the conversation about wet shirts at the pond, he never would’ve let his gaze roam, and enjoy, quite as much as he did.
At the time, he only belatedly realised what he was doing. He focused, with an effort, on Jimmy’s face. He heard Swanny vent a heavy sigh, and for a moment he was worried he’d given himself away.
“Honestly, you two. It really is like bringing kids on a day out.” Swanny strode between them, into Alastair’s eyeline. “Can’t you just learn to share?”
Jimmy flashed an unreadable look at Swanny, who roundly ignored it; then he shrugged, which looked quite interesting in the increasingly damp shirt. Alastair was tempted to suggest Jimmy should stay out in the rain; it suited him.
Who said literature was good for you?
Alastair cleared his throat, tried to sound nonchalant. “Makes sense,” he said.
Jimmy shrugged again, shook out the waterproof. He lifted it over his head with one arm, held out the other arm to Alastair, raised an eyebrow. “Shall we?”
For a moment, Alastair just watched the rain bounce off Jimmy’s upturned palm, biting his lip in an effort to keep a sudden smile – broad, helpless, obvious – under control. Flicked a glance to Swanny, who was grinning. Took a breath, and went for a compromise: he grabbed Jimmy’s wrist, rather than his hand. Jimmy drew him under the coat, and it triggered an echo in Alastair’s memory of that night in Nagpur, of Jimmy yanking him into the lift.
Alastair let go, struggling against a giddy laugh. Here he was in a confined space with Jimmy again. Once was an accident, twice might be carelessness; three times was tempting fate.
Testing boundaries; taking risks. Hoping something might happen, and he wouldn’t have to take responsibility: he could blame circumstances.
But hey, at least he wasn’t drunk.
Swanny said something he didn’t catch; Jimmy was laughing at it. There was a drop of rain drawing a slow trail down the side of the other man’s neck. Alastair felt a sudden fierce desire to trace that trail with his lips, to kiss away the other drops that were gathered along the hairline at the nape of Jimmy’s neck, on his forehead, at his temples. To work his way round and down, on a slow approach to the mouth that would be waiting for him.
Or not waiting, anymore. He’d shut that down, in Nagpur, hadn’t he?
At least he wasn’t drunk. Alastair listened to the rain pattering on the waterproof over his head, and wondered exactly how much distance there was between drunk and sober, when he was around Jimmy.
--
IMAG_3742: Medium shot of Graeme, in profile, and Alastair, three-quarters turned towards the camera. Graeme has both hands raised to the level of his shoulder, and his mouth is open; Alastair has his hands in his pockets and his head tilted back, laughing. They are surrounded by straight, narrow tree trunks; the waterproof coat hangs over a slender branch behind Alastair.
Jimmy hasn’t got a clue what joke Swanny was telling. At the time, he was too busy shamelessly objectifying Ali: damp shirt clinging to damp skin. They’d been walking downhill in steady rain for several minutes, Ali and Jimmy sharing Ali’s tent of a coat, when Swanny suggested they wait out the shower (downpour) under the trees beside the path.
Jimmy had been in two minds about this. On the one hand, his left arm was starting to ache from holding the coat clear of his head, so that it wouldn’t add to the damage the rain had already done to his hair. On the other, well, it was the longest he’d been that close to Ali since India. There’d been a certain amount of stumbling into each other and chuckling when they first started walking, and it was all surprisingly relaxed and when Swanny spoke up Ali even had an arm part way round Jimmy’s waist. (There’d been a good reason for that, although he can’t remember it now.)
What had been an overgrown woodland back up the hill had become a stand of evergreens; not only did these trees keep off the rain, but they shielded them from much of the sound of it, too, cocooning them in quiet and half-light and a carpet of pine needles where nothing else was growing. Jimmy was quite taken with the strangeness of the place, and borrowed Swanny’s camera to take a few pictures. This shot was the last of those, sneaked in when the other two weren’t looking. He’s always liked the way Ali laughs, when he’s really laughing, the uninhibited way his whole upper body joins in.
(What the photo doesn't show is how, when the sun finally broke free of the clouds, the damp skin of Ali’s face and arms gleamed.)
--
IMAG_3744: Close-up of Graeme’s face, laughing. An arm (Jimmy’s) is half in shot at the bottom of the frame.
IMAG_3745: Long shot of Jimmy and Graeme, seen from behind, in a meadow. They’re running, and Graeme is ahead of Jimmy, perhaps by four feet, although it is difficult to be sure, from the angle. The ground slopes gently away from the viewpoint of the camera, towards a line of trees. The sun is shining again.
Looking at the final pictures with a smile somewhere between happy and wistful, Alastair knows he did the right thing back in India. Whatever was going on, back then, seems to be resolved now: Jimmy and Swanny are as silly and affectionate as ever they were.
And his own feelings for Jimmy can go back where they belong: out of sight, out of mind.
--
Jimmy looks through the photos a second time, after which he deletes them all.
After a minute or two debating with himself, he rescues one, buries it in a random sub-folder. Then he empties the recycle bin.