Chapter Text
There are many ways to go home, but very few ways to find home once you don’t know what that means anymore. And if there’s one thing he’s sure of, it’s that no amount of sitting in the dark basement flat in Carshall Newtown surrounded by books, records and scant pieces of furniture can make that fact easier to bear.
Because even though solitude has often been easier to bear than the alternative, the days of the Royal Signals are long behind, and recently he’s found himself dreaming of people. Seeing them, being with them, drinking tea with them, just sitting with old college friends or colleagues from the Corps, mostly forgotten by his waking mind but so vivid, real, alive in his subconscious one. It’s not even Susan – they’re not those kinds of dreams, his heart’s neither broken nor mended in them – just plain old people that make him wish he hasn’t cut his ties with such a sharp pair of scissors.
But maybe something can still be found, not necessarily home but something, anything that will make that void a bit more bearable and the days a little less uniform.
It’s those dreams and that loneliness that put him on a train to Oxford one day with no plan or sense of direction, hoping he might run into anyone he once held a minimal amount of liking for and didn’t part on bad terms with. To sit down for a cup of tea and a bit of catch-up seemed embarrassingly out of reach, but he’d have taken just about anything that didn’t involve sitting in that tiny flat feeling like he might spontaneously combust.
What he wasn’t expecting was for Oxford to hit like a blow to the gut, take his breath away and lift his spirits all at once. He arrived and found he couldn’t look down. The spire-filled skies drew his eyes like magnets as he walked along the familiar streets, his hope of running into someone quite forgotten. The city itself greeted him like an old friend, and long time no see whispered the leaves, and the faraway hum of the colleges, and the bustle of the midday crowd, and the echoes of the memories.
Really, there was only one thing to do.
He went to a store, bought a newspaper, sat on a bench and opened the job ads section.
They caught his eye immediately. The big bold letters, those familiar three words that made his heart flutter in his chest, right before he saw what was written underneath: coffee shop.
He rolled his eyes and cast them elsewhere, but a quick scan only showed more of the stuff he’d been doing so far, even more unpalatable options, or just plain impossible ones. The page was an oasis for housekeepers, nannies, typists and maids, but somehow no one seemed to be doing anything that required college and army drop-outs with a penchant for crosswords and opera. He sighed and threw his head back, rubbing his eyes.
He was just about to give up and throw the newspaper away when his eyes were once again drawn to the first ad he'd seen. The familiar words had already awoken the melody in his ears, it was practically calling out to him –
And something rebellious stirred.
Why not? In the end, why not? Why not do something completely mad and out of character again? The last time he was at a loose end he joined the Royal Signals, that ought to have shocked everyone sufficiently enough, another crazy change of direction would hardly do the same, not that there was much of an everyone to shock this time around. And he was so tired of sitting in the dim light of the tiny basement flat, of empty spaces everywhere he turned, of nobody to make a connection with.
Plus, it had obviously been named by someone who loved opera. If he was a different kind of person, he would have taken it as a sign. As it were, he took it as a straw.
He returned to Carshall Newtown with a virtual spring in his step, tenderly feeding the determination like a tiny fire he couldn’t let die, shutting out all intrusive thoughts except for basic instructions such as type out resume, put in envelope, address. Go outside, post. Breathe.
Once it was safely in the mailbox, he allowed all the thoughts to come rushing back.
What had he done?
*
What is home, really? Certainly not the cheap one-room flat he found just to have some place to put a bed and his record player that didn’t also contain Gwen. The only true home he’s ever known has been with his mother, and he doesn’t even remember the place itself, just that feeling, the one you only become aware of having – or rather not having – when it’s gone.
After that, it’s been fairly straightforward. From his mother’s house to his father’s, from Oxford to the Royal Signals to Carshall Newtown, like stepping stones that led him to… what? Another stepping stone. He’s done it since he was twelve, spreading the memory of home thinner and thinner until there was not enough, not nearly enough of it in one place to be worthy of the name.
Oxford, a place of understanding and books and everything he could hope to satisfy his mind.
Has it ever been home?
Home was Susan, until she wasn't.
Just like home was family, until it wasn’t.
But there are traces of belonging here in Oxford like there aren't anywhere else. He can feel it surround him, no matter how faded and forgotten. It's there. There’s some of him left there, at least.
*
He does his best to steady his breathing and look calm, relaxed and professional, like someone you’d want to see behind a bar. He isn’t sure it’s working. His feet seem to be having a mind of their own, taking him five steps to the right, five steps to the left and all over again in front of the door to the coffee shop, and every few seconds he needs to remind himself to actually breathe and not just allow the tiniest molecules of air to enter his lungs while he’s too busy trying not to panic.
Really, he shouldn’t fret so much. The owner’s read his resume; if that hasn’t discouraged them, nothing will. He can’t leave a much worse impression in person, surely?
He lets out a huge shaky breath through his mouth.
He wants this.
*
She’s a torturous two minutes late, but arrives with a smile, holds out her hand and introduces herself as Dorothea Frazil. As she grips his hand, her smile turns peculiar.
“We've met before,” she says.
“I don't think so.”
She frowns. “Are you sure? I could swear...”
He shrugs and shakes his head.
“Oh, well. Must be one of those things.”
He has no idea what to say to that, but she seems to take pity and beckons him inside.
The place is pleasantly warm and fresh at the same time, with a faint scent of coffee and something sweet still present in the air, and tastefully decorated in colours of autumn. It’s closed for the day, to hold the interviews most likely, but he can imagine it bustling with customers, intelligent and refined as befits such a name. His heart swells as he sees a big old record player in a corner and a huge stack of records.
They sit at one of the tables and she takes out a bunch of papers from her suitcase. He has to suppress a groan when he recognizes his resume on top. Surely she isn’t going to read it there in front of him?
Unfortunately, that is precisely what she seems to intend.
“So, Endeavour Morse...”
“Uh, just Morse. I go by Morse.”
Over the paper, she gives him a look.
“With such an interesting first name? Seems like a terrible waste.”
For a moment, he’s at a loss. She seems to have a way of talking that makes him unsure if she's joking or not, and her eyes are sharp and perceptive, but they also seem kind, so he tries to smile back, though he suspects it comes out more of a grimace.
“My mother was a Quaker and my father's an admirer of James Cook,” he says before he can stop himself, while that perpetually embarrassed part screams too much information! she couldn’t care less, she’s only poking fun – “… I'm afraid I've never shared their enthusiasm.”
“My parents were avid readers of George Elliot. I sympathise.”
At that, the first genuine smile lifts up his lips.
“Morse it is, then. Your secret will be safe with me, if you get the job. Right! Let’s see…”
She gazes at the paper in her hands with a slight frown. He fidgets in his chair.
This is agony.
“Do you have any experience in this line of work?”
“Uh, not much, I'm afraid. That is…” He scratches his neck. “Not at all, actually.”
Unperturbed, she glances down again.
“Some years at Lonsdale… I see you've been in the Signal Corps. Then you left...”
She turns the resume over, glances at the bunch of papers on her desk to see if there’s more, then reverts her attention back to the one in her hands.
“Some one-on-one tutoring, a spot of translation, an odd opera review...” She puts the paper down. “Just to be clear, you have worked with people before?”
“Well, to be perfectly honest… No, I haven’t.”
There’s a pause. A blush creeps up his face.
“I’m sorry, I thought – I thought you read it before –”
“The first impression, Morse. I find it far more useful than a piece of paper people tend to embellish to the point of absurdity, though I must say you’ve shown an admirable amount of restraint as far as that goes,” she says, eyes glinting.
He blinks. It’s never occurred to him to lie.
“But if you don't mind me asking, what in heaven’s name made you apply?”
Ah, here we are. He straightens a little in his chair.
“Actually, it was the name. Of the coffee shop.”
This doesn’t have the effect he imagined. She frowns in apparent confusion, waiting for him to explain, and his blush intensifies.
“Un Bel Di? From Madame Butterfly –”
“Right! Yes, it was named after the aria. I thought about changing it, but the customers would have my hide. The first owner named it, and he passed away, so it’s become a bit of a shrine. He was rather an opera aficionado.”
“… Oh.”
She gives him a knowing look.
“I'm guessing you and he would have hit it off splendidly.”
“Presumably,” he mumbles.
“Now I do hope I’m not such a disappointment as that.”
He opens his mouth to protest, but she waves him off, smiling.
“Let’s put that aside for now, and let me tell you a bit about the job itself. It’s simple enough. Tea and coffee and beer, those are the foundations of this establishment. You’d need to be ready to make fresh tea and coffee at a moment’s notice since that along with beer covers about 70% of the orders. The stronger stuff is on the top shelf, and before you ask, no, I don’t mind if you have some on occasion, just don’t let it be too obvious to the customers.”
“Oh, I don’t drink.”
“Indeed? Well, how refreshing.”
Again, it could be either genuine or teasing – whatever it is, he senses no malice behind it. But he wonders if such a prolonged period of solitude has made him even less capable of leading a conversation than usual, as he comes up blank again. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to mind.
“We also offer a range of confectionary. For that, I’d just need you to be able to recognize what it is that the customer is ordering, if the waiter is otherwise engaged.”
He nods.
“Right. Any questions?”
He shakes his head.
“Well, I think I’ve got most of the things I wanted to know,” she says, and he frowns. Surely he hasn’t said one thing that’ll actually help her decide?
Or rather, she’s already decided, he thinks miserably.
“There’s one last thing I have to ask, since the first owner practically made it a requirement in his last will and testament.”
She seems to look somewhere far away, the tiny ever-present smile fading into something more solemn. “This coffee shop has cultivated a certain unwavering… je ne sais quoi ever since it opened five years ago. It’s what separates it from most run-of-the-mill coffee shops the city’s full of – and I would very much like to keep it that way. Both to honour the first owner as well as keep our pockets sufficiently filled.”
She fixates her eyes on him now.
“If you’re going to work here, Morse, you need to care about the people who walk through that door. You need to care about whether their day is beautiful or not.”
A few seconds of silence, and then:
“Do you think you’d be able to do that?”
That answer, at least, comes easily.
“Yes.”
She nods, and there’s that smile again.
“Alright, Mr Morse. That would be all. Don’t worry, you won’t have to wait too long for the verdict.”
*
When he exits the coffee shop, it’s a few moments until he remembers what he’s supposed to do next.
Right. The station.
The next thing he becomes aware of is that he’s sitting on a train and the passing landscape’s telling him he’s almost arrived, while he’s still going over the conversation in his head, remembering the warm colours, the record player and Miss Frazil’s soft smile.
Really, it didn’t go as bad as if could have. He hasn’t embarrassed himself nearly as much as he has the capacity for, but he hasn’t left the stellar impression he was hoping to make while bonding over opera either. She hasn’t outright laughed at his resume, though. That should count as a small victory, all thing considering, he thinks morosely.
But he won’t get it. That, at least, is clear.
*
The phone rings first thing tomorrow morning. He jumps up from a bleary sleep, and it takes him a couple of moments to place the jarring, unfamiliar sound – then yesterday comes rushing back, and he almost stumbles in a dash to pick up.
After a brief conversation, he puts the receiver back on the hook. He stands there for several minutes, frowning, wondering if this is real or his yearnings have started haunting his waking moments too.
He’s to start on Monday, four days from now.
In three days, he replaces the dingy flat in Carshall Newtown for a dingy flat in Oxford, and it almost feels like coming home.