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The sound of a car horn drowns out the noise made by the old, rickety chair as Jim settles himself on the seat in the verandah. Its legs groan under the strain of his weight, the little that is left of it.
After fidgeting and finding a comfortable position, he puts the box he's holding on the table beside him.
It is his own creation: this box, and its twin which is lost in the attics of Garden Lodge. He made them many, many years ago, but the memory of showing the final products to Freddie is still fresh in his mind.
They look wonderful, darling! You must use one of them to store all the letters I write to you, and I'll keep your letters in the other!
Letters and postcards written by Freddie, that's what this box contains. To everyone else, that is. But for Jim, an entire lifetime is stored inside this simple block of wood.
Jim was never the kind of person to write letters. But Freddie introduced him to something new, something so intimate that he warmed up to the practise quickly. Freddie was never in a place where he couldn't call Jim, but there were times when he preferred to write down his words rather than voicing them.
This is so that you don't forget an old tart like me, darling! Whenever you'll read these words, you'll hear my voice, and I will hear yours, always with me…
Jim splays his hand over the shiny wood—it hasn't lost any of its original polish. Of course it hasn't. It's refined and expensive, imported from France.
You'll have the best raw material to work with, Jim! It will be a part of our house, after all.
Our house.
Freddie's house.
Not anymore. Not either of theirs.
Jim sighs and shakes his head, willing the bitterness—a mere shadow now—to leave him during his daily ritual. Right now, he only wants to remember the good, the happy, the love.
Not that he ever forgets it, no. After all, it's not easy to forget the unforgettable. And in recent months, lying immobile on the bed as chemicals are pumped through his system, his mind wanders to every memory, every moment of the life he lived and the life he lost.
The details are hazy, of course. But the feelings and the emotions remain as strong as ever. It's not healthy, Valerie says. Thinking about the past, torturing yourself with memories when you need to rest. It's not healthy, Jim.
But she doesn't understand. The pain associated with them has long faded away, and in its stead is only longing and hope. Hope to retire soon, to sleep, to end what has already ended in Jim's mind.
If there is a time when he can remember, it is now.
A few mild coughs interrupt his thoughts, and Jim raises a frail hand holding a handkerchief to cover his mouth. At the same time, Stephen comes up behind him and drapes a thick shawl over his bony shoulders. Jim raises his eyes in gratitude at his nephew, who retreats into the house a moment later.
Holding one corner of the shawl in his hand, Jim reaches towards the box with the other, and opens it. Several letters and postcards are neatly arranged in two separate rows. Jim gently caresses them; they are his memories lived a lifetime ago.
He stops the movement of his hand on reaching the row of letters, his fingers wrapping around the one right at the front. He picks it up and slowly opens it, being careful not to tear the old paper. He begins to read.
My dearest love,
This room is terribly lonely without you. I am sorry for being in such a rotten mood yesterday—the rehearsals were all over the place! Ratty lost one of the costumes that I was supposed to wear today, and it was a complete mess.
Of course, none of this is your fault my darling. I miss you. I wish you could take some time off and be here with me.
I can't wait to see you next week.
Your love,
Freddie.
Jim folds the piece of paper, shaking his head with a smile on his face. He remembers this incident, when Freddie was on that tour—what was it called?
He can't recall the name now, but the memory of that phone call with Freddie who was shouting and truly being in a rotten mood, still amuses Jim. He knew, even then, that Freddie was being impulsive, and didn't mean what he said over the phone.
You are not listening to me Jim, you don't care about me at all!
Of course, he was his loving self the next day when he called. Freddie still gave Jim the letter when he joined him the next week even though it wasn't necessary.
I was truly sorry for the way I behaved, darling. See, I wrote down how sorry I was!
Jim places the piece of paper behind the last letter in the designated row in the box, and takes a postcard in his hand. Behind a photo of the Munich horizon are a few simple words.
My dearest love,
Miss you.
Freddie.
Jim traces the fading ink with the pads of his fingers, recalling the time when he received the postcard. It was during one of Freddie's trips to Germany with Barbara in the later years, when he returned earlier than expected.
I missed you, my darling. I missed you so much.
Jim had missed him too. Every second that he was away worried Jim, distracted him from his work, his life.
Did he take his medicines on time? Is he feeling well? What is he doing right now? Did he apply the new ointment which Dr. Atkinson prescribed for his leg?
Jim would run himself mad with worry, and no one to talk to except their cats.
Their cats.
Freddie's cats.
Jim still misses them. They are probably long gone now. Except maybe Lily, their youngest baby. Jim can only hope that she got placed in a good home, one that loved her as much as she was loved and cherished in Garden Lodge. She was there for a short while—just a year—before she was cruelly handed over to strangers. Of all the things that Jim has forgotten and forgiven, the way their children were treated is not one of them.
But now is not the time to dwell on that. Stephen will be back any minute to take him inside, and he wishes to read a little more, remember a little more.
He places the postcard at the back and retrieves another from the front of the row. Incidentally, it has a photograph of a ginger cat, dressed in a specially designed tuxedo and a hat.
Freddie was really tickled by how much this cat resembled Oscar, and left the postcard on the bedside table one night for Jim to find the next morning.
Jim turns the card to look at the other side. A laugh escapes his mouth, sounding more like a breathless cough.
If Oscar was a Vogue model! And not a scratchy little thing that tears up every fabric on his body!
Oh, how Jim misses Oscar. He still remembers the phone call he received from Ms. White about his passing almost a decade ago. She had kept in touch, not very regularly, but would send Jim a birthday card each year with Oscar's photograph enclosed in the envelope. It was one of the very few tangible links he had maintained to Garden Lodge.
A cough, followed by another, and another interrupts his musings, as his hand yet again reaches to cover his mouth. His body bending forward, he tries to get the damn fit under control.
"Here, here, have a glass of water, Jim," he hears Stephen say, as his nephew puts the rim of a glass against his lips. He takes a few sips in between coughs with difficulty, his eyes watering with the strain on his body.
The water does soothe his throat, and he feels slightly better after a while. He takes a few shallow breaths—anything can set off another fit, even a breath taken too deep.
"You need to rest now, Jim. Come on, come inside," Stephen says, caressing Jim's back.
"In a minute, darling," he replies, calling his nephew the term of endearment out of genuine love, but also a habit he had acquired from his husband. "I just need to read one more of these."
Stephen sighs. "Just one?" Jim nods. "Okay, I'll be inside. Call me when you're done."
Jim listens to the retreating footsteps until the only sound he hears is of the birds in the sky. He places the postcard back inside the box, and picks up a letter—his final read of the day.
Jim smiles, his eyes quickly watering, as he reads the words of love written by Freddie's own hand, unbelievable even after all these years.
But what makes him believe, is the pain that he felt when Freddie was snatched away from him. You cannot feel such sorrow, such grief for someone who isn't yours, can you?
The pain over losing Freddie is still present, sometimes overpowering the physical agony he feels because of his own condition. It's been years and it's still difficult to live with.
But not for long. The reason why he can go through these letters after burying them deep in his wardrobe—and the memories they bring in his heart—is because he feels an odd sense of connection to Freddie, now that he is facing his own mortality. It's something that he never felt before.
It gives him the courage to look back on what he has lost, but also what he has gained. Years of sorrow, yes, but also pride. Pride at loving an extraordinary man, and the privilege of being loved by him, of holding his hand until the very end—an unbreakable bond.
It was this bond that kept him going all these years, gave him strength to fight off the vultures that circled over his head after Freddie's passing.
And now, he has gained a new connection to Freddie, giving him great fortitude to face his impending fate head-on, just like his husband.
Jim smiles, suddenly at ease, and looks at the garden in front him. He wonders what Freddie would have thought of it. It's a cheap imitation of the one at Garden Lodge, Jim feels. That one was nurtured by Freddie's love, his presence as much as Jim's skills. This one here has only seen his memories, wisps of the man who now only lives in the heart of the person planting the seeds.
He sighs and turns towards the box, closing it with a thud. He calls out for Stephen, who promptly arrives, and assists Jim to stand on his feet. Stephen holds the box in one hand, and wraps the other around Jim's thin waist.
"Thank you, darling," Jim says, and walks inside his house, his routine for the day complete, and his heart and mind at peace.
The letter is still clasped in his hand.
Dearest,
Thanks for the flowers. I love the Roses.
You make me a very happy man! ‐ yes happy as I have never been in my life.
Love –
Freddie.