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Ruth is fourteen. John is twelve. Louise is eleven. Richard has met them once.
He watches them file out the car through the window of his parents' front room. Ruth comes first, dark like her father, with a sharp pointed nose and a blue dress. Then Louise – fairer, prettier, white dress. John comes last, shivering in his short trousers. The car is slick and bottle green, all sharp curves and silver edging.
"Is that them?" Richard's mother joins him at the window. "Oh, they're in Frank's car. Isn't it a sight? It's foreign, you know."
Richard makes a noise that could be interpreted as interested. His mother places a hand on his forearm – light, almost gentle.
"I've told him he'll keep a civil tongue in his head if he knows what's good for him."
He knows this already because he hid on the stairs to listen while she called Frank last night, like when he was a child and his parents had guests over and he would sit pressed to the wall with Jane beside him, pinching him periodically to remind him to be quiet. His mother said, “Really, Frank,” a lot, and then eventually, “If it means that much to you, Frank, then you needn’t come” before putting the phone down. And then picking it up again, “Oh, Frank, I’ll forget my head next – was it lamb or beef you wanted?”
The man himself is saying something to the driver of the car in none too pleasant tones. He gives a nod and turns to face the house. Nice suit. Terrible moustache. Richard thinks it through in his head. If the last time he saw his brother-in-law was the funeral – that makes it nearly ten years. Frank is remarried now, he knows (“A Catholic lass,” his mother had told him in a hushed tone, one befitting the discussion of a sudden and very violent death, “She’s terribly wealthy; new money, you know, some sort of heiress. But of course, still Catholic.”), with two more children and a nice big house into the bargain. Richard is not married, has never been married, has no children; he supposes it’s not really surprising his parents have stayed friendly with Frank all these years, even if he himself couldn’t stand it. By now they know as well as Richard does that Ruth, John and Louise are the only grandchildren they’re getting.
He looks down at his mother, her curly silver hair and crinkled face. Once she towered above Richard, but he has long been taller than both of his parents. She’s biting her lip, brows drawn. Richard looks more like his father, leaner and darker than Jane and Arthur, but he alone inherited his mother’s blue eyes.
“It’ll be fine, ma,” says Richard, “He won’t want to make a scene. ‘Specially not with our dad the way he is.”
Not that his father would notice either way; the only sound he’s made since Richard arrived on Monday is the occasional wheezing cough, rattling down the stairs from where the nurse has shut him up in Arthur’s old room. The constant noise should be comforting; it is not. Richard learnt in France, all those years ago, that there can be nothing worse than a drawn out death, and his father has been dying for months now. He has good days, of course, but he also has very bad days, and until yesterday it had seemed that the worse day of all was imminent – hence his summoning, along with Frank and the children’s. His mother has not left his side for days, until today, when Richard came down to find her making chutney in the kitchen and asked if he would be a dear and pick some more apples from the tree, there’s a good boy, and he knew that once again, the storm had passed.
His mother sighs. She loves Frank, and he her, in his way. It would be so much easier if they could get along – but then, a lot of things in Richard’s life could be easier. A knock at the door; Richard moves to open it but his mother suddenly clutches at him.
“What is it, ma?”
Impatient. Her grip tightens. “Richard,” she says, “You will be polite, won’t you?”
Another knock, louder.
“I will if he is,” says Richard, and his mother gives his wrist a slap before going to the door. Dutifully, Richard remains by the window while they exchange hellos, how was the journeys, my, haven’t you grown. Frank’s already bellowing out in the hall, about the incompetence of the chauffeur, got us lost twice, Margaret, we didn’t even leave the county. A high voice says well, Papa, that’s not his fault, you told him the wrong – Frank interrupts her, but Richard’s grinning. He decides he’s waited long enough and joins them in the hallway. Louise is pouting, arms crossed; she looks so much like her mother Richard could stare at her all day. Ruth’s helping Edna with her and her siblings’ coats – the most like her mother in temperament, then, she always were the one to look after them all. John’s still shivering. He’s the first to notice Richard, frowns up at him, the very spit of his father.
“Who are you?” he says, none too politely.
Richard opens his mouth to reply but before he can Frank turns; he watches, amused, as Frank’s face ripples and contorts to the very tips of his moustache. His mother lays a hand on his elbow. “I did say he’d be here, Frank,” she says, reprovingly.
Frank bats her away. His mouth is working without any sound coming out. Richard tries not to smile. “Hello, Frank.”
He holds out his hand; Frank purples. Richard takes his hand back.
His mother is shaking her head. “Don’t be so ridiculous,” she says, but her voice is strained, “Girls, John, this is your uncle. You’ve only met him once, but I doubt you remember.”
The children survey him. Louise still looks sulky; John unimpressed. Ruth is frowning.
“No, I remember,” she says, "You broke Papa's nose at Mama’s funeral."
He was really hoping people had forgotten that.
"No I didn't," says Richard as Frank says, returning to life with a bellow, "No he didn't!"
"You made it bleed," says Ruth.
"I didn't," says Richard, less convincingly.
"Well, you did, pet," says his mother. Frank turns a delicate shade of maroon.
“I think I’ll get Edna to make some tea,” says Richard, and he makes a hasty retreat. He ends up back by the window in the living room, slowly clenching and unclenching his fists. He’d been bruised for weeks after the funeral, his technique all off even with a childhood of schoolyard scraps under his belt. He looks down at his hands now, with its long fingers and palms calloused from a lifetime of carrying and polishing; back out the window. The day is mild, the sun bright behind a layer of smoggy cloud, and Frank’s car glints emerald on the quiet grey street. The door goes; he turns, but it’s only his mother. She looks tired already, and gets there first when he opens his mouth to speak.
“He’s still here,” she says, “Though happen I can’t say how pleased you are to hear that.”
Richard can’t either. He thinks of his nieces and nephew, but it’s not like they seemed similarly enthused. He’d be surprised if Frank had even told them he existed, to be honest. He’d almost be surprised if his mother had. The stairs creak above him.
"Where is he, then?" is all he says.
"He's taking the girls to see Father."
"Not John?"
"John’s having a funny do, Edna’s getting him a glass of water. Frank says he’s awful squeamish.”
"He's probably just cold," says Richard, “Is he coming in here, then?”
When his mother hesitates, Richard says, louder than he means to, "Ma, you can't possibly think -"
"Of course not," she says, flushing, "I just don't think our Frank would like it, that's all."
"I don't care what Frank likes."
"Richard!"
"Well, I don't. You saw him, ma, he could barely even look at me.”
"You did break his nose."
"Because he called me a pervert at my sister's funeral!"
"It was his wife's funeral, too. And it was so soon after the war…"
Richard doesn't remind her that he fought in it too, because to do that is to remind her of Arthur, who didn't come home, in the face of Richard, who did. Nice, normal Arthur, with a sweetheart he planned to marry on his next leave rather than a shifty expression whenever the subject came up. Arthur who watches all from the mantelpiece besides his sister, both of them smiling benignly down at the nasty pervert who is the last one left.
"I know," is all he says, softly, "And I'm sorry for it, I am. For all of it.”
For all of it. He’s not lying. He wishes he’d never punched the bastard – well. He wishes he’d never had to, at least. Wishes they could get along, for everyone’s sake – his mother’s, his sister’s. His own. Wishes Frank wasn’t a git. Wishes he wasn’t –
The door opens again and Edna guides John in. He sits on the settee, pale-faced.
“Ta,” Richard says to Edna; she flashes him a smile before retreating. He likes Edna, and the cook, Mrs Brown. He thinks they’d be friends if they worked at the same place.
While his mother fusses over John, Richard takes a seat opposite. John very deliberately doesn’t look at him. He clutches at the glass of water – like it’s a prayer book, Richard imagines.
“John,” he says. Maybe too loud – it makes him look up, at least, but so does his mother, and there’s a matching wariness in their eyes. Richard flexes his fingers, rubs each with his thumb. “How old are you now, then?”
“Our John’s twelve,” says his mother, before John can get there. Pointedly. They have a silent conversation – you should know this, Richard – I do, ma, it’s called conversation. John sits and stares at the water in his hands. Maybe Frank told him not to look too long at Richard. Maybe he’s been warned.
“Your gran tells me you’re a bright lad. What’s your favourite subject?”
John swallows. He wets his mouth. He still doesn’t look up. “I like history.”
“Oh yeah? Great battles and the like?”
“I like – the Romans.”
Richard thinks very hard. “Julius Caesar – we had a rhyme about him. Something about him catching a cold.”
“Our Richard was never very good in school,” his mother says, reprovingly.
“Ma!”
“Well, you weren’t. Too busy causing trouble. Not like –“
“I know, I know.” And he does know. He doesn’t look at the mantelpiece, but feels their eyes upon him. He does know. He slaps his knee. “What about sport, John, you like cricket? We’d have matches down the street, you remember, ma? Us and the Watsons against the Putwells.”
“And if you weren’t winning you’d get fed up and go off,” says his mother, “And Jane would come running to me complaining about you ruining it.”
“We’d never win, Arthur wouldn’t play proper like. He’d rather chat to the old ladies hanging out their washing.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” says Richard, irritated by his mother’s touchiness, “Just doesn’t make for the best game of cricket, does it?”
His mother sniffs again. “John doesn’t play sports, besides. He’s got a dicky heart.”
Christ thinks Richard. He drums his hands on his thighs, and for the first time in his life is saved by his brother in law, who re-enters the room with a bang of the door and a steeled expression, the girls trailing behind him. With immense effort, he approaches Richard, who jumps to his feet. Battle positions and all that, but to his surprise all Frank does is hold out his hand. Richard takes it, trying not to smile. Frank lets go very quickly.
“I ‘pologise,” he mutters, “For calling you a – well, a –“
“A pervert? S’alright Frank,” Richard claps him on the shoulder; Frank flinches, “Why call a shovel a spade? Hello, girls.”
They blink up at him. Their mothers’ round brown eyes, with none of the warmth. Too much Frank in there. But then, he is a stranger. He tries not to let his smile slip, takes a back seat while they settle around the room. Lets his mother, in the forced tones of the terminally polite, do the catching up, how’s school, how’s the little ones. How’s the stepmother, through gritted teeth. Louise does most of the talking, tossing her hair throughout. Ruth butts in to chastise her when one act or another becomes too much. John stays silent and staring balefully into his glass of water.
It’s while Frank’s waxing lyrical about his job that Edna finally pops her head in to announce dinner, and Richard’s the first to jump to his feet. He only makes it as far as the table before stopping short. With his father’s absence, his mother has been putting him in the patriarchal seat. It shouldn’t be a shock, now Frank’s here, to find himself tucked away in the corner, and it’s not, not really. It’s not even a kick in the teeth. It’s just practical. Frank’s the man of the house, now.
Richard slinks into the seat opposite Ruth (God, even John takes priority), distracts himself with a mouthful of wine (he’s not being a snob to say it’s terrible compared to what they’ve got at the palace). The rest file in after him, John steeling himself before sitting beside Richard. In silence, Edna serves out the food before melting away. Frank watches her go before turning to Richard.
“I’m guessing you’re still –“ He doesn’t finish, just nods in the direction of Edna’s closed door. Richard cannot believe he’s asking what he thinks he’s asking.
“Yes,” his mother says, very quickly, “Still at the palace.”
“Oh.” Richard hides his smile behind another sip of wine. “Yes. That.”
Louise cranes round to look at him. “Buckingham Palace? Really?”
“You’re a servant?” says Ruth, much less impressed.
“It’s different when you’re at the palace,” says his mother, “You’re almost a member of nobility by association.”
It’s not true, at all, really, but he has a suspicion his mother has said those words so many times she almost believes it herself. The children look a modicum more interested, at least. And so Richard takes a breath, and steps into the role. Did you know the King does this? He said this? Once, he did this? Even Frank ruffles his moustache in an impressed sort of way, as much as he pretends he’s not listening. Richard’s tales last until the final plates are cleared, and then he falls silent, relieved the ordeal is over. He checks his watch; nearly time.
His mother stands, “Shall we go through?” and Richard takes advantage of them all shuffling after her to nip upstairs. He changes out of his dinner jacket into his favourite grey suit, and brushes his teeth, which feels overwhelmingly presumptuous. On the landing, he pauses outside Arthur’s room. He takes a breath before opening the door. His father is asleep, but not peacefully; his face is screwed up, and every now and again he lets out a hacking cough that rocks the whole bedframe. Richard presses the back of his hand to his forehead; he’s not hot, but the touch soothes some of the wrinkles, so Richard leaves it there. With his eyes closed, the resemblance between the two of them is striking. Richard supposes this is what he will look like on his deathbed. If he survives as long as his father, of course. It’s not like his siblings have a good track record. The thought makes him shiver, especially in Arthur’s old room. It’s been twelve years since his death, so the room no longer feels like him – gone are the rocks and fossils and pressed flowers he used to find and display, and the earthy smell that accompanied them has been replaced by that of disease and disinfectant. But Richard still remembers lying on the floor pretending to snore while Arthur patiently explained what an ammonite was, the way he would throw rocks at the window every time Arthur would sneak a sweetheart upstairs. Waking his first night home after the war to find his mother sat on the bed with Jane rubbing her back, weeping into her hands: “My boy, my baby boy.” The way the floorboards creaked and Jane glanced up, and for just a second she looked at him with enmity, before the expression faded into tiredness and she shook her head to send him back to bed.
The memory drives him from the room. He resists the temptation to look into Jane’s; the children will be staying there tonight, with Frank in the master bedroom, and his mother crammed into the spare. He wonders if they discussed it, or if it was assumed.
He tries to tiptoe down the stairs but can’t help but stop at the sound of laughter in the front room, nudging open the door. Edna’s lit a fire and they’re all gathered around it like a picture postcard. Frank, John and Louise are playing some card game, Ruth and his mother stitching. As he watches, Louise plays a winning card; John scowls, and Frank laughs at them both as he takes the cards back to re-shuffle. His mother beams down at them, happier than he’s seen her in a long time. Richard watches for a long moment. And then he closes the door and turns away.
As he fetches his coat, the door opens and closes again.
"You needn’t leave,” says his mother.
Richard puts on his coat, followed by his hat and gloves. Thomas’ gloves. The hallway is dark and cold, and he shivers as he winds his scarf tightly around his neck.
"I'm not," he says, "I'm meeting a friend.”
“A friend? Here?”
“We’re getting a drink. In town. I'm not sure when I'll be back."
"But you will be back?"
"Of course, ma."
He looks at her, then, and she is blinking and smoothing her hands down her front. Richard abruptly feels very guilty. He bends and kisses his mother on the cheek.
"Don't wait up, ma. I'll be late."
"Who are you meeting?"
"I told y'. Just a friend."
"Do be careful, Richard."
Richard opens the front door. The air is cold – too cold to make the walk pleasant. "When am I not?"
***
The drive from Downton to Chapelfields feels endless, but still, he is not relieved to finally turn onto the street. Leaving the car feels like letting go of another piece of Thomas. He touches the seat beside him, but it has long since lost the residual warmth of his passenger. Practically, he knows this is a good thing, but he can’t quite make his heart believe it.
He quietens the engine as he pulls up outside the house; although he doubts Frank failed to notice the disappearance of his car, he would rather avoid an argument about it at two in the morning. The street is deserted, and the noise of the car door closing echoes on the flagstones. Even his fogged breaths sound deafening as he steals up to the house and lets himself in. He doesn’t turn on the light, and has to feel around for the hat and coat stand. A rustle in the front room makes him freeze. Holding his breath, he nudges open the door, and just about jumps out of his skin.
“Ma, what are you doing?”
His mother sits on the settee in her housecoat, barely illuminated by the dying embers of the fire. He turns on the light, and although she blinks a bit, she still manages to do so haughtily, nose in the air.
“So,” she says, “You did decide to come back.”
Carefully, Richard closes the door behind him. Even more carefully, “I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”
When his mother says nothing, he sighs.
"You weren't fretting, were you?"
She sniffs, as though saying, what do you think. Richard sighs again, goes to sit beside her.
"I did tell you I'd be late." When she doesn't say anything, he adds, with as little impatience as he can manage, "I am thirty four, ma."
"I know that!" she says, "But a mother's still allowed to worry, isn't she? Especially - especially when -"
She trails off, blushing. Richard feels sorry for her. It must be far easier for her to forget his predilections when he's not sitting in front of her. He wonders if his mouth is swollen, his clothes rumpled. If the scent of Thomas clings to him, or perhaps the scent of guilt.
"Frank's ever so mardy about you gallivanting off in his car," she says, eventually.
"I bet. I might catch an early train, try avoid him."
"You're leaving? Already?"
Richard tries not to roll his eyes at the accusatory tone. "I told y' I wouldn't be able to stay more than three days, ma. Now’s day four. Besides, it doesn't look like he’s dying anytime soon."
"But he is dying. You should be here."
"I know I should, ma. And I want to be." But as he says it, he's not thinking of his father, he's thinking of Thomas. "But they'd never let me take the time off. There's a whole queue of men waiting to take my place if I start causing trouble."
"I wouldn't call this trouble, Richard."
"Well, Wilson would."
"The things I'd like to say to your Wilson." She shakes her head and stands, gathering the glasses scattered around the room. Richard watches her, something tugging at his heart.
"Ma?"
"Yes, pet?"
"The friend I saw today," he says, slowly, and watches her go very still, "They're a good friend, you know."
"Mm? I'm glad to hear it, pet."
"The best friend I've ever had, really." When she says nothing, he says, "Would you ever think about meeting them?"
His mother is silent. Richard knots his fingers together, squeezes.
"I wouldn't know what to say to a friend of yours, Richard,” she says eventually, and her voice is brittle.
"You wouldn't have to say anything particular. I'd like them to meet you, and you him. He hasn't got much in the way of family."
"Whyever not?"
"Come on, ma. You know why."
She puts the glasses on the sideboard with more force than necessary, so they clink together. "A disgrace. To abandon a son, when he could have just as easily died."
Richard supposes in a way he has the war to thank for his relationship with his mother - the fact it exists at all. He had been able to hide his attraction to men, the illicit encounters he had with boys from school, but not his complete disinterest in women, the face he pulled when his mother praised this or that girl. For some years, it was just about possible for his family to blame it on his youth – he just needed to grow up a bit, then he’d find the right girl – even as they all neatly ignored the fact that Arthur, who was two years younger, had already had sweethearts. But while Jane married and Arthur began seriously courting one her friends, Richard crept closer and closer to his twenties, unattached, indifferent, and with a childhood of wearing his sister’s dresses and insisting on marrying the boy next door fresh in his parents’ minds. And then his mother sat him down and asked, voice gentle but pointed, whether he had ever thought of going into service; that her sister worked at Clarence House, and could certainly get him a job, and Richard realised he was being neatly but forcibly tucked away, to give his parents’ a ready explanation for the neighbours for both his unmarried status and his infrequent visits.
But then there was the war, and the flu, and everything changed. They never spoke about it, but it was clear that all three of them understood. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Come for dinner, but Dear God, I don’t want to know anything about it.
“I think his parents haven’t spoken to him since before the war,” says Richard.
“But he did fight, I hope.”
“He was a medic.” When his mother says nothing, he adds, “His name’s Thomas. He’s butler at the big house down Thirsk way.”
“The one with the American? And that lass who ran off with the chauffeur?”
“That’ll be it.”
His mother sniffs, and he can tell she’s impressed and trying not to show it.
“He’s not a Catholic,” says Richard.
She shoots him a look, but her lips twitch. “That’s not funny, Richard. Frank would have a fit if he heard us even discussing this. Your father too. Your brother and sister will be turning in their graves."
“I know,” says Richard, and his smile fades, “Still, you’ll think about it, won’t you, ma?”
He watches his mother finish and wipe her hands on her dress. It’s the same gesture he does when he’s anxious, but perhaps the glasses have merely dampened her hands. “I’ll try, pet. I’ll try.”