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‘Visiting at 2 p.m this Saturday. If inconvenient, please reply.’
Alan had no idea what to make of the telegram.
He had read through the words multiple times since he received it on Wednesday morning. He had even (not without shame) examined it to the light, hoping some hidden message might come out from between the words. It was only on Saturday morning—this morning—during his running exercise, that it hit him that there might not have been a hidden message to begin with.
But the signature was Hugh Alexander.
So there must be something. There alway was—every word he said and everything he did contained some deeper meaning.
Alan began his warm-down jogging, otherwise he would begin to panic.
After the war, Alan left Bletchley Park for National Physical Laboratory (the NPL) to reconstruct Christopher, but Hugh did not leave. He entered Government Communications Head Quarters (the GCHQ), a reincarnated version of Bletchley. Thus, with London and post-war reconstruction between them, they barely heard from each other save for the few words passed by Joan.
…until this inexplicable telegram.
Hugh Mysterious Alexander, whom he hadn’t seen for long, was due to appear at his door step in ten hours. Alan decided he had a very good reason to panic a little bit, although he was unwilling to give in to that irrational panic.
At least not this early.
Alan personally thought himself not entirely incapable of handling a ‘human conversation’.
Conversation is achieved mainly by making dialogues, which is to say, by pronunciation and the combination of words, while its purpose is to convey a message or to express an expectation. However, more often than not, people tended to presume a mutual understanding of a certain subject. They would encode the information for the first time with rhetoric presumed to be familiar for both participants of the conversation, and then would do it for the second time with emotion. Only after that would they let themselves toss him the confused set.
Each stage was a huge challenge except for the literal meaning. The emotion was not actually the hard part, though. Mostly, Alan could recognise others’ feelings towards him—considering his past experiences, he could hardly call it a miracle—unless it was someone who was exceptionally good at conducting themselves, someone who was able to encode a simple sentence mercilessly with all those layers of gestures, facial expressions and tones.
Someone like Hugh.
Who was soon to be here.
God, I’m already panicking, thought Alan.
The sign of the panic was that he could not keep the disastrous evening in early 1941 from replaying in his mind.
It was one of the rare kind of winter nights—mildly warm and not very damp. For some reason, Hugh invited him to dinner.
At his place.
Thanks to Joan, there was no longer tensions between Alan and his colleagues, but entering another’s territory still unnerved him.
And it was Hugh’s territory. God knew Alan never worked up the courage to look him in the eye.
Those greenish grey eyes…
Hugh’s lodging was rented from local habitants. He had lived it to a typical cosy nest of a content bachelor’s. Piles and piles of newspaper and books thrived like mushrooms from every place. The bedroom door was left half-open, Hugh’s fine waistcoat and tie could be seen resting carelessly over the back of a chair, and laundry bags crouched in the corner like over-sized terriers waiting to be taken away by cleaners. Every time a breeze came in from the chink in the window, the scent of after-shave and shaving cream was sent all over the room from the lavabo with the smell of food in the kitchen.
Sitting in the small sitting-room, Alan wriggled uncomfortably. Even merely sitting there gave him a feeling of almost indecent intimacy, as though he was sitting in Hugh’s arms.
This was certainly not a good time to study his eye colour.
From where he was, Alan could hear Hugh complaining loudly about how the rationing made him unable to provide a decent dish. Despite being in the narrow kitchen, Hugh, just like usual, managed to adopt a most charming posture and kept it for hours - well maybe not so long.
But something was not quite right. There was a tightness in Hugh’s voice that alarmed Alan.
The atmosphere did not relax until food was brought in.
Alan had never imagined that it could be such a pleasure just to look at the food.
Diced meat and potatoes were placed carefully on one side of the plate with bread - they were yellow, while peas, greens and broccolis lined up on the other - they were green. It must had been hard to keep the dark red gravy in one place, for it was held in a separate little dish.
Hugh quietly cleared his throat across the table. ‘I suggest you start quickly. It was already half cold without all those arrangements.’
His own food was a dull mess. Hugh watched Alan as the latter ate happily through what was meant to be braised beef in red wine, and thought that soup was actually the top form of muddling yet Alan appeared to be unbothered.
He didn’t intend to remind him, though.
Tension descended once more while the two of them sipped their coffee after dinner on the sofa.
Hugh, unsurprisingly, was the one to break the silence. ‘Your vest—’
Alan could only watch as he reached out and pulled off a ball of fluff from the woolen clothing.
‘—is it from a pair of deft hands, with love?’ he asked and flipped it away casually.
‘Eh—no. No. Bought it from a store. Manufactured, I would think.’
Hugh seemed to have made an great effort to hold back a less than pleasant remark. He quirked his lips into a half-smile. ‘It looks not bad. Soft, warm, and—matches your eyes.’
Alan quickly moved his eyes away. Since when were they sitting face to face?
A familiar anxiety crept over him. Alan understood that he was expected to give a response, but he could not since his mind was foggy and had no idea what was going on.
Hugh’s eyes were still fixed firmly on him.
‘You know, I like those ladies’ little hats in Bletchley.’
‘Everybody knows.’ Alan said quickly, quite pleased with himself for having something to say at last.
‘But…I quite love the terrible vests of the men, too.’
As he spoke, Hugh moved slowly yet determinedly next to Alan. Between them, the fraction within an inch was quickly filled up by an unnameable sensation.
‘Alan, I know your feelings towards me. Actually, I did when I tossed you the figure “1,5,9”.’
Great, since I lack certain studies in this area, you can be quite a useful reference system, thought Alan. He could hardly breathe.
Hugh lifted his hand, and, with rare hesitation, placed it on Alan’s knee.
Alan stopped breathing altogether. He had ridden in heavy fogs, and now he felt just the same like that.
Except that this was drier, warmer and…better?
‘Now, I can’t say I bare no similar feelings. Alan, we - we can give ourselves a chance. I know, Bletchley is hardly the best place, nor is the war the best time for this. You may think me too realistic, but what if…what if this is the only chance? Alan, it’s worth a try. And we’re both clever enough, careful enough—’
‘No!’
That came out of no where. Even Alan himself was taken aback. Did I really speak? What did I say?
Before he could find the answer, Hugh’s hand was gone.
‘Fine. If you think so.’
For the rest of his time there, they only exchanged a few words of civilities in embarrassment before Alan literally fled, nearly forgetting his coat.
Guilt followed him all his way. Alan could feel that somehow he had disappointed Hugh, but, the thing was, he didn’t even know what Hugh was expecting.
After that incident, Hugh Alexander was still the friendly colleague and warm friend, but Alan knew they were never again so close as they had been that day, and he could not fathom whether or not he should be glad for that.
More issues followed close upon: Denniston, Joan’s almost quitting, the bottleneck of their research, and then the engagement. At the end of his tether, Alan had no time for anything else.
On the simple engagement ceremony, he sat away from the dancing floor and watched Joan dancing with Hugh. Both of them were laughing. They looked so great. He felt as if he was dreaming, or was just awoken, which solely depended on the perspective, he thought.
Joan deserved a husband who could always make her that happy, and Hugh—
Alan glanced at him and quickly looked down. His gastric acid was being secreted in large quantity, his stomach was twisted in knots, and the inefficiency of digestion resulted by that left the organ hanging heavily between his rib cages, approximately two inches from the heart.
Yet, illogically, people called it ‘heartache’.
Alan literally jumped as the doorbell went off and banged his knees on the tea table. Cursing under his breath, he limped to the door.
‘Old friend.’ Hugh smiled at him, glowing with pure joy.
‘Welcome -’ Alan sidestepped clumsily to let him in.
The host held the doorknob, at a loss what to do, but Hugh just ignored him. Looking very much at ease, he hung up his hat and coat and then stood himself in the sitting room, leisurely inspecting the decor inside.
‘If you sit down properly, then I can pour you some tea.’ Alan squeezed past him and was about to made his way to the kitchen when suddenly Hugh grabbed his wrist.
‘Is there anyone else in your home?’ Hugh asked in a low voice.
‘No,’ Alan, affected, also lowered his voice, ‘If you’re being followed…you can live in the study, just there. But I’ll have to tidy up a bit -’
Hugh gave him a quizzical look. ‘What’re you thinking about? I brought you something, is all. Might be a little troublesome if it’s seen by others, though.’
He led them to sit down and opened his briefcase. He reached into an interlayer, hesitated for a second, and then moved his hand to another zipped interior pocket.
From inside the pocket he drew out a folder which contained a stack of little bags made of parchment paper. In each bag there was a tiny dark spot, not bigger than a period in a newspaper article.
Hugh held the folder carefully in both hands and handed it to Alan. ‘Your Christopher.’
Instantly, the brightness of the world went up a level.
Alan took it with equal care, fearing that any rough movement might jumble them up. His mind was already running through all kinds of permutations and combinations, more than eager to decipher the message and bring back Christopher.
The parchment paper was thin and transparent, but it would be hard to see though once it was folded. Alan examined it from every angle but still couldn’t have a clear look. He dared not move them or take out the contents. Besides, the visible dots seemed too disordered to be any kind of known cipher.
Hugh leaned quite relaxed with one arm on the back of the sofa. He was actually smirking.
Alan finally gave up. Reluctantly yet very carefully, he put down the folder on the tea table.
‘H-how do you use, eh, their permutation to convey messages?’
Hugh shrugged. ‘You got me. I don’t know.’
‘B-but you just said…’Alan gestured weakly.
‘Oh, I shot the most important documents with a minicamera. These here are films.’
Alan supposed he must have looked stupid, because Hugh chortled.
‘Good God, your face!’ he laughed so hard that he had to wipe his eyes with a handkerchief, ‘I shall never forget that.’
Alan should have been angry, if Hugh hadn’t been so charming when he laughed.
Hugh dried his eyes, still sniggering. ‘Just a joke, fellow,’ and this time he drew out a stack of paper from the interlayer, ‘I’ve had them developed.’
There they were, all of them.
Alan turned the pages, and saw the familiar circle of Joan’s ‘g’s, Peter’s thin pointy ‘A’s, John’s plump ‘C’s and ‘D’s, and Jack’s stretched handwriting. Of course there was also his own writing which resembled a wavy line and Hugh’s posh cursive script that slightly tilted to the right.
‘Oh.’ Alan choked out the word. He blinked hard, but still his vision became blurry.
Silently, Hugh passed him the handkerchief. Alan accepted it, covered his face and did not take it off for a long while.
‘When?’
‘After Menzies gave the order, before we lit the fire.’ Hugh looked at him thoughtfully, ‘Anyway, Menzies appreciated you, and made the mistake of thinking all the cryptanalysts were the same as you. He didn’t even send a surveillant.’
‘Thank God, you weren’t.’
Hugh laughed again, but this time much more softly.
‘Haven’t you got something to say?’ he asked.
For a minute, Alan stared at him blankly. ‘Ah, yes. Thank you, thank you ver - very much.’
‘You’re welcome. And now, haven’t you a thing to do?'
This time it took Alan even longer. Hugh grew impatient. Exasperated, he opened his arms. ‘Now get over here and give me a hug, you damn bastard.’
The instant Alan moved near he was drawn into a strong embrace that lasted several seconds and that squeezed all the air out of him.
‘I called you a bastard, but that was meant to -’ said Hugh in his ear.
‘- to express intimacy and affection,’ Alan interrupted, ‘I know.’
‘Joan trained you well.’ Hugh snorted and let go of him.
‘She didn’t train me.’ Alan objected.
‘Whatever you say.’ Hugh’s eyes softened, ‘How I miss the days we spent working together in the Hut. Not the war, though, of course.’
Or the spy, thought Alan. ‘Joan’s in GCHQ, too.’
‘Yeah, but that’s a large institution with all those people and affairs. And she’s still unmarried. It’s not like I can go have lunch with her everyday.’ Realising that was beyond Alan’s comprehension, Hugh gave his hand a wave to indicate it was unimportant.
However, right after that, he did something else that baffled Alan even more: he let out a long sigh, and fell silent.
‘Alan.’ Minutes later, Hugh suddenly called him. Alan got a strong sense of déjà-vu.
‘Alan, what I originally planned was to give you the prints and leave, but now, I find myself not really content to do so.’
‘To show my gratitude, I should - I should find a good restaurant.’ Alan stood up and looked around, flustered, not knowing whether he had a book to consult.
‘Good heavens,’ Hugh moaned, and pointed to his seat, ‘Sit down.’
Sometimes he could be a bit bossy.
Alan followed his order obediently. He put both hands between his knees, and listened anxiously.
‘Alan,’ and Hugh said his name, again, ‘That day in Bletchley, it was thoughtless of me, so I can understand your refusal, but I…I don’t believe that was the end. I found the moment I entered that my feelings have not changed in the slightest. Alan, this is a second chance, and perhaps also the last one. After all, the war has ended, and things are not the same any more!’
Alan did try. He tried his best yet in vain to come up with an answer, only to see Hugh’s good-looking, greenish grey eyes dim at his silence.
‘Damn it, we bloody beat Hitler!’ Hugh croaked a dry laugh, his voice filled with bitterness, ‘Fine. At least you can’t blame me for bringing up the damnable suggestion once again. Because it does worth it.
‘I should go now. Thanks for your hospitality, old friend.’ He stood up, ready to leave.
Wait, once again?
‘You said “once again”.’ Alan grabbed him by the hem of his coat.
‘I did.’ Hugh frowned in confusion.
‘So, you have made the same suggestion before.’ The retrieval range was considerably narrowed down. Alan’s heart thumped in his chest. He smelt the answer.
‘Of course I d- Damn it!’
Seemed Hugh had found another vital answer before him. Alan made an effort to push aside his childish curiosity and instead focus on the deduction.
‘You don’t know what I’ve been suggesting at all.’ Hugh said tonelessly.
Alan gratefully shook his head, hoping he could elaborate.
But Hugh just buried his face in his hands and heaved another long, pained sigh. ‘I hate you.’
‘Ah.’ Well that was a bit hurtful.
‘No! No no, Alan, that wasn’t what I meant to say.’ His one hand was on his hip while the other, clutched in a fist, waved vaguely in the air.
‘What I meant was - was that -’ he stumbled over his words, and coughed before he could continue, ‘ that I love you, and that I am sexually attracted to you. Also, that if you don’t mind, I would like to spend the life with you. How about that?’
Alan gasped.
‘Too straightforward now?’ Hugh raised a brow with sarcasm.
‘…y-yes.’ Alan swallowed, ‘Fine…I mean, I don’t mind.’
‘You’ve accepted.’ A small smile appeared on Hugh’s face.
‘I, eh, because, I, eh, l-love you, too.’ The words were like the last turn of the Rubik’s Cube that made all the colours finally fall in place.
‘I knew it.’ Hugh gave a resonant laugh and tossed away his coat.
He’s going to stay longer, thought Alan. The finding pleased him a lot.
‘So, w-when did you -’ Alan cast him a shy look and pointed at himself.
‘Remember the day I lost my temper? Not my proudest time, by the way. You were frightened to death but still tried to shield your Christopher. And I thought, good God, the fellow actually believes his machine can work, so, just maybe, this is not actually an entirely terrible idea.’
Was that supposed to be sarcastic? Miraculously Alan took no offence. It might be because of Hugh’s gentle tone, or perhaps the warm hand on his neck, or probably the fact that Hugh was kissing him.
TBC