Chapter Text
The day that Lieutenant Anthony Havers left for the North African front, it seemed that the weather was reflecting how the Captain of Button House Military Base was feeling. Unusually grey and misty for late June, fog hung heavy around the grounds and the air was thick with the scent of expectant rain. The Captain had never been one for heavy handed metaphors, but even he couldn’t help but muse on how fitting it all seemed. The day had been sombre, the threat of Jerry--and Havers’ impending departure--putting rather a damper on things. Hushed words had been exchanged throughout the base, and nobody missed how the Captain disappeared almost as soon as Havers had had his transfer papers handed over and received the customary salute. It was strange, the men mused: the two always seemed to get on so well, why would they be so formal now that Havers was leaving?
The Captain could feel his heart sinking as he stood stiffly by his office window, his hands clutched tightly behind his back. Havers was leaving. Deep down he had known that it was inevitable. A young, eager, handsome man who was not too unlike himself in temperament, desperate to get a swing in at Fritz… The Captain often found himself forgetting that most of his men had not seen true warfare. Most of them had hardly been alive during the Great War. Granted, the Captain himself had barely turned sixteen when he entered the trenches. He’d been desperate to sign up as soon as war was declared, but his mother had put her foot down: fourteen was too young to be going off to war. No, he was to stay in Surrey and finish his education. Two years into the war, though, when news of the Somme campaign had reached them by way of a battered box of his father’s belongings, she knew she couldn’t hold him off any longer. She had smiled so sadly at him on the day he went down to the village to enlist. “For King and country,” he had murmured to her as he hugged her goodbye. Two days later, he was in the trenches, and--
No, it beared not to think about. He shook himself a little, repositioning himself to ease the pressure on his aching knees. He could hear the door opening even all the way up here. Yes, there was Havers, strolling across the gravel driveway. As he reached the gate, he turned, looked the Captain dead in the eye and flashed him a small but somewhat sad smile as he raised his hand in a half-wave, half-salute. Something deep in the Captain’s mind told him that that would be one of the last times he ever saw Havers.
Alive, that is.
***
After the turning down of the golf consortium and the birth of their daughter putting them in even more dire financial straits than before, Alison and Mike were starting to explore new avenues for the house. A number of ideas had been thrown around (a roller rink in the main dining hall had been a particularly amusing idea, one which had sparked a fierce debate amongst the ghostly inhabitants of the house), but one day as she had been discussing how the land and the house had changed over the years with the ghosts, Alison had been hit with the bright idea of converting the house into a museum. After all, the ghosts had told her enough about the heritage of the house (mostly Fanny), the different uses over the years and the famous visitors to the estate, and any gaps she could plug with research. Grants for museums, too, were easier to obtain, so no sooner had the idea been stumbled across than it was being put into motion.
The War, as it turned out, was the easiest era to explore. One of the benefactors was soon revealed to be the grandson of one of the Button House XI and so was eager to teach others about the work of the garrison during the war. The Captain had been beside himself when Alison had told him that, bombarding her with questions-- who is he? Whose grandson is he? Is it Jeremy, he did have a nipper on the way in ‘43…? --which she had done her best to answer. The other ghosts remarked that they had not seen the Captain this excited since a military party had returned to the house some time in the late seventies.
So, the day that Alison told him that the grandson of Major Thomas Weatherby would be arriving by midday, you can only imagine how he reacted.
He smiled so widely that Alison thought that his face was about to split in two. He moved impulsively forward, looking as if he was perhaps about to envelope her in a hug before he remembered that he was… well, dead and thinking better of it. He thanked her, then busied himself with bustling around and telling the rest of the ghosts to be on their best behaviour much in the way a stern teacher does to a particularly naughty class of small children, the mental image of which set Alison off cackling to herself.
Simon Thomas Weatherby was a man in his mid-forties who somehow managed to look as if he was still in his early thirties. With slicked-back dark hair, a strong jawline and a straight posture which suggested a military family, he looked somewhat out of place among the ancient decor of Button House and with one of Mike’s comedy mugs clutched between his carefully manicured hands. Alison, with the Captain sat next to her looking more nervous than she had ever seen him before, sat opposite. Mike was upstairs with their daughter, having his turn in getting covered in some sort of baby fluid.
“My grandfather spoke fondly of his time here,” Simon said as he took a sip of his sweet tea. His diction told Alison he had been privately educated. “He said the grounds were top-rate, and the cricket too!” The Captain let out a soft chuckle. “He always said the C.O was top-class, if a little eccentric.”
“Did he?” Alison replied, unable to stop herself glancing at the Captain. He looked utterly shell-shocked, his mouth opening and closing again repeatedly, making him look rather like a fish out of water. Simon nodded. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a faded black-and-white photograph and slid it over to Alison. It was unmistakably the Captain, dressed in a loud argyle sweater vest and laughing at something someone off-camera was saying. Alison gestured a little to the sweater vest and raised an eyebrow: the Captain had the good sense to look embarrassed and mumble “it was the fashion, you see, never should have been talked into it” .
“Captain James Tesford,” Simon said. “He served here until ‘44 before being stationed in Weymouth. He died here in ‘45. Heart attack, they said. A combination of stress, a likely genetic abnormality and perhaps left-over trauma from the trenches.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Of course the base had been vacated by then. The higher-ups were here for a Victory Day party. No-one’s entirely sure why he was here.”
“Wow,” Alison breathed. She had known all of this, of course. After the line-dancing, Pat had taken her aside and told her in hushed tones what the Captain had told them just before. Whilst she was fairly sure that he knew, Simon did not know that she knew, and it would be a little uncomfortable to explain how she knew intricate details of a man’s death.
“Actually, he’s part of the reason why I’m here,” Simon said a little uncomfortably. Alison sat up a little straighter, nodding. Simon looked shiftily from side to side. He seemed to be considering how to phrase his next sentence. “Grandad said that there was a rumour, whilst they were all stationed here.”
“Yes?” Alison pressed.
“Well, they rather thought he was… a friend of Dorothy, if you understand my meaning.” Out of the corner of her eye, Alison saw the Captain freeze. She nodded, prompting Simon to continue. “Most of them thought it was horseplay of course, something to tease and scare the younger privates with. Then, well…”
Reaching back into his pocket, Simon retrieved an old letter from his pocket and placed it on the table. The paper was crackly and faded, looking like it may disintegrate if it were to be picked up or handled in the wrong way. There was a small, dark stain on the upper righthand corner of the envelope. In a sloping copperplate font on the front, it simply read “James” .
“Anthony…” the Captain murmured, barely audible.
“Major Anthony William Havers was stationed at Button House between the autumn of 1939 and late June 1940, although he was a lieutenant during his posting. Grandad says he remembered very little of him, as he had hardly been there for two weeks when Havers left for the North African front.”
Alison snuck a look to the side. The Captain’s back was ramrod straight, his hands clenched around his swagger stick. He didn’t seem to be breathing. Not that ghosts particularly needed to breathe, but the ghosts that Alison knew tended to breathe out of habit. Despite the fact she couldn’t say anything to him, she attempted to give him a small smile. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Havers was here when Captain Tesford died,” Simon continued. “And it rather set off some alarm bells with the higher-ups. You see, during the war, a lot was ignored.”
Here, he placed another photograph on the table. It had been taken in what Alison recognised as the main living room. The room was deserted, glasses and empty plates abandoned on most sides. It looked like there had been a party. There were two people in the photograph, tucked away in a corner. Their arms were around each others’ waists, and they appeared to be dancing. Whilst the photograph was bad, it was clear that it was the Captain and Havers.
“What are you saying?” Alison asked. She began to trouble her lip. Simon looked away, avoiding her gaze. Instead of answering her question, he reached into his bag again. This time, he pulled out a newspaper. It was old, the pages yellowed and crackling. The writing, however, was still clear and readable. The date proclaimed it to be from 1951.
“They found letters,” Simon said. As he was speaking, he was flicking through the newspaper. “There was nothing explicit, per se,” (here, the Captain’s cheeks flushed, and Alison chose to ignore it) “but it was enough for the courts to convict him of gross indecency.”
Having found the page he was looking for, he turned the newspaper around, pushing it towards Alison. The article was small, but it had been carefully outlined in red pen. The headline said: disgraced army officer convicted . “The conviction was flawed,” Simon continued as Alison scanned the article. “Evidence fabricated, the slightest word twisted. They even cited his grief after Captain Tesford’s death as evidence. The conviction was overturned eventually, but it was too late.”
Alison could feel her heart sinking. She knew what was coming, and a quick glance at the Captain told her that she knew too.
“It didn’t…” she murmured. Simon frowned a little, shaking his head sadly.
“Have you heard of Alan Turing?” he asked. She nodded. “Well, it was a similar situation, unfortunately. Except Havers refused to start the medication. The authorities discovered this, of course. The night he died was the night before he was to be remanded to prison.”
Alison looked over to the Captain whilst Simon gathered up the newspaper articles. There were tears in his eyes. He seemed to have forgotten that herself and Simon were in the room, instead being entirely focused on the letter.
“Why do you want to tell his story?” she asked Simon. She had a feeling he had been about to divulge details of Havers’ death, and she didn’t want the Captain to have to listen to that. It was one thing for them both to know what had happened, but quite another for them to actually hear the words spoken.
“I think it’s important,” Simon simply answered. He gave her a small smile. “Take your time to think it over, but the foundation would be pleased to fund an exhibition on queer soldiers in the Second World War.”
“Can I keep the letter?”
Simon gave her a strange look, but nodded.
He stayed for another cup of tea, conversation turning to his time in the army and anecdotes his grandfather had told him of the war. Alison couldn’t help but steal furtive glances at the strangely quiet and morose Captain.
When Simon left, Alison going along to see him off, the Captain stayed in the kitchen, staring at the letter. A thousand questions were running through his mind. Havers was dead. Whilst this fact had been fairly certain in his mind before, he’d expected Havers to have died rather a number of years later, not a mere six or seven after his own death. He’d survived. He was supposed to live.
They were supposed to live. When Havers had left for the front, they had promised that once this was all over, they would find each other. Of course, the Captain had thought, rather naively, that it would all be over by Christmas. That they would find each other again, in some crowded pub at a reunion for the Button House XI, and they would sit by the fire, exchanging stories of the war. Then they would make their way back home, and then--
Alison walking back into the room took him out of his thoughts. Clearing his throat, he sat up a little straighter as she sat down opposite him.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft. “I know you two were…” she trailed off, thinking for a moment. The Captain could feel his heart in his throat. “Close,” she settled on.
“Yes,” he managed to say.
They settled into an uncomfortable silence. Alison, feeling this, quickly busied herself with clearing the mugs and fussing with the washing up that had been sitting in the sink since the night before. Upstairs, they could hear Mia beginning to fuss. Sighing, Alison turned and went to head upstairs to comfort her, but stopped at the door when the Captain called out,
“How did he die?”
“What?” she said, turning back. The Captain was once again staring at the letter, avoiding her gaze.
“Havers. How did he…?”
Stopping, he shook his head. He reached the letter, but his hand brushed through it. A look flashed over his face and disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived.
“How did he die?” Alison asked. He nodded. She sighed, coming back into the room and sitting down again. “I don’t have many details. But Simon did say that Havers…” She took a deep breath. “He took his own life. I’m sorry.”
In an ideal world, the Captain could have taken some time to process this quietly as Alison left the room. However, in a house with many ghosts, a married couple and a new baby, there was rarely a moment’s peace. Of course, the moment where the Captain’s face collapsed was the moment that the rest of the ghosts chose to burst into the kitchen.
“Who was that?” Pat asked.
“Guys!” Alison hissed. “I didn’t say you could come in yet!”
“Can’t have been that important,” Julian said flippantly.
“Oh, look, a letter!” Kitty exclaimed, bounding forward to stand next to the unmoving Captain.
“Kitty, leave it,” Alison said quickly, but the damage had been done. The ghosts swarmed around the table, all trying to catch a glimpse of the letter before someone shoved them out of the way.
“James?” Thomas said. “Who’s James?”
“Captain,” Robin grunted.
“Your name is James?” Fanny asked. “Well, I never would have guessed that. I always thought you looked more like a Theodore.”
“Did none of you pay attention during the war?” Humphrey’s head piped up from somewhere in the room.
And just like that, they were all talking over each other, asking any number of questions, and for the Captain it was all too much. He stood up sharply, and had he been able to move objects, the chair would have screeched across the old floor. A glare so fierce was directed at the others that they all fell silent almost immediately, except for Julian, who continued to try and move the letter until another deadly look made him stop and take a step back.
“Honestly!” the Captain snapped, drawing himself to the tallest position he could. “You’re all acting like children! What is in that letter has nothing to do with any of you.”
“So you know what’s in the letter?” Thomas dared to say. If looks could kill, Thomas would have been the first ghost in history to experience a second death.
“That is none of your business, Thorne.”
“Hey!” Robin said, coming forward. “We tell you secrets.” As he spoke, he began to point at specific people in the group. “Pat tell about wife. Fanny talk about husband pushing out of window. We family. Family don’t keep secrets!”
“The Captain doesn’t have to tell you what’s in the letter if he doesn’t want to,” Alison said.
“Anyhow, I’m not reading it anyway,” the Captain proclaimed.
This made everyone, even Alison, stare at him in stunned silence.
“You’re having a laugh,” Pat breathed after a moment or so of quiet.
“I most certainly am not,” the Captain replied indignantly. “It’s my letter.”
“But--” Thomas began to say.
“Okay,” Alison said, sensing that it was probably best to cut him off before he really got started, and held her hand up. Grabbing the letter from the table, she strode across through the house until she reached the living room, the ghosts trailing behind her. She placed it, face down, on the mantle above the fire. She turned back to the Captain. “We don’t have to read it.”
“Don’t you want to know what it says?” Pat asked. The Captain, his lips pressed together, shook his head. He was clutching his swagger stick so tightly that had he been alive, his knuckles would have been turning white.
“Guys, leave him alone, okay?” Alison told the ghosts gathered in front of her. “It’s the Captain’s decision. And Julian--” (here, the offending ghost turned guiltily from where he had been sneaking over to the mantle) “don’t you dare open that letter, or there’s no more online golf.”
Julian grumbled a little, but moved away from the letter anyway.
“Very good,” the Captain mumbled. He was refusing to look anywhere near the fire as he cleared his throat and turned to Pat. “Right. What’s next on the agenda, Patrick?”
“Food Club!”
It’s like nothing ever happened, Alison thought sadly, watching the ghosts gather for their bi-weekly Food Club, the Captain in the middle of them and still avoiding the sight of the letter.