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Monty had ended up accepting Charles’ offer far sooner than he’d expected.
Celebrations had been sparse for the last few years, an agreement that it wasn’t right to celebrate when so many of their people were living in fear for their lives. Monty’s suggestion that it was all the more reason to celebrate, in honour of those who couldn’t, had been firmly outvoted. But now that there was finally good news on the front line with the invasion of Sicily ongoing, the family summons had been issued. His mother had quoted the old proverb when Monty enquired on the occasion: “Eat and drink, for tomorrow we shall die.”
He'd been about to correct her to ‘we are currently trying not to die’ when she continued: “And perhaps you can finally bring that handsome man to introduce to us? It is Tu B’Av after all, the celebration of love! We are beginning to think he doesn’t exist!”
A thick knot of dread had tightened in his stomach. The usual non-committal response died on the tip of his tongue as terror muted him; they were getting suspicious. They were seeing through his sham. And what if one lie unravelling led to another, and led to Stuart poking around in his business, and led to –
Nightmare scenarios and anxious spiralling aside, what it actually led to was Monty begging Charles to come down to his family estate for the occasion.
Charles, naturally, immediately started fretting about details that Monty hadn’t even considered. “But how long do they think you’ve been married? Am I going to have to use a fake name? I don’t know if I can do that Monty!” he despaired, eyes enormous with worry.
“Not at all,” Monty said, clapping him on the shoulder in what he hoped was a reassurance. “I used the whole espionage thing to my advantage – helped keep the details to a minimum, you see. I told them I was marrying a secret agent, so obviously I couldn’t give his name away to anyone outside the ministry. And we only signed the marriage papers at the courthouse back in ’41 to avoid living in sin.”
He raised his eyebrows suggestively, causing Charles to blush bright red. “Of course, they’ll be expecting us to renew our vows with all the bells and whistles once the war’s over. But don’t worry, I can fake your death or something if you don’t feel like committing to the bit.”
Charles flinched viscerally. “Don’t speak that into existence while there’s still bombs coming down on us!” he pleaded, with an upwards glance as if half expecting a German shell to be homing in already.
Monty chuckled, squeezing his shoulder in wordless apology. “We’ve got two weeks to come up with our story: Charlie, why don’t you take the floor?” he said, handing Charles a stick of blackboard chalk.
Approaching the blackboard, Charles looked thoughtful as he jotted down a list of numbers. “The first thing we’ll need is a story. How we met, what details we can thread into what you’ve already told them,” he started. A surprised look crossed his face to see Monty had dropped into his chair the second he’d vacated it. “And then you’ll need to teach me about your family so that I don’t make an utter fool of myself.”
“Well, you’ve already met Ivor and dear Hell, so we’ve made a start on that,” Monty said approvingly. “Then there’s Stuart, my older brother, who inherited all the money and none of the family flair. Imagine Reggie but minus the imagination. And then there’s Joyce, my sister, who will undoubtedly try and drag me into discussing women’s issues the second we arrive.”
He didn’t realise he’d trailed off until Charlie broke the silence. “Monty? Are you… are you going to be alright?” he asked, clearly nervous of his choice of words.
Monty cleared his throat loudly, plastering an easy smile on his face as he met Charles’s concerned expression. “Of course, my little genius. You’ll pick up on it all in no time. And I lived as a woman for longer than you’ve been alive, I daresay. It’s like riding a bicycle, it all comes back quickly.”
The metaphor crossed his mind as he made an absolute butcher’s job of shaving his legs on the morning of Tu B’Av, cursing viciously in his bathroom. With Mincemeat having taken up all of his time for the past few months he hadn’t been home since Chanukah, far longer than normally passed between visits. Maybe it was possible to fall out of practice. He would have to clean himself up before Charles arrived, the man was even worse at dealing with blood than Monty was.
“Monty? I’m here, I let myself in. I do hope that’s alright?”
Drat. He should have foreseen this when he told Charles where the spare key was kept.
“Don’t come in! I’m having a bit of a situation,” Monty called frantically, scrubbing his leg with toilet paper.
Charles sounded unconvinced from where he was clearly stood right behind the bathroom door. “Oh! Uhm, alright. I’ll be out here if you need anything.”
Crisis successfully averted, Monty replaced the razor in the bathroom cabinet and waited impatiently for his knees to stop bleeding. If this was riding a bike, he had tumbled over the handlebars and skinned both his knees. At least biking to work made for a reasonable excuse for grazed shins as well as a daft metaphor.
Upon walking into his living room, he was greeted by an anxious Charles pacing up and down the carpet. Other than having had his trousers freshly pressed, he looked hardly different from his typical office attire. He seemed to be in a different world as he muttered under his breath, though startled spectacularly when he saw Monty dressed in only an oversized sleep shirt and boxer shorts. “Bloody hell Charlie, that was one of your best ones yet,” Monty remarked, looking him up and down.
“Sorry Monty. I was just refreshing myself on the Tu B’Av customs,” Charles stammered, regarding him with an odd look. “Are you alright?”
Monty brushed him off, catching his reflection in the mantlepiece mirror and groaning. He had wanted to be far more prepared than this by the time Charles arrived. The haggard figure staring back at him, dark circles visible beneath his eyes despite the thick layer of makeup, didn’t bode well for his mother’s imminent questioning.
“Monty?”
He blinked at Charles, feeling unexpectedly lost for words. “Yes, yes. I’m quite alright,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair. That was another thing he hadn’t dealt with yet, though at least the bonnet would hide most of the tangles. “I should get dressed. Feel free to make yourself a drink, you know where everything is.”
Twenty minutes later found him stood in the eye of a hurricane, discarded items of clothing scattered around him on the bedroom floor. His hands shook as he attempted to fasten another dress behind his back. Too much time had passed and nothing fit right anymore, and the brassiere was making his ribs ache, and the buttons wouldn’t do up, and –
Hot tears spilled down his face, undoubtedly ruining the makeup he’d just spent so much time on. He let out a ragged sigh. Trying to put his guard back up was far harder when not armoured with a tailored suit.
Before he could convince himself otherwise, he spun on his heel and stormed back into the living room. Charles startled again but Monty didn’t comment, forgoing a greeting to turn his back to him and ask, “Are you any good with buttons?”
Charles’ only answer was the sound of soft footsteps closing the distance between them. “Monty, you’re hurt,” he said with quiet horror.
“Oh, that?” Monty asked with false casualness. He knew what Charles was referring to; the red raw skin circumferencing his ribs from the bandages that were normally wound tight around his chest. It wasn’t something he even glanced twice at anymore, so accustomed to it after years of overuse. It was a small price to pay for the confidence that his bindings gave him.
Monty felt Charles’ hand brush the fabric of his dress, quiet in contemplation. “I have an ointment in my briefcase for my allergies. I think it will help. Can I, err, I mean, would you mind, if I…?”
Not trusting his voice to not betray him, Monty nodded. He clutched the neckline of the dress under his chin and closed his eyes as he heard Charles rummage through his briefcase, attempting to brace himself for the contact as Charles stood behind him again. A hiss of pain still escaped through gritted teeth at the cold ointment on his back.
He found himself nervously twisting his wedding band as Charles worked silently, until a thought occurred to him. “You’ll need to wear this,” he said, twisting off the ring.
Charles blinked as Monty turned and held out the wedding band. “Oh, erm, of course. May I finish addressing your wounds first?”
“‘Wounds’ seems a bit excessive, dear boy,” Monty scoffed, but turned around all the same.
Hesitant hands slipped beneath his dress fabric to reach the grazes that extended under his arms. Monty shivered. He couldn’t remember the last person who had touched him there. Years, it had been. Years of the same awful waltz he reprised every night spent at London’s clubs; to lay eyes on someone exquisite, kiss them until he almost forgot, and then run as soon as passionate hands began to fiddle with his shirt buttons. To ignore the confusion or anger hurled after him, to suppress the aching loneliness that threatened to burst out of his bound chest. To wrap his bandages even tighter the next morning. To wonder how tight he would need to pull at the fabric until it kept him from falling apart.
Eyes stinging with tears, Monty stared up at the ceiling and blinked furiously in an attempt to maintain his composure. Charles finished methodically applying the ointment, muttering the need to wash his hands as he brushed past Monty towards the kitchen. Monty fished a velvet box from the depths of his own briefcase before following him.
The sight of Charles so casually washing his hands in Monty’s kitchen sink made his stomach flutter oddly. Charles glanced up upon noticing Monty leant on the doorframe. “If I’m wearing your wedding band, what are you wearing instead?” he asked, drying his hands on a tea towel.
“Aha!” Monty winked conspiratorially as he brandished the ring box. “I had a rather genius idea a couple of nights ago. I shall be borrowing a ring from a dear friend of ours.”
Charles’ eyes widened so much that Monty thought they might fall out of his skull. “Monty! Is that –”
“Bill’s engagement ring, yes.”
“You can’t steal a dead man’s ring!” Charles protested, watching Monty intensely as he placed the sparkling diamond where his plain silver band usually sat.
Monty shrugged. “Technically it’s an imaginary woman’s ring, if that distinction means so much to you. And I’m sure darling Bill and Pam would understand the situation.” At least, their personified voices in his own head did. “Give your hand here, then.”
As Monty reached out to grab Charles’ hand, the world seemed to slow on its axis. Monty would have sworn he felt electricity crackle on their touch when he held Charles’ fingers in his own. He dragged his gaze upwards after he slid the wedding band onto his ring finger; over the callus and the ink stain from the leaking pen that he refused to replace.
Charles’ eyes met his. Monty didn’t breathe.
The moment was shattered by the distinctive sound of his front door being kicked open.
Charles snatched his hand back as if he’d been burned. “Jean!” he squeaked in a tight voice, clearing his throat several times as he rushed back into the living room.
Monty allowed himself a moment to let his racing heart calm down before he followed Charles towards the doorway. Sure enough, Jean was attempting to kick off her shoes without letting go of a bulging grocery tote. He also should have foreseen this when he also told Jean where the spare key was kept. “Not that you’re not always welcome, Miss Leslie,” Monty started, “but what are you doing here?”
With its close proximity to their usual haunts, Monty’s apartment had become the default location for late night lodgings. It had started after Charles’ first bar crawl; the poor sod had made himself so ill that Monty had been forced to bring him home, not wanting to imagine how poorly Charles would have coped without gentle hands to support him as he stood retching over the toilet (seriously, who stood up while they were being sick?). When Jean had come into work upset after an argument with her mother, Monty had offered her a place to stay after swearing up and down that there were no ulterior motives. And after the team had celebrated the Nazi redeployment to Sardinia, when Bevan had taken off early and offered everyone a ride home, Charles had turned to him with unfocused eyes and said, “Thanks Sir, but we can sleep at Monty’s.”
Bevan’s raised eyebrows had been worth waking up to Charles’ peaceful face on the pillow next to him. He really owed Jean a drink for accepting Charles’ offer to have the sofa to herself.
“Charles called me, said you were having a crisis,” Jean said, as if that explained everything in the world. Seeming as at home as ever, she pushed past Monty and Charles to upturn the tote on Monty’s coffee table. “I presumed you use the same supplies as I do since that time I caught you stealing one out of my bag – which you still owe me for by the way, it’s not like my body is scheduling itself by the rationing book – but I borrowed some other things from the bathroom just in case you –”
“Sorry, sorry,” Monty interrupted her, his hands lifted in an attempt to placate her. He looked from Jean to the table, to Charles, and then back to Jean again. “But what’s all this got to do with me cutting myself shaving?”
Jean frowned for a moment, then whirled round to face Charles. “You told me he was having a menstrual crisis!” she hissed, throwing a box of Kotex at him.
“You thought I was what?” Monty echoed in a rising tone.
It took a few seconds of unintelligible protest before Charles could get a word out, embarrassment colouring his cheeks. “You’d locked yourself in the bathroom declaring you were having a situation! I have two older sisters, Monty, what else was I supposed to assume?” he retorted.
“I can hear you shouting all the way down the corridor.”
The cutting remark could only belong to one person, but Monty was still convinced he was hallucinating when Hester appeared in the doorway. “You too?” was all he could muster, staring blankly at the new arrival.
Hester raised her eyebrows as she surveyed a half-dressed Monty, Charles trying to shield his head, and Jean brandishing menstrual supplies in her hand like a weapon. “Miss Leslie telephoned my residence, looking for advice on how to help your situation with the appropriate sensitivities. I thought it best that I see to you all in person. And it’s a good thing I did – inside, all of you.”
Charles and Jean both murmured an apology as Hester shut the door. Feeling somewhat delirious at the insanity of the situation, Monty hid his face in his hands. “There’s no situation, Hester love. I’d simply had a shaving mishap, and we all got our wires crossed a tad. No need to call in the cavalry.”
“I shall be the judge of that, Mr Montagu. Mr Cholmondeley, Miss Leslie, would you give us just a minute’s privacy please,” Hester commanded calmly.
Once Jean and Charles’ footsteps disappeared into the next room, Monty risked looking up from his hands. Contrary to the disappointment he’d almost expected, Hester’s expression was one of saddened sympathy. “Shall we finish getting you dressed?” she suggested.
Monty nodded. He turned around and let Hester do up the impractical length of buttons that sat uncomfortably over his spine, wincing as the fabric tightened around his waist. Losing his more slender figure had certainly helped in his day-to-day life, allowing the silhouette of his torso to blend seamlessly beneath his bindings and a well-styled shirt. But it didn’t make the cinched dresses of his former identity any easier to bear.
“Stop, Hester!” he gasped out suddenly, stomach lurching.
Hester’s hand remained steadfast on his shoulder as she moved to eye him carefully. “Steady, steady. Tell me how you are feeling.”
He dropped his chin to his chest, drawing in as deep a breath as he could manage in his polkadot straitjacket. His thoughts were almost deafening to his own ears, his head spinning too fast to put them into words. “There’s too much,” he choked out, a pathetic summary of every assault on his senses. His hair tickling his shoulders, the brassiere moulded to his chest, the elastic stockings that bit into his calves. His skin felt like it was crawling with ants.
“You can do this, Ewen. I believe you can.” Hester urged him.
Ewen. That’s right, he was still Ewen. He clutched to the syllables like a lifeline. The name he likely wouldn’t hear for the rest of the day. Normally his heart soared every time Hester called him Ewen, or Mr Montagu; a reminder of who he was, who everyone saw him as. Not the name his mother called him which sounded like static over the phone line. In that moment, the name only served to remind him of what he wasn’t.
G-d, he hadn’t told Charles about that whole problem just yet. Another thing he had yet to deal with. The list felt endless.
An overwhelmed shout tore out of his chest as he spun on his heel and crashed his fist into the wall.
Hester continued undeterred, her voice firm with quiet conviction. “It is only one day of pretence. It will feel like nothing compared to the years that you lived without access to your authentic self. And you will have Charles with you; he will keep you anchored. He will remind you of who you truly are.”
Monty barely heard her, every word other than Charles’ name distorting as if he were underwater. What was he doing dragging Charles into this? Wonderful, genuine Charles, who was incapable of living as anything other than his authentic self. He already faced enough scrutiny at work from the likes of Reggie and Masterman; Monty couldn’t inflict his brother’s eagle eye on him too. He couldn’t drag him down into this web of deception.
This was a mistake. This had all been a mistake.
“I don’t think I can,” he spoke in a shallow voice, one hand hovering over his stomach. He’d felt nauseous all morning, but now the feeling had increased tenfold. He pressed the other hand tight over his mouth.
“You’ve gone awfully pale, Ewen,” Hester murmured, stepping forward to gently feel his forehead. “You should come and sit down.”
She attempted to steer him towards the sofa. But Monty instead pushed her hand away and ran for the bathroom. He dropped to his knees as he retched into the toilet, dimly aware of fabric ripping over his shoulders as his body convulsed uncontrollably.
He became aware of Hester’s presence by her perfume hitting him, trying not to gag at what he generally considered quite a pleasant scent. After a moment he realised that she was unfastening the dress she’d just buttoned for him, almost crying out with relief when he could suddenly breathe again.
“’m so sorry,” he gasped like a fish out of water, chest heaving as Hester rubbed soothing circles onto his back.
Hester hushed him gently, pulling his hair back into a loose bun with impressive speed. “Don’t apologise to me. Apologise to your body for running yourself ragged again,” she corrected, the dry remark softened by her fingers still carding through Monty’s hair.
Groaning, Monty lifted a shaking hand to pat himself on the chest. “Sorry, old sport,” he said, just about managing to grin up at Hester. She returned his smile with a fondness that made his heart swell.
The door swinging open on its creaking hinges revealed Jean and Charles peering around the doorframe, their nervous faces comically stacked one upon the other. “Can we get you anything Monty?” Jean asked, “Tea or toast, perhaps?”
Monty’s smile thinned at the thought of food. He’d foregone breakfast that morning for fear of this exact situation, feeling somewhat betrayed at his stomach’s attempt to turn inside out. “There’s a box of Earl Grey in one of the cupboards?” he asked hopefully.
“Oh, is there? How fascinating.” Jean commented, pretending to examine her nails.
Charles protested on his behalf. “Jean, he’s ill.”
The exchange felt so beautifully normal that Monty wanted to laugh despite it all. “Jean, dearest, I would be so very appreciative if you could brew one a cup of Earl Grey. Please.”
“That’s the spirit,” Jean winked, disappearing around the corner.
In an attempt to atone for his, as Jean liked to describe it, ‘outstanding moment of misogyny’, Monty had taken to bringing Jean a cup of tea down to the basement whenever he went to make one for himself. Of course, his main motivation was to apologise in the language they both spoke too fluently: of understanding that tea was rarely just tea, but a show of respect to whoever was offered it. But Monty couldn’t pretend he didn’t enjoy the flummoxed look on Bevan’s face whenever the Lieutenant Commander brought the typing pool newcomer a cup of tea.
Charles didn’t follow her, instead moving to crouch beside Monty with his brows knitted in concern. “Jean said that she can redo your makeup, when you’re ready. She said she wasn’t sure what products you might have so she brought everything with her,” he explained.
The depth of her kindness was almost staggering; Monty grappled to find a response that expressed adequate gratitude, even in Jean’s absence. But Hester made him pause with a hand on his shoulder. “I think, considering Mr Montagu’s emotional and physical distress, it is time we consider whether it is wise for today’s plans to go ahead.”
Monty sighed heavily, as Hester gave his shoulder a squeeze. “It’s not quite as simple as that, old girl,” he grimaced, swallowing hard.
“I know,” Hester nodded. “But I think that just for today, it can be.”
The saddened smile on her face was enough for Monty to consider. The aching sympathy of someone who had walked through the same crossroads that he’d insisted on sitting at for the last four years. He thought Hester was quite possibly the bravest person he had ever met, braver than any fusty admiral he’d encountered on the job. To have faced her family’s wrath and chosen herself. Even the mere thought of it was almost too much to bear.
“You’re a better woman than I ever could have been, Hester Leggatt,” Monty declared, his voice thick with emotion.
Hester pushed her glasses pointedly up her nose. “That’s not as good a compliment as you think it is, considering that you are not a woman, Mr Montagu.”
This time Monty did laugh, his shoulders sagging as every ounce of tension melted away. Jean poked her head back around the doorframe, looking greatly relieved at Monty’s laughter. “Tea in the living room, or are you desperate for us all to camp out in your bathroom?” she asked.
The teasing in her voice was easy to hear, but once again Monty was touched by the note of concern that her words also carried. “I think we can treat ourselves to the upholstery.”
He tried not to pout as Charles got to his feet and followed Jean, quickly schooling his features as Hester slowly guided him to stand. Deliberately positioning herself between Monty and the mirror, she helped him out of the now ruined dress and back into the sleep shirt that he’d been wearing when Charles first arrived. Monty did allow himself a glance at his reflection then, taking in the androgynous figure that stood before him while Hester watched from over his shoulder.
There weren’t many people who he would allow to see like this. But he trusted these people, the faces that filled his home without invite or expectation. They could carry his secret as he carried theirs.
Charles was already sat on the sofa when Monty stepped into the living room, holding out his hand just Monty had done back in the kitchen. A blush crept across his cheekbones as Charles took his hand, producing a cold compress from seemingly out of nowhere that he laid upon Monty’s knuckles. The aching bones in his hand from taking his anger out on the wall had entirely slipped his mind until that moment; he hadn’t even mentioned anything of the sort to Charles. The fact that he’d noticed was impressive.
Clearly his thought process had shown on his face, as Charles gave a shy shrug. “I knew you would need it,” he said simply.
Monty wondered vaguely if he was about to cry. Hidden beneath the cold compress, he gave Charles’ hand the tiniest squeeze and hoped that he wouldn’t pull away. Jean passed him the requested Earl Grey and he took a slow sip, citrus notes tampering down the nausea that still roiled in his stomach.
“Am I correct in my recollection that your family believe you to work in the typing pool?” Hester asked, taking the cup that Jean offered her. Monty nodded. “Then perhaps you will allow me to telephone and explain your absence?”
This time, Monty really did think he was about to cry. “You’d do that?” he asked, ignoring how his voice cracked with vulnerability.
Hester nodded. “As head of the secretarial unit, I would be your superior in this scenario. I’ve called Miss Leslie’s residence before, for this exact reason. There would be no alarm bells raised.”
Jean sat down on a footstool, looking unusually subdued. “My mother thought that I was lying about all the late nights while we were organising everything for Bill. I can’t blame her really; she worries about our safety here in London, especially with the blackouts. She was threatening to make me resign until Hester called and convinced her otherwise.” She glanced at Hester as she spoke, gratitude brimming in her eyes.
“There is one thing though, Mr Montagu.” Hester hesitated, clearly troubled by whatever the matter was. “I shall need to know what name your family addresses you by.”
Monty stiffened. He was aware of Charles and Jean looking at him, a mixture of concern, surprise, and in Jean’s case, poorly masked curiosity. “Ah, yes. I knew I’d need to discuss that with you, Charlie, but I was just, ahem. Putting it off.” He paused with an awkward grin, letting it fall when the attempt at humour predictably didn’t land.
“I can leave if you want, Monty,” Jean offered, looking worriedly up at him.
Coming from one of the nosiest people he had ever met, he could appreciate her thoughtfulness. “No need,” he answered though, seeing no point in keeping a single detail from someone who otherwise knew the whole story. He placed his mug on the coffee table amongst Jean’s mountain of menstrual supplies. “Pass me that notepad, would you Hester?”
With pencil and paper in shaking hands, he still hesitated while twirling the pencil between his fingers. “Now, Charlie, you need to understand that since I gave your name as my apparent husband, my mother drew her own conclusions,” he stammered slightly, heart beating in staccato. “This isn’t something I established myself – I wouldn’t, not without your permission.”
“Monty, you’re starting to sound more anxious than me,” Charles gave a quiet chuckle. “Whatever it is, I won’t be insulted by it.”
His eyes searched Charles’ face for any hint of an untruth. To no one’s surprise, he found none. Before he could lose his nerve, he scribbled a name onto the notepad, holding his breath as he held it up for all to see.
‘Ellen Cholmondeley’
The silence that followed stretched like a vacuum. Desperate to fill it, Monty found himself almost frantically chattering. “Named after my paternal grandmother, you see. Lovely woman. Made a terrific challah,” he rambled, a panicked smile frozen on his face.
Finally, after what felt like an age, Jean clearly couldn’t keep her curiosity to herself any longer. “What made you choose Ewen?”
“Ah! A clever little trick, if I do say so myself,” Monty winked. He twirled the pencil again to flip it over, then erased the height of the two cursive l’s. The notepad now read: ‘Ewen Cholmondeley’.
“Needed to be close enough to fly under the radar if I were sent mail at work. A safety element, you see,” he added. “Masterman picked up some forwarded mail from my old employer one time and latched onto the idea that I have a twin sister. It’s truly a wonder how we get anything done under that leadership.”
Jean’s eyes widened with awe. “God, that’s brilliant,” she grinned.
Charles, on the other hand, was staring blankly at the name on paper. “Monty, did you know that a man was once hospitalised after overdosing on Earl Grey due to bergamot toxicity?” he said absent-mindedly. His hand gripped Monty’s tight beneath the compress.
“Is that right, my little genius?” Monty indulged him. It was impossible to know exactly where Charles’ mind was at, but it was easy to sense the cogs turning in there. At least the sustained physical contact gave him hope that it was contemplative and not uncomfortable.
Hester watched them for a moment, then turned to the small cabinet where Monty’s telephone sat. He watched as she flicked through his address book, picked up the receiver and dialed.
Yet another wait that stretched out for an eternity. And then at last: “Am I speaking to the Montagu residence?”
Jean moved to perch on the arm of the sofa, her hand on Monty’s shoulder. He lifted his hand to hold onto hers; she met his gaze with an understanding smile.
“I am calling on behalf of –” Monty winced as Hester spoke the name that wasn’t his, an apology in every line of her pinched expression. “There has been an unexpected development, and all hands on deck are required in the boardroom. I’m afraid that she cannot join you for your planned celebration today.”
The response was so loud that Monty just about heard it crackle over the receiver. Hester raised an eyebrow. “Unfortunately, the war effort does not operate within regular office hours, ma’am.”
Jean bursting into stifled giggles beside him brought a grin to his own face, and Charles out of his trance-like state. Monty risked looking at Charles, a terrible mistake as he struggled to contain his laughter the second that eye contact was made. Hester shot them a dirty look over her glasses, attempting to angle the receiver away as she continued the conversation.
By the time Hester placed the receiver down, Monty was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “All sorted, Mr Montagu. Be grateful that your mother did not hear you guffawing down the telephone line,” she remarked dryly.
Monty lifted his head to the ceiling and groaned out a heavy sigh of relief. His feet almost moved without accord; he crossed the room in a few short strides and flung his arms around Hester’s neck.
She flinched, a confused noise sounding at the back of her throat as Monty clung to her. Then, her arms settled around his back, and she simply held him. Not too tight as to aggravate his aching ribs, but firm enough that to support his tired body in its entirety. His ankles swayed sideways but he didn’t fall, simply resting his head on Hester’s collarbone and closing his eyes.
Eventually he stepped back, standing on tiptoes to meet her eyeline. “Hester, I could kiss you,” he declared.
“Please don’t.”
“There’s that trademark passion.” He turned to Jean and Charles, feeling remarkably more himself now that the day wasn’t hanging over his head. “What now then chaps? You’re all here, so clearly none of you had anything important planned. We ought to do something with that.”
Jean hummed pointedly. “Who’s to say I didn’t have a full diary this weekend, and merely dropped everything just for the privilege of throwing menstrual towels at Charles?” she suggested, eyebrows raised. Yet she didn’t stand from where she’d slid down the arm of the sofa to sprawl across the cushions, evidently without any intent to leave.
Charles tensed as Jean looked innocently at him, clearly expecting another box of supplies to be hurled at his head any minute. After a moment he cleared his throat awkwardly, turning back to Monty. “Perhaps, only if you wanted to Monty, don’t feel pressured into anything, but we could celebrate Tu B’Av here?”
Glancing around the room, Monty was surprised and delighted to see Jean and Hester nodding with interest. “Charlie, my little genius,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I would love nothing more.”
A moment passed where they locked eyes again. Monty hoped that his expression could adequately portray his gratitude to the man, even though their plans hadn’t gone ahead. The willingness to follow Monty to the ends of the Earth – or the ends of the South Western railway line, in this case. Proper thanks would have to come later.
Then Monty whirled around, rummaging through a drawer for a packet of flashcards. “Tu B’Av isn’t really celebrated per say, not like Yom Kippur would be for instance. Really it was an excuse to get the family together – which I suppose we’ve done already now, so good job team. But I can teach you some Hebrew letters? And if we get really ambitious we can attempt to revive old Bubbe Ellen’s challah recipe. What do you say?”
By the time his guests had departed, Monty’s apartment was a mess. Hebrew flashcards were abandoned under the coffee table, along with Hester’s near-perfect transcription that she’d surprised and impressed them all with. A light dusting of flour covered the kitchen from when Charles had sneezed too close to the work station. His collection of dreidels could be followed like a trail of breadcrumbs where Jean’s fidgeting hands had forgotten them. The one exception was his bedroom, where Hester had tidied away every scrap of feminine clothing so that no trace of the morning remained.
His apartment was a mess, yes. But his heart was full to bursting.