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It had only seemed right, to commemorate the anniversary of Bill and Pam’s night out on the town, that they should find themselves at the theatre again.
Back then Jean had barely been on the job for six weeks, playing the part of the lovestruck fiancée as she accepted the arm Monty offered her. While Monty and Charles struggled to find an excuse for why the stubs had been ripped off two of their tickets, Monty leading with sleaze and Charles with sheer anxiety, Jean took a moment to look around the theatre foyer. She’d never been to a West End show before, having only arrived in London three months prior and never experienced anything grander than a pantomime at her local village hall. By comparison, the velvet seat cushion she sank into felt like sitting on the King’s throne.
Despite attending her first show as the soon-to-be Pamela Martin, that night awaked a love for the theatre in Jean Leslie herself. She and her mother watched their first musical from what felt like the rafters of the Stoll Theatre for Jean’s birthday that summer, after weeks of begging that eventually culminated in Jean paying for the tickets herself. It wasn’t quite the stalls experience that the King’s chequebook had afforded them for Mincemeat, but it was nothing a pair of opera glasses couldn’t remedy. Then she and Hester almost saw another Hammerstein show in the autumn, purely because it featured a character called Jean, before they reached the theatre and realised that this mysterious Jean was, in fact, a man. Feeling too betrayed to give the box office even a single shilling, they sequestered themselves in the pub next door with several glasses of gin to make up for the disappointment.
But then the bombings had returned, and the city that had just started to open its arms to her suddenly felt like a stranger again. She’d sat out the Blitz from her countryside village, where the sirens usually meant nothing more than a chilly night of card games in the Anderson Shelter with her parents and any orphaned lambs in need of a bottle feed. For the past two months it had meant cramming four people into a Morrison shelter at least once a week, hands clamped over her ears as the sounds of destruction grew ever closer.
Her friends’ steadfast resolve had lent her courage at first. Jean had been shocked at their grit, until Bella reminded her how the whole sector had been bombed out of their previous headquarters in the Blitz’s earliest days. But then they’d been caught off guard, after two cautious weeks with no Luftwaffe in sight. Monty had bid them goodnight no more than five minutes before the sirens started, only to stumble back into the basement white as a sheet after barely escaping an incendiary bomb on his cycle home. As Jean watched Charles guide him to the sofa bed, gasping and shaking and clutching his chest, they weren’t to know that Monty’s last shred of bravado wouldn’t be the only casualty that night.
A single bomb through the roof of a Kensington apartment; Fleming’s fiancée was gone, and the light in his eyes along with her.
With only five days passed since Muriel’s death, there was a sour taste in the back of Jean’s throat as she rouged her cheeks in the girls’ bathroom at MI5. Monty’s birthday gift from his brother was tickets to the premiere performance of a new oratorio that night, by a Jewish composer who Ivor had met through the Communist Party. She’d come into the office on an unscheduled Sunday to get ready, knowing all too well that her mother and aunt wouldn’t approve of her escapades. If they were to ever find out that Jean spent most of her days in the company of two unmarried men… she doubted she’d ever be welcome at home again.
She hadn’t even made it into the building before panic seized her at the sight of the first lit streetlamps. Phantom sirens rang in her ears as she almost stumbled down the basement staircase, convinced that if she dared venture beyond the safety of the underground that she’d be struck down within seconds. They had come every other night during February; an attack was overdue. It was only the unexpected appearance of Hester that calmed her down, coaxing her out from beneath her desk with gentle hands and patient words. Something about ‘small flashes of joy’ – the words themselves mattered far less than the simple lifeline of a familiar voice.
The words kept her grounded as she slipped ‘Pam’s’ dress over her head. Back when she’d first worn it, she’d been told it was borrowed from Monty’s wife. Exactly one year, one day, and one lifelong friendship later, she knew now it had belonged to Monty himself before gifting it to Jean on her birthday. When she thought back to that first day in the basement and her first impressions of the people around her, none had been changed by the operation quite so much as Monty himself.
Monty, who’s arm she’d expected to take again when they emerged from Covent Garden station. Not for any romantic reason of course, they had set the record straight in that aspect almost as soon as the truth of the film script had come out. Just for tradition’s sake. Instead it was Charles’ side he was glued to while they waited for Ivor and Hell to meet them outside the theatre. And Charles who he put his arm around as the auditorium lights went dark. Jean couldn’t decide if this was a new pattern of behaviour, or if it was purely the stark contrast to their last theatre outing that had prompted her to take note. Monty had been a tactile person for as long as she’d known him, that wasn’t up for debate. But Charles relaxing into Monty’s arm rather than tensing beneath it was certainly a development.
She tried to keep half an eye on them as they sat down for a drink after the show, Monty declaring loudly that the night couldn’t possibly be over yet. Between the dim lights of the Gargoyle and a very generous measure of whisky, she found herself quickly distracted from her mission by Ivor’s dramatic retelling of when Charles and Monty had met him there after seeing off Bill. Jean’s initial suspicions of Ivor had been firmly quelled by Monty dragging her to one of their customary Gargoyle meetings after the truth of the film script had been revealed. Sat next to Hell as they watched Ivor and Monty’s faces turn a progressive shade of red with every drink, she was glad she’d been able to draw her own conclusion.
“And this one,” Ivor continued, clapping Charles so hard on the shoulder that Jean was momentarily concerned he might shatter. “Looked so nervous after being clearly dragged through London’s establishments by my dear brother here I feared he would keel over. Until I just happened to mention Ewen’s first foray into deception with our old pal Hodge G. Wells, and then suddenly I had a different man before me!”
“Who on earth is Hodge G. Wells?” Jean asked, as Monty groaned behind his hands.
Ivor, on the other hand, looked positively thrilled at her question. “I had a pet hedgehog in my youth, you see. Ewen conceived the idea that we might use him to collar the autographs of our favourite writers by asking if we might call my hedgehog after them. I don’t believe dear old H.G. has ever answered a letter faster to give us the affirmative. He and I run in the same circles these days, I ought to tell him about his quaintest namesake.”
“That,” Jean wheezed, “is the most Monty thing I think I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”
The booming laugh Ivor let out echoed around the booth. “I’m glad that has not changed, even if many things have,” he said, giving Monty a look that spoke years of brotherly affection. “But one word about eulipotyphlans and Charlie here suddenly came alive. How many more bars did you make it to in the end, anyhow?”
Charles gave a sheepish sort of smile. “Only the one. And I fear I remember nothing between walking through the door and vomiting into Ewen’s toilet,” he admitted.
Jean had intended to wonder internally what a eulipotyphlans was, only realising she’d spoken aloud when Hell leaned in close to whisper in her ear. “The taxonomic group of hedgehogs, shrews, and voles, among others,” she said, giving Jean a conspiratorial wink.
Perhaps it was the whisky or Hell’s intoxicating perfume that was responsible, but Jean found her mouth moving before her brain had time to intervene. “What’s taxes got to do with shrews?”
The entire table burst out laughing, and Jean found herself joining in after a brief moment of mortification. “Ewen! I like these friends, much better than the ones you’d bring home from school. They bring out a nice side of you,” Ivor commented. Jean wondered privately – actually privately this time – if Monty’s bouts of emotional constipation were thanks to Ivor inheriting both their fair shares of emotional availability. “Even if you did use babysitting them as an excuse to get out of Pesach last year.”
“It wasn’t just Charlie that needed supervision, we were babysitting! Just from a thousand miles away!” Monty retorted as Jean shrieked with laughter. She remembered the day well; the mixture of relief and newfound dread once Bill’s fate was out of their hands, Charles looking positively green upon arriving in the basement, and Monty telephoning his brother with a voice thick with nausea and a cold compress held to his forehead.
Monty fought on valiantly, his protests falling on deaf ears. “Look, look, - look!-, it was during a very important week, we were waiting for B – a delivery – and you know, duty calls! I still had my own Seder at home, I just couldn’t make it down to Swaythling, look!”
The uphill battle to restore Monty’s integrity continued until Ivor and Hell left to catch their train. Jean sighed as she nursed the last of her whisky, the topic of Pesach bringing her thoughts back to the oratorio. The premise was inspired by the events that had led to Kristallnacht, something that Jean was ashamed to have known little about other than the snippets that Monty and Hester had told her. “Don’t get me wrong Monty, that was fascinating to watch and I’m really glad I did. But the theatre is usually an escape from everything, and right now I feel particularly reminded that you almost died less than a week ago.”
A nearby patron stood up, the screech of their chair across the floorboards causing Jean to flinch horribly. Monty leaned across the booth to put a firm hand on Jean’s knee. He held her gaze, encouraging and unflinching, until she let out the shaky breath she’d been holding.
“Good girl, there you go,” he said, giving her leg a pat as he leant back. The endearment that would have made her toes curl a year ago was now nothing more than a typical Monty-esque reassurance, bringing a wry smile to her face. “Well, the arts aren’t only there for escapism. Sometimes it’s a way of translating a story into a language that the masses will listen to,” he continued, in a moment of rare insight.
Jean nodded. To watch hatred and pain play out in front of her was a more compelling history lesson than any she’d received in school. She opened her mouth to answer with equal honesty, to thank Monty for sharing something so close to his identity with her, when she clocked the grin on his face. “But, if you’re trying to subtly remind us that you’ve been wanting to see Blithe Spirit for the last year then yes I have remembered, but you can wait for your own birthday,” he retorted lightly.
“I’m not sure I want to see that, actually,” Charles spoke up nervously, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I think watching a character with the same name as me making decisions I can’t abide by might make me quite anxious.”
“Ah yes, I did forget that the main chap’s name is Charles. Perhaps that might be one for you and Hester instead then. See if you have better luck with a fictional Charles than you did with a fictional Jean, hmm?”
It was all Jean could do to not look too shocked. She knew all too well that with anyone but Charles, or even with Charles himself a few months ago, Monty would have been ribbing him mercilessly until he gave into his plans. She watched as he met Charles’ fretful gaze, something unspoken passing between them that Jean wasn’t privy to. All she could do was look on, lost and left out.
The conversation was interrupted as the host arrived to close their bar tab. Jean let herself be drawn back into the chatter as they walked to the underground station, hugging them both tightly before they waved her onto her train. Her smile fell apart as soon as she disappeared into the tunnel, wondering when their little trio had turned into one matching pair and Jean trailing behind.
Monty would have bet Pam’s engagement ring – still in his bedside table drawer after co-opting it as his own for family events – on Jean thinking she was being subtle. She wore the same look on her face the morning after his birthday outing that she had while trying to bribe him for secrets with drinks and dinners; a smile with far more teeth than usual that never reached her eyes. He hadn’t had the heart back then to tell her that her faked enthusiasm was about as subtle as a bus. Plus, the undivided attention had been nice, even if the subsequent hangovers hadn’t been.
“No trouble on your way home last night, I presume?” he asked her upon returning to the basement after his briefing. She shook her head. “Good. We planned our outing mightily well last night, the Jerries must have known we were far too busy to be bothered by an air raid. Seems they decided to head up to Hull instead.”
Instead of laughing, Jean’s expression instantly morphed into one of nauseating guilt. “Monty! We can’t be glad somewhere else got bombed instead of us, they deserve to be safe just as much as we do,” she pleaded.
“I wouldn’t worry about the people of Hull,” Monty shrugged breezily. He saw Jean turn to glare at Charles for backup but pushed on before she could interrupt. “The bombers were so far off target that I doubt they even noticed they were supposedly under attack.”
“Oh.” Jean said, suddenly deflating. Monty eyed her carefully as she chewed on her lip. She seemed poised to say something for several seconds, before abruptly turning back to her typewriter without another word.
The look on Charles’ face mirrored the concern that Monty felt, his eyebrows halfway to his hairline as he looked pleadingly at Monty to do something. The urge to kiss the worry from his face was less pressing than usual; they’d both retired to Monty’s apartment after leaving Jean at Covent Garden the night before, giving Monty plenty of opportunities to do whatever he liked behind the privacy of drawn curtains. But he still made sure to sit close to Charles as he pulled up a chair to the desk, letting their knees rest together as he flicked through his briefing notes. When Charles didn’t move away, Monty felt safe to lean his head against Charles’s shoulder and let out a petulant sigh. “Volcano still giving you trouble?”
As expected, that caught Jean’s attention. Her head flew up from where she’d been scrutinising her typed document to fix them with a look that demanded ‘explain’.
“Oh, sorry Jean, I forgot you weren’t in here with us on Saturday. The American Air Force have run into a spot of bother in the Apennine Peninsula,” Charles started, his hands tapping at the desktop.
Monty let out an amused snort. “Spot of bother’ might be the understatement of the war. A volcanic eruption has buried the airstrip,” he said, chuckling again as he added “You really couldn’t write it.”
Charles nodded. “I could have told them that putting four squadrons of B-25s next to Mount Vesuvius might not be their best idea, but they didn’t seem to particularly care for my geography degree. Their commanding officers refused to evacuate over the weekend because apparently the lava wasn’t deemed a threat. Yet now they’re somehow surprised that they’ve been grounded by ash fall,” he scowled.
“And they’ve still not evacuated?” Jean asked in disbelief, more animated than she’d been the entire morning.
“We’ve submitted plans for a tactical retreat to an airfield further south, but they maintained it wasn’t necessary until it was too late. I suspect the main eruption will take place within the next few days and they’re simply going to have to hope that enough planes survive that they can continue operations. As long as no pilots aren’t killed, I’m afraid I won’t feel bad for them.”
He rummaged through an envelope of photographs and passed one to Jean, giving it a look of intrigue as he did so. “These came over from the Central Interpretation Unit this morning. It is incredibly interesting to see what volcanic ash can do to an aircraft. The B-25s are known for being virtually indestructible; there are still planes flying without issue after multiple flak repairs, I wouldn’t doubt that they could survive projectile tephra fragments. But hot ash in the engines is a different story. I imagine that –”
Charles stopped suddenly, looking between Monty and Jean slightly abashed. “Ah, um, sorry. I was going on for longer than anticipated there,” he mumbled, pushing his glasses up his nose.
As far as Monty was concerned, reaching out to cup Charles’ chin with his hand in front of Jean seemed like a reasonable risk if might provide some reassurance. “Nonsense, Charlie. Remember, I’m always happy to have you buzz around me. And our Jean is too, isn’t that right?”
The question was met with silence. Jean watched Monty’s display of affection with a faraway look, something he might have penned as longing if they hadn’t long-since established the lack of romantic inclinations towards each other. Charles had frozen beneath Monty’s fingers; he quickly drew his hand back, stuffing it hastily into his pocket where it couldn’t cause any more harm. Anything he might have wanted to say, any attempt to tug both Charles and Jean back to the present from wherever they had gone inside their minds, had died on the tip of his tongue.
While he was eluded by whatever troubled Jean, Charles’ reaction was far easier to decipher. The last three months since Chanukah and Christmas had passed by in a stepping-stone of stolen moments, of fingers intertwined beneath briefing room tables and swift kisses whenever the basement was theirs alone. Those chaste moments were often all Charles could cope with outside of either apartment, though for Monty it barely tempered the need for physical contact at every conceivable opportunity. He’d been rather carefree about the whole thing in his previous identity and previous career, allowing men and women alike to pull him into their offices and slip a hand up his skirt or down his trousers after an onerous day in court. He really had a knack for finding demanding careers with incestuous colleagues.
But this was Charles’ first encounter with any affair of this nature. Monty was determined to hold that fact with the reverence it deserved, just as Charles had so gently navigated Monty’s first moments of intimacy since living as his true self. And as Monty liked to remind Charles frequently in those moments of anxiety, Mincemeat had provided him plenty of practise in letting Charles set the pace.
So of course he’d abided by Charles’ wish to keep their relationship private for the time being, even though he was desperate to tell Hester and Jean. Hester especially, considering that she shared in the most clandestine part of his identity. Keeping anything from her felt like trying to function without his dominant hand. And he knew without a shadow of doubt that she’d have no objections; Jean’s reaction, on the other hand, confused him. He’d been far more overtly affectionate with Charles in the past than a simple hand to his chin, which was the only reminder keeping Monty from his own nerves spiralling alongside Charles’. Clearly – hopefully – there had to be something else bothering her.
“I’m worried about her,” Monty said, after watching Jean trail dejectedly up the basement staircase the following evening. Preparations for Operation Bodyguard had kept them there late but he felt no closer to pinpointing the issue after two lengthy days of observation. Even pestering Hester for information had proved fruitless. “You’re the scientist, Charlie, have I missed anything that you haven’t?”
Charles shook his head, looking almost as despairing as Jean had done. “I’ve been trying to think of what preceded it. She seemed fine at the Gargoyle so it couldn’t have been the oratorio. I hope that her mother wasn’t upset at her returning home so late, I know there used to be tensions between them over the late nights. I just –.” He stopped suddenly, hands flying to his mouth. “Ewen, you don’t think anything did happen to her on her way home and she couldn’t tell us about it?” he asked in dawning horror.
Monty’s throat tightened as he considered the possibility. “G-d, I hope not,” was all he could say.
There were tears brimming in Charles’ eyes when Monty looked at him; after checking unnecessarily that they were indeed alone, Monty moved to sit across Charles’ lap and place both hands upon his cheeks. “It’ll be alright,” he promised, looking intently at him until he received the tiniest nod in reply. “Our Jean’s a tough cookie. She’ll talk to someone when she’s ready.”
Charles looked unconvinced. Monty moved a hand to tilt Charles’ head up a little, waiting for a second acknowledgement before pulling him close into a deep kiss.
Later, Monty couldn’t have been sure what happened first. Only that there was a bang, and a shout, and then the ground rushing up to meet him.
“Ah-ha! There is something going on with you two! You have been leaving me out!”
Pain radiated up Monty’s spine as tried to recover from being unceremoniously thrown to the floor. Jean was stood in the basement doorway, her shoulders heaving as she pointed an accusatory finger at them. All the colour had drained from Charles’ face, whereas Jean’s cheeks from even across the room were streaked with tears. Desperate words were falling from his mouth as he tried to pull himself to his feet, his body not quite cooperating as his heart ran a thousand miles a minute, Charles shrinking further in on himself as the situation escalated –
The first wail of the siren pierced through the shouting. Monty swore. This was all they needed.
From the corner of his eye he saw Jean dart through the doorway with her arms over her head, no doubt to take shelter further into the room. Good, that was one of them safe. He didn’t know if he’d be able to bear the stress if she’d run the other way into the depths of the raid.
With that settled in his mind he turned back to Charles. The other man was sat stock-still on his chair, his face grey and slack-jawed as he stared ahead unblinking. His expression twisted into an agonised grimace as the siren crescendoed overhead yet he made no attempt to cover his ears, his hands frozen in the exact position they’d been when he pushed Monty off his lap. He’d witnessed Charles’ panicked episodes before but they were normally insidious, creeping up on him with enough warning to cushion the worst of the fall. This thunderclap onset was new.
It frightened him.
“Charlie,” Monty said, wincing when Charles flinched viscerally at the sound of his name. Dropping his voice to a whisper, he continued “Charlie, love. I want to get you off this chair before you fall off. I’d like to touch you again if that’s alright?”
Charles jerked his head once in what Monty could only presume was a nod. “Alright then, my boy. Here we go,” he mumbled, hoping the pointless narration would help Charles process what was happening. He used Charles’ forearms to guide him to the floor with his back against the desk, equal parts helped and frightened by how Charles’ entire body had gone stiff as a corpse. A whimper sounded at the back of his throat as the dull thud of an incendiary bomb reverberated through the walls. His hands shook but remained paralysed in front of him; Monty grabbed his hands and placed them over his ears, then hastily loosened his tie and collar after noticing how his chest heaved for air. His glasses had slipped down his nose, so Monty gently removed them to place on the floor beside him. This is good, he thought to himself as the tiniest bit of tension eased from Charles’ shoulders. They were doing good.
Another thud sounded overhead, accompanied by the fluorescent lights swinging slightly from the shockwave. Monty squinted up at them, then back down at Charles who was visibly attempting to cave in on himself. “Those blasted lights,” he muttered, “I’ll turn them off, give me a –”
A pained hiss escaped him as he moved to stand. In any other circumstance he might have asked Jean to get the light switch for him but she was still an unknown in his mind, hidden from them and the enemy overhead in equal measure. Charles’ eyes were squeezed shut when he glanced back, but Monty still tried to disguise the slight limp as he hurried for the basement door. He was well aware it would only make the panic worse if Charles thought he’d hurt him.
The siren sounded far louder beyond the sanctuary of the basement door. Morbid curiosity tugged at him like a magnet pull up the stairs, but he had no desire to repeat his near-death experience from the week prior. Almost to the exact hour, he realised with a shudder, turning off the light switch before turning tail back into the basement. It was nearly pitch black as he attempted to navigate his way back to Charles, sparing a thought of gratitude for Hester’s insistence that they keep their workspace tidy. It was easier to do these days, but while they’d all practically lived down there at the height of Mincemeat she’d had a far harder task at hand.
Rapid, heavy breathing lead Monty back to Charles, sinking slowly to the floor beside him. The fabric of his sleeves brushed against Monty’s arm as he rocked back and forth; he cried out at the contact as if he’d been burned and Monty flinched away, unaware in the darkness of how he’d been crowding him. Charles appeared to barely notice, hands still clamped tightly over his ears. Monty gritted his teeth and tried to still the tremors in his own hands with limited success, telling himself roughly that he’d be no use to Charles if he let his own fears get in the way.
“Breathe, Charlie,” he said, forcing his own breathing louder and longer so Charles had something to follow. No one needed to know it was as much for Monty’s own benefit as Charles’. “You’re alright. We’re alright. We’re here in the basement, and there’s a raid going on, but we’re safe. Nothing’s going to hurt us here.”
Dimly he thought of Jean, of the accusation in her voice when she’d walked in on them. But then Hester’s words echoed in his head from when Jean and Charles had inadvertently discovered the truth of his identity: ‘they both know how it feels to be ostracised by their peers. I doubt they will impose that same punishment unto you,’ she’d told him. She’d been right back then, as she always was. But Monty had encountered far too many folks who were perfectly accepting of homosexual tendencies and yet appalled by his transexual nature to ever presume that acceptance of one always followed the other.
Charles’ hand found his through the blackout. Monty squeezed it tighter and prayed that their trio would survive the night.
The dark was blissful. It ebbed around him like an ocean current, buffering him from the pain of his other senses and keeping him afloat. He didn’t even need his eyes open to sense the change in ambience; his body sagged sideways as every single cell seemed to respire all at once.
A firm presence materialised beneath his head, accompanied by a gentle squeeze of his hand. The simple notion anchored him to the present from where he’d seemed to be floating in the dark. Monty’s pulse, irregular and erratic as it often was, thrummed beneath his fingers almost louder than the planes overhead. He’d sat with Monty through attacks of arrhythmia almost as frequently as Monty had sat with him through his episodes of panic. Enough at least to know that while Monty’s breathing remained the steady pattern it currently was, he didn’t need to worry.
“M-” he tried to start, finding his mouth too dry to speak properly. “Monty.”
“Hello,” Monty murmured. He felt the word rumble in Monty’s chest, like the hum of an underground train passing below. “How are you feeling?”
Charles took a moment to take stock. The insurmountable ache in his chest had eased, though it seemed to have dispersed around his body and taken hold in his shoulders and thighs. He opened his eyes at last to peer at his hand through the blackout, an out-of-focus proof that he still existed. “Tired,” he rasped; it felt like an understatement of indefinable proportions.
Monty gave a dry chuckle. “You and me both, Charlie dearest.”
The tiniest whimper echoed through the darkness. Charles wasn’t convinced he would have heard it if not for the break in the planes – objectively the raids were getting sparser night by night, although that knowledge didn’t help the terror whenever caught up in one. Jean, he thought in sudden horror, the reminder of what had triggered his panic slamming back into him after a blessed minute of respite. She’d watched Monty kiss him, she’d stared at them with such betrayal, surely she’d now tell everyone what she’d witnessed. And Charles’ secret, the one that he’d denied himself the opportunity for joy over and over again to keep locked away, would surely be –
As suddenly as it had seized him, his anxiety was silenced by the return of rational thought. Monty had been right before: Charles was a scientist. His role was to observe, document, and analyse. Jean’s agonised expression and the words she’d said had portrayed a betrayal of hurt, not anger. His mind was suddenly jolted back to a conversation they’d shared almost a year ago, commiserating the tricky business of love while they tried and failed to write Bill’s letter. Jean had confessed to Charles later how relieved she’d been to know she wasn’t the only one in the office to have never been wooed before. How important to her that solidarity had been.
Ah, Charles thought grimly, as the pieces slotted into place.
The whimper sounded again, and Charles turned to bump his nose into Monty’s temple. “Will you wait here? There’s something I need to do,” he whispered, tilting his head towards the source of the noise.
“Alright,” Monty whispered, leaning in to kiss his cheek. At least Charles presumed it was intended to be his cheek, as Monty’s lips missed entirely and brushed his eyelid. The ticklish sensation made a poorly stifled giggle run through him.
Fumbling around blindly for his glasses, Charles left the safety of Monty’s side to venture into the unknown. The voice of fear in the back of his head fretted that they’d sustain a direct hit as he was at his most vulnerable. But he made it across the basement unscathed, cautiously uncovering his head once towards the opposite wall. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, he could make out Jean curled up beneath a desk, lying on her side with her knees pulled up beneath her chin. Charles could see her shoulders shaking as she silently cried.
“Jean,” he started softly, hoping not to startle her. She didn’t look up. “It’s alright. Will you talk to me?”
It took several seconds until he received any acknowledgement that she’d heard him at all. But eventually she uncoiled herself a little, looking up at Charles with enormous eyes. “Why’re you here? Don’t you want to be with Monty instead?” she asked. What might have been intended as petulance or bitterness just sounded miserable.
“Monty is important to me. But you’re also important to me, Jean. That’s independent of my relationship with Monty and it isn’t going to change,” Charles answered patiently. “Will you tell me what has been on your mind? I’d, err, I’d really like to know.”
A quiet sniffle was all that answered him at first. Charles took the opportunity to settle himself against the desk drawers, effectively still sat by Jean’s side yet not in her direct eyeline so as not to pressure her.
Jean’s voice was raw when she eventually spoke. “Everybody leaves me behind,” she said, breaking off as emotion overwhelmed her.
“But I’m right here, Jean,” Charles answered with an immediate promise.
“No, not like that,” Jean muttered. Charles let the silence stretch out again as she found the right words. “Everybody leaves me behind. Everybody says we’ll be the best of friends for the rest of our lives. But then they fall in love with someone. And I’m left out again.”
A beat of silence. And then: “I thought you were different.”
Charles closed his eyes as the force of Jean’s agony clutched at his chest. The accusation hung in the air, hot and uncomfortable. “We should have told you,” he breathed out, his head swimming with regret.
“I saw you at the theatre the other night. I know Monty’s been besotted with you since the moment he met you, but I’d never seen you lean into it before. And then I wondered – how long would it be until you were going to the theatre just you two, without me? How long until you’re finishing off your work at home together every evening rather than staying late with me? How long until you ask me to move back up to my desk in the typing pool because you like the basement better without me?”
She broke off sobbing, clamping her hand over her mouth as the mournful sound echoed around the basement. Charles’ breathing had become shallow again, not quite on firm enough ground after his episode to be providing support for someone else. But that was how life, let alone war, often found them.
“Monty wanted to tell you months ago, it-it’s because of me that we didn’t. I’ve just been… scared,” Charles admitted. He let out a weary sigh. “It’s all been so new, and so much change. I thought if we didn’t tell anyone then nothing outside of ‘us’ would need to become any different. I feared even telling one person would result in everyone in the building suddenly knowing by the next morning. And you know that people sometimes aren’t, well…”
He didn’t have time to finish before Jean shot upright, almost smacking her head on the underside of the desk. “Oh my God, Charles, when I came down here, you didn’t think I..?” she trailed off hopelessly.
Charles bit his lip as he nodded, tears pricking at his eyes.
Jean looked horrified at herself. “Charles I am so, so sorry.”
“It’s alright.”
Somewhere in the dark, a small hand slotted into his and squeezed ever so tightly. “I’ve made a right mess of everything,” Jean muttered. Charles heard more than saw as she shuffled out from under the desk, resting her forehead on her knees as she held onto Charles’ hand. “I made you worry about something so horrid. And I am happy for you, really. Even though I’ve done an awful job of showing it.”
Charles shook his head. “No, I made the mess. We should have told you. I hate to think you’d been thinking we were just leaving you out for no reason,” he protested weakly.
“You haven’t been, really. It was only watching you at the theatre and at the Gargoyle that I even realised anything had changed. And then my stupid, stupid brain just assumed it would go the same way as it always does.” A sob caught in her throat as she let out a wretched laugh. “I didn’t even give you a chance; I was just so afraid and I acted without thinking.”
“That makes two of us,” Charles said tiredly. It wasn’t even as if it were his own traumatic experience at the source of his fear, just the simple cause and effect of if he were to be found out by the wrong person. On the contrary, his very limited forays into wooing had all been terribly inconsequential. First there had been a very charismatic MI6 chap who seemed to have clocked Charles’ preferences immediately and given him a terrible complex that everybody could tell upon just looking at him. Then Hester had valiantly attempted to set him up with a codebreaker at Bletchley by telling them both that a meeting was an hour earlier than actually scheduled. Much to Hester’s chagrin, they’d instead spent the entire hour lamenting how their favourite mugs kept getting stolen by colleagues and discussing ideas on what to do about it.
Jean’s tiny voice distracted him from the memory of Alan’s advice to chain his mug to the radiator behind his desk. “You’re not going to go off together and leave me out all the time, are you?” she asked. “I mean, obviously you’re going to want to be together-together sometimes, and I don’t want to be there for that, but I mean other times. You’re both still going to stay my friends, right?”
Not for the first time, Charles was struck by how painfully young Jean was. It was easy to forget during the workday, armoured with crisply pressed shirts and countless hairpins that allowed her to blend into the typing pool. But, trapped in the blackouts with bombers flying low overhead, it was the trembling plea of a teenager that hit Charles squarely in the chest.
For just a moment, as he looked at Jean, he saw himself through his sisters’ eyes. A accomplished and independent adult yes, but always their little brother in the back of their minds.
“Not at all,” Charles said. He was answered by a heavy sigh, as if Jean had been holding her breath since leaving the theatre two days ago. Metaphorically, he supposed she probably had been. His mind lingering on the thought of Victoria and Hilda, he continued “You’re like our sister, and we’re always going to be your brothers who adore you. We’re just not… each other’s brothers.. I suppose…”
Monty’s voice echoed across the basement in a terrible attempt at Hester’s most disapproving cadence. “You’ve lost your way there, Cholmondeley.”
Jean giggled through her tears. “You can come over if you want, Monty. I won’t shout at you again,” she called out. Even in the dark, Charles could see her expression twisting with guilt.
“Roger that. Charlie, how are you feeling about the lights.”
Charles winced at the concept. “Perhaps just one of the desk lamps, if neither of you mind?”
There was a faint groan somewhere in the distance, but Charles knew Monty well enough that this wasn’t a complaint about the lights. His concern only deepened when a lamp flickered on, bathing them all in a warm glow of green and gold. Monty was hobbling stiffly across the room to them, bracing himself on the desk as he slowly lowered himself to the floor. “Ewen, you’re hurt,” Charles inhaled sharply, immediately looking him up and down for any sign of injury.
“I’m fine, Charlie dearest.” Monty tried to wave him off, but the effect was dampened significantly by the other hand still clutching his lower back. “Just an, uhm, a rather abrupt introduction of my arse to the floor, shall we say.”
Memories fell into place from before the sirens; he remembered Monty sitting on his lap as he kissed him, and the frantic desperation to put distance between them as soon as the door flew open. Monty was already laughing when Charles looked distraught at him, reaching over to clap a firm hand on his shoulder. “No harm done, my boy. Perhaps Johnny will let us both work from home tomorrow if I claim I can’t get out of bed. I’ll need you with me for assistance, of course. Silver linings and all that,” he said, winking conspiratorially at Charles.
Charles glanced quickly at Jean, worried that the suggestion of them leaving Jean alone in the basement would bring back the fears that Charles had only just put to rest. But instead she was nodding solemnly, a wicked glint in her eyes. “Well, you are getting older, Monty. You’ll be thirty-one in a week, it’s no surprise you’ve thrown your back out.”
Monty let out a loud guffaw, pretending to aim a kick at Jean in his outrage. He only managed to prove her point however when he made a pained noise at the movement. “Yes, well. Enough of that. How are you both faring?” Monty asked, glancing between the two.
“I think we’re alright,” Charles answered tentatively. He looked at Jean, the tear tracks on her cheeks shining in the lamplight but a tired smile on her face. Encouraged by her smile, he nodded with increased confidence. “Yes. I believe we’re all alright.”
Jean’s hand squeezed his again, as Charles interlaced his fingers with the hand Monty still rested on his shoulder. They weren’t exactly a conventional group of siblings, Charles supposed. But he wouldn’t have changed being part of their trio for anything in the world.
Hester’s nerves already felt frayed by the time she arrived in the office. She’d spent most of the night in the bomb shelter tossing and turning on her makeshift bed, flinching at every tube train that whistled past her spot on the platform. At least she was one of the lucky ones who could walk back home after the all-clear was sounded without needing to wait for transport services to resume. But she still found herself unable to fall asleep once back in her boarding house, only managing to rest her eyes for a couple of hours before her alarm clock forced her back out of bed.
Her blood had run cold at the absence of Monty’s bicycle chained to the gate outside the building. Images flashed through her mind of his apartment block gone up in flames, of Ewen’s secret exposed on a hospital gurney or mortuary slab – she didn’t know what would be worse. Faintly she remembered that he’d stopped cycling to work in the depth of the air raids but the lingering fear refused to loosen its grip on her. Her pace picked up as she pushed the door open and hurried towards the basement, nearly tripping in her haste when she heard only silence on the staircase from a room that was almost always bursting with chatter and –
Of all the sights she’d been preparing herself for, her colleagues crying out like kittens from the sofa bed as the fluorescents were switched on was not one of them.
She turned the lights back off and was rewarded by Jean emerging out from under her blanket, her hair untied and tangled from sleep. “Morning, Hester,” she yawned, blinking owlishly at where Hester stood in the doorway. Monty lay sprawled on his back next to her, Charles curled into his side like a particularly clingy frond of ivy.
“Good morning, Jean, Charles, Ewen. I gather that the air raid kept you all confined here?” Hester asked. She’d found the three of them in more or less the same position after the raid the week before. And then countless times year before too, as Mincemeat started to demand more and more late nights from them all.
“Wasn’t going to risk any more close encounters, old girl,” Monty said in a falsely chipper tone.
Hester hummed, privately relieved that her momentary terror had been for naught. “Well. You have approximately three quarters of an hour until our naval briefing, Ewen, and I believe Jean and Charles you are both needed in briefing room four. I shall fetch us all a cup of tea whilst you make yourselves and the room presentable.”
“Hester, wait.”
Hester stopped from where she’d started to turn up the basement stairs. Charles had shot upright on the sofa bed, looking like a deer in the headlights while he still griped onto Monty’s hand. “I, uhm. Hester, I want to tell you, I mean, we want to tell you, that, err.”
She looked on patiently as Charles paused, inhaled a deep breath, and then blurted out “MontyandIhavebeenseeingeachothersincetheChristmasparty.”
The barely comprehensible string of words took a moment to decrypt themselves in Hester’s mind. Her gaze travelled from Charles practically vibrating with anxiety, to Monty lying beside him who’s casual demeanour was betrayed by the hopeful look on his face.
Then she raised her eyebrow in the most fondly sardonic look she could possibly muster. “Really, Mr Cholmondeley, with all that preamble I thought you were about to tell me something I didn’t already know.”
Monty and Charles had the good graces to appear at least slightly abashed as they looked at each other. “See, Charlie, I told you trying to keep a secret from Hester was about as pointless a mission as Fleming’s submarine car,” Monty grinned as Jean giggled beside them. Then he went to push himself upright and his smile abruptly froze. “Charlie, I can’t move. Oh God, Jean you were right, I have done my back in. Hester, give us a hand – no Hester, come back, Hester!”
Hester let the sound of Monty’s protests and Jean’s laughter fade into the background as she climbed up the stairs towards the cafeteria. Somehow, despite the disarray that her three young charges never failed to inflict, her nerves felt more at ease already.