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New year's eve, and happiness is in the air, dancing and whirling around like a gentle breeze. Pat feels all warm and fizzy, tipsy even, though of course this year - like so many others - he hasn't had a drop to drink. There is so much hope for the next year, as there always is. After all, it's New Year's Eve! Being dead won't stop him from having a resolution, no siree. He understands, he supposes, why some of the other ghosts don't care about the orbits of the earth, of the fresh spring and new dawn. What is one year within a hundred? Within a thousand? Despite the winding eternity ahead of them, it helps to have years. They are something tangible, solid. Undebatable: they come and go but they are there.
And what isn't to love, standing in front of the warm glow of Button House, staring into the starlit sky, as Mike and Alison set up the fireworks? What more could you want?
Well, there are a few things he would change if he could, even though he knows that he is lucky, in the grand scheme of things. If he could, he would like Daley here, and little Pat, all of his family, really. It would be like old times: building a bonfire in the garden and lighting it up as the countdown began. Having a proper pint, and then prosecco to toast because why not. A scotch egg or two, plenty of nibbles. Yes please. Bed by half past 12 sharp, it may be the new year, but he's not crazy.
He knows he can't have these things, that they're just a fanciful daydream, and that he should be happy with what he's got. If not happy, at least content.
And, as Mike sprints away as the fireworks begin to crackle and pop, streaking the sky with light that goes straight to the heart, he thinks he might just be content. He might just love it here.
—
Oh, what a glorious evening so far, Kitty thinks as the fireworks burst in the sky. They're very beautiful, like shooting stars, although the noise is a little intense. She likes New Year's eve, but it's only her third favourite celebration. Christmas and Valentine's day are far more exciting, normally, but this year Alison had bought some balloons, great big shiny ones that float to the ceiling if left untethered, which is certainly making it more exciting.
She loves balloons, there is just something about them that is so mesmerising, so delightful, she can't help but adore them. Wouldn't it have been lovely if she had balloons when she was alive? Her father would have gotten them for her birthday, she's sure of it. It would've been marvellous, although perhaps she wouldn't have been allowed to, since Eleanor might not have liked them and she wouldn't have wanted to upset her. And, maybe, if she really didn't like them she might've popped them - and what a shame that would've been! But it's okay though, because even if she misses Eleanor, she has Alison would never ever ever pop her balloons.
The fireworks are over now, which is a shame, but it's not long until midnight. For now, everyone is chatting and listening to the playlist Alison made for the occasion (she got Kitty to help gather songs from everyone, because she has such good taste!). The playlist is a whole mishmash of genres and singers and eras, although they had to insist that everybody keep their songs upbeat, though this statement was mainly targeted at Thomas, who was going through a phase of loving Mitski - whose music is sweet but often melancholy - and also the Captain, who couldn't come up with a single fun song without significant encouragement. However the Captain had eventually settled on some ABBA, including Dancing Queen, which Kitty certainly enjoys very much!
She misses Eleanor and her father, of course, but she does love her new family. It seems so grand and exciting, so much larger than her old one. How lucky she feels, sometimes.
—
He's on the roof again. In a bout of extroversion and good spirit, he'd allowed the others to play catch with his head. Of course, it had ended in arguments, competition, and Thomas aggressively booting him away, up, up to the roof.
If you're never been catapulted through the air before, he would recommend it. A sharp, ringing jab in your head and then you're flying, and the landscape you've known for centuries is reduced to blurry streaks: the pure, basic foundation of their surroundings. He imagines that if your head was attached to your body, you would feel that swooping sensation, but his isn't, so he feels weightless. Like he was born to be up in the air.
And now, on the roof, he can't quite see the others, but he can hear them. He prefers it this way. He prefers being able to listen, rather than talk. Talking takes too much energy.
He didn't always prefer listening, and the regret gnaws in his stomach regularly. If only he had just listened, if he was better at French, then maybe he would've been a better husband. It had taken him hundreds of years to learn such a simple lesson, and he hated himself for it.
Hopefully, he thinks, wherever Sophie is now, she remembers him for his final deeds. His last act, an act of love and of guilt. He hopes that she remembers his last attempt to bridge the gap between them. That she has forgiven him for his ignorance, as she never could in life.
After all, they never should've ended up together, never would've chosen each other. They were only children, and children aren't allowed to make their own choices.
—
This New Year's Eve certainly isn't how Fanny would have chosen to do it. There is no dinner party, no meticulous planning of a menu, no careful arrangement, no guests dressed in their finery. A lady does not celebrate the New year like this, gracious no. And what's all this racket? A ‘playlist’ apparently, put together by Alison and Kitty, although all the songs are vibrant and garish, quite hideous things! Of course, she refused to contribute, although this has unfortunately left her listening to the others’ questionable taste in music, if you can even call it that.
She won't be completely stubborn: she can see some advantages of this style of celebration. Perhaps, a quieter night with her pets would've been just the ticket, the fire lit and a small champagne. It wouldn't matter where George was, because she would be content with the company of Dante, curled up by her feet and the roaring fire. She would be organising, planning, cataloguing - something simple and systematic to calm her mind. There are advantages to this lack of convention, but it's simply not how they do things, not in her time.
—
Alison and Mike pop the cork out of the bottle of prosecco they'd bought for the occasion. Not Julian's drink of choice, of course, but alcohol is alcohol, and god it smells good. Even though he's technically been drunk these past thirty years, what he wouldn't give to feel that buzz again.
Another office party, yes please. Getting blind drunk and shagging some colleague in the toilets. A couple missed calls from Margot, nothing out of the ordinary. He does feel bad sometimes, of course, he does. But you have to understand, he was just living his life. We all choose different paths, and that was his, why would he have changed? And, obviously, Margot didn't need him, because Rachel has done well, despite everything. The green party is a shame, but oh well. We all have our faults; there is no need to apologise for his.
—
Ah, the joys of a party. And, it being New Year’s Eve, it is particularly exciting. After all, what does one do when the clock strikes midnight, when the New Year starts to bloom? Of course, one must share a kiss. And who better to share a kiss with than dear, sweet Alison? She may kiss Mike first, he will allow her that, but he is also certain that she will grant him the honour.
It does remind him of all the kisses he could've shared with Isabelle, had only the cruel fates spun their threads a little differently. All that love, all lost. All the soft and passionate and intense kisses they could've shared. Alas, it was not to be, and now he stares, a hopeless romantic, lusting over a woman who was indefinitely out of his reach. Pull yourself together Thorne, he thinks. He is here, with his friends, and although they don't appreciate his work to the degree it deserves, at least they are here.
A thousand miles away, up in the heavens, he pictures Isabelle and Francis together, the happy couple, with no memories and no regard for him down here, not quite on earth, not quite in heaven. Just somewhere in between where the rules don't make sense, and where they have to grip onto their past lives, lest they lose their sense of self and become ghosts in the true sense.
Damn their eyes.
—
It bes the newest of years! The clock has just struck its last hour, and we be in the next year. Tis a nice party and all, but it is missing somethings. Food, there is none, but then there hasn't been for 400 year or more, naught at all. Not even fennels - what she wouldn't give for some fennels for devouring.
Fennels be the least of her yearnings, though. She misses Annie, of course. The others are fine, but they don't takes her seriously like it be with Annie. You see, Annie helped her find her voice, helped her to be strongs as a man, in mind at least. Annie would've liked Al’son, they would have gotten along like two peas in a pod, those two. And Annie would've liked the party too, but she would help Mary be alrights when the fireworks went off.
But Annie be's sucked off, the lucky bugger. Mary doesn't begrudge her, ts’alright. Her time will come soon, and when it does, how wonderful it shall be, to see Annie again.
—
Thank be to Moonah! Is new year, but a year is small, he has seen too many. Is all the same to him. It don't matter, not anymore, all he care about is Moonah. What is “year” he didn't have it when he was alive, but he had month, he had Moonah.
People come and go, but Moonah always there, sometimes big, sometimes small, but always Moonah, always cycle back round.
He would like to see his mouse family, they are having babies soon, is important, but Alison is playing music and he's actually allowed to mess with lights, very fun. Alison promised to put on film about Moonah landing, called ‘the Dish’ or something like that. But that will be tomorrow, no problem, he can wait. He's waited before, he can do it again.
—
New Year's Eve, how splendid. It would've been the perfect time to whip out the cocsoc, but the others had preferred to just enjoy the celebration, or as Katherine has taken to saying ‘vibes’. It has been a perfectly pleasant evening so far, but he is beginning to think about retiring to bed, since he's already stayed up for midnight, which is very much out of the usual routine.
Of course it is necessary to break routine occasionally - how else would we have won the war? - but he would prefer for it to happen as little as possible. There was that one evening when he was CO here, before Havers left him for the front, where he'd actually enjoyed the change. It had been some chap's birthday - he can't seem to remember who - and they'd had a night off. Everyone was dancing and having a few drinks, a very jolly evening indeed, although it was all getting a bit much. He'd excused himself for a moment and took himself outside. It was a lovely part of the evening, not quite dark, but not sunset, a nice, pale wash of twilight. Despite the mild weather they'd been having, it was clear and cool at that hour, certainly very refreshing. A little Robin chirped indignantly at him, puffing out his red chest in territorial pride. Fascinating creatures, birds.
He'd started to take a stroll around the edge of the grounds, to clear his mind and calm the jitters he got from the disruption to his sleep schedule, when a voice had cried out behind him
“I say, sir, do wait up”
Startled, he'd turned to be greeted by Havers, who was smiling in that pleasant way of his. He felt his cheeks going a little warm, he shouldn't analyse Haver's profile so much.
“A lovely evening for a walk, sir. I don't suppose you'd mind my joining you?”
“Ah, no, well, of course not” he said, clearing his throat slightly. They had pottered on in companionable silence, enjoying the freshness of their surroundings.
Unexpectedly, a robin shot past them, causing them both to step back in surprise.
“A robin, sir. This time of year is their peak breeding season.”
“I remember a pair that would roost in my garden as a boy. Lovely creatures, robins”
“Indeed, sir”
“Ah, please, feel free to dispense with the formalities. You may call me James.”
“If you wish,” he hesitated a moment, bashful, and then said, “James”
What a lovely evening that had been, truly. He thinks back, wishing he had more memories of Havers to pick over, yet he also realises that would mean more pain, a stronger longing for what once was and what could've been. But what's a little more pain, in a lifetime full of it.
He would give up his life, again, again and again if it gave him just one more moment with Havers.