Page 63 of The Boy I Love
‘Gordon sends his regards,’ the man said, taking his seat and offering me the same charming smile as his brother. ‘He told me that you’ve been treated rather shabbily. I’m sorry for it. He also asked me to return this.’ He handed me the watch, which was quickly confiscated by the guard on duty with the promise that it would be returned upon my release. ‘Only eighteen months or so to wait then,’ Mr Jackson said ruefully. ‘Speaking of which, when you do get out, please drop by my gallery on the King’s Road. Gordon tells me that you’re quite the artist. It’s possible that I might be able to send some work your way.’
He was as good as his word. After finding a small bedsit in North London to call my own, I visited the Chelsea gallery and, handing over a couple of my recent sketches, found myself with a half-dozen commissions for portraits and the promise of more to come. I couldn’t yet afford a new suit but perhaps that day wasn’t too far off.
I come to halt, a little breathless. The painting hangs on the same wall where I first saw it as a boy. Then, I had been ashamed of my emotions. Now, taking in its melancholy beauty again, I let my tears fall. It’s almost closing time anyway and there isn’t anyone around to stop and stare.The Fighting Temeraire, sad and majestic, a ruin of war forgotten and thrown away by the country it had served. The fate of the tramp on the steps outside, the fate of Michael and of Ollie, of Taffy and Spud, of Percy Stanhope, of Stanley Beddowes, and of myself. The fate of hundreds of thousands of men who lost their future in some foreign field.
Footsteps behind me.
A shadow falls onto the painting.
‘The boy I love is here in the gallery
The boy I love is looking down on me
There he is, can’t you see...?’
Heart soaring in my chest, I turn to face him.
Danny. My Danny. Here and alive and beautiful.
I had been tempted to put off this afternoon’s reunion until I might look a little smarter. But when his telegram arrived this morning, I couldn’t wait another hour.
Home at last STOP
Meet me at Nat Gallery STOP
Closing Time STOP
TBYL
TBYL. The Boy You Love.
I guessed that Captain Jackson’s brother must have given him my address. All I know is that the joy that flooded through me, reading that telegram, knowing that he was safe – knowing at last,at last– made me collapse to the floor, weeping with relief.
‘Danny...’ I murmur. ‘My Danny.’
He doesn’t hesitate. He grins that warm, infectious grin and, stepping forward, wraps his arms around me. I breathe in his smell, his warmth. Another question that haunted me during my time in prison wasn’t onlyIs he alive?butDid I save him?Save him in the way I’d intended, preserving something of that innocent boy I had first met on the train at St Pancras. Perhaps that was always an impossible idea – to stop this vicious war from taking its toll upon his soul. In the end, he had been forced to kill and will possibly have killed again in the years since. But now, as I hold him close, feel his lips against the side of my face, hear the voice I’ve missed so much, unhardened by the years, I believe that this is the same man I knew.
‘Hello,’ I whisper.
‘Hello, Stephen,’ he says. ‘I’ve missed you very, very much.’
I smile and hold him tight. There is no point in kidding ourselves. There can be no happy ending for us, I know that. The world we’ve fought for isn’t made that way. Not yet, at least. But if the war has taught us anything, it’s that happiness exists and must be treasured in the moment. I will treasure it now, however briefly, safe again in his arms.