Page 55 of These Old Lies
“I’ll make a rum cake then?”
“Only if you promise to put enough in for me to get properly drunk,” Charlie replied to Betty’s muffled laughter.
Charlie began to undo the buttons of his shirt, which he then tossed in the wash. Annoying brothers-in-law aside, dinner on Saturday had him thinking about the week ahead, the customers’ orders they needed to fill, the accounts to be done, the note from Frank’s teacher last week. The endless list of daily life.
“Andrew wants me to come with him to France for the Somme memorial.” Charlie hadn’t meant to say that.
“You should go.”
Charlie turned around to face Betty, fighting to not let his nerves show. “All a bit ridiculous, if you ask me. I’ve spent enough time in northern France to last a lifetime.”
“We’ve been talking for months about taking a holiday. Kitty wants to take her boys down to Brighton, and Frank and Ellie have been begging to go. You could go with Andrew without a worry.” Betty’s practicality was a double-edged sword.
“We’ve the shop to run. I can’t be leaving you with the children alone for a week. It's a nice idea, but I can go another time. I don’t think the Somme is going anywhere.”
Which didn’t answer the point Betty was making. There were parts of Charlie’s life that he didn’t share with his wife, including how the idea of seeing men from the regiment, of stepping foot back in France, of potentially seeingNed, made his heart thunder and his stomach roll.
Betty didn’t push further, simply tucking the covers around her as if they had been discussing out-of-stock mufflers. Maybe it was that simple for her.
Forcing his fingers to unclench, Charlie continued the motions of getting ready for bed, turning off the lamp, lying down on his side of the bed.
He pushed France out of his mind, with its terrors and temptations, and thought instead about the easy partnership he had with the woman beside him, the laughter and joy of his children down the hall, of the endless list of tasks to keep the business going.
There really was no doubt about it, Charlie Villiers was the luckiest bastard in all of London.
???
Charlie was gasping, eyes wide, fingers itching to grab for his rifle. His hands gripped the sheets, still trembling from the sensation of shoving a bayonet into a screaming body.
The steady in and out of breathing beside him, the worn covers under his hands, the outlines of the wardrobe all became anchors for his flaying mind.
He was in London. He was safe.
His lips formed the same phrase over and over, a prayer in the silence.All is well. All is well.
The panic retreated, but sleep was lost for the rest of the night. Carefully, he shifted out of bed. Betty had long since learned to sleep through his nightmares, but she wouldn’t take kindly to him waking her with a creaking floorboard.
Downstairs, a full moon shone through the big glass windows. The only time he missed making hats was on nights like these, alone in the dark, his hands unsteady from a nightmare. Years ago he used the early hours of the morning to craft his fantasies, imagining a world where ideals of prettiness applied equally to men and women.
If he closed his eyes, Charlie could imagine the feel of needle and thread pinched between his fingers, the texture of felt under his hands. The ache between his shoulder blades from being bunched over the hat. Stretching his arms, and looking up to see Ned half-asleep in one of the work stools, his long limbs illuminated in the gaslight, taking up too much space as usual.
Ned was the only person who’d ever watched him work, and it had felt wildly intimate. Presenting a finished product was very different from sharing the process of creation, where it was all chaos, bad ideas, and near failure. Yet Ned had managed to watch everything Charlie did without passing judgement. He was content to just be close to Charlie.
Charlie slumped down on the chesterfield, staring up at the full moon and clear sky through the old workroom windows. His time with Ned—wild, boundless, passionate—all felt like a chapter out of another man’s life. Charlie couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride that he had been once so cheeky, reckless, and so much in love.
Did Ned feel the same way? Charlie hoped he did. They hadn’t been much in contact since ’24. Charlie hadn’t wanted to reach out and put Ned’s career at risk. Hadn’t wanted to see Ned’s face when Charlie explained he was getting married. So without really intending to, they’d once again become strangers.
Except, what had Andrew said?Apparently he is attending the memorial opening, too. Representing the Cabinet Office.
Charlie could imagine Ned at the memorial opening easily enough. Standing ramrod straight, looking up at whatever they’d built to commemorate the slaughter, his ‘officer’ mask on so tight it would be a miracle if his face muscles moved at all.
The perfect English gentlemen.
Except it wouldn’t be that easy, would it? Behind those respectful handshakes and polite conversations, Ned would have to be breaking inside. Missing his brother, slaughtered in the mud far from loved ones. Would Ned share that with anyone at the unveiling? Have someone to make him laugh at a story of Frank’s misadventures?
Charlie snorted to himself. No, the posh bastard would probably keep that all to himself, stew in pain and regret and burn from the inside out and not let any other soul see it. Handle it all alone.
As he stared up at the bright moon, Charlie’s mouth twisted at his own foolishness.