When Skies Have Fallen

by Debbie McGowan

  Chapter Ten: October, 1944, London

  Dalton Place—Antonio Adessi’s residence—was a magnificent three-storey mansion house, situated in a well-to-do area of the city, far enough from the docks and munitions factories to be as safe as anywhere in London could be.

  The war had cast in stark relief the extremes of wealth and poverty that the people of Britain enjoyed or endured, for war cared not for money or privilege. In war, princes and paupers fought side by side, united by a common enemy. Indeed, rationing had improved the quality of life for the very poorest by ensuring that no man went hungry.

  Arty, whose family were neither rich nor poor, had never wanted for food or shelter. His father was a historian, an esteemed scholar who could command a salary that had, before the war, afforded a motor car, annual holidays and a good education for his children. The world inhabited by Signor Adessi and his associates was one far beyond Arty’s means, although he had never coveted the exuberance and luxury of Adessi’s lifestyle; quite the contrary. He felt privileged to have been granted access to Adessi’s house, with its vast rooms filled with books and sculptures and paintings. To his young eyes, everything about Dalton Place had seemed enormous and grand, and the images in his mind were still as vivid and breathtaking as the very first time he saw it.

  Thus, it was something of a shock to behold now those same vast rooms, devoid of their splendour, blackout blinds where previously heavy red damask drapes had framed windows that extended from floor to picture rail, and the sparse remaining furniture cloaked in white sheets. Pale rectangular ghosts haunted colourless empty walls that answered Arty’s sorrowful sighs.

  “I wish you could have seen it before Signor Adessi was sent back to Italy,” he said to Jim, a step behind him as they traversed the halls and rooms of the enormous, lifeless manse.

  “Are you sure your sister is staying here?” Jim’s question echoed up into the ceiling and faded away to nothing.

  Arty nodded soundlessly in reply. The house had always been too big for one person, and in any case there was little point in trying to heat and light all twelve rooms when Sissy only required the one. Knowing precisely which room she’d choose, and in spite of how painful his knee was, Arty led the way upstairs to the first floor, past the master bedroom, sitting room and bathroom, to the library. He braced himself, turned the door knob and entered.

  The warm air welcomed the two men into the small room, dark but for the gentle orange glow of embers in the hearth. Arty hobbled across and gave them a prod, breaking the shell of smouldering coals to release small yellow flames. Next, he checked the blackout curtains were fully closed before lighting the lamp on the table beside the reading chair. For a moment he stayed where he was, with his back to Jim and the rest of the room. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the empty bookshelves, and suddenly it was all too much.

  Perhaps because he was barely a man when the war had begun he had not thought of it beyond believing it was wrong. Hitler had to be stopped, with that much he agreed, and he and Jim had talked of it often during their stolen hours in the disused hangars: of treaties reached through reasoned discussion between learnéd men and women. It was an illusion of peace they sustained in order to ignore the terrifying reality beyond the hangar doors. Of course Arty understood that his uncle and other men were missing, presumed dead. Of course he understood the terrible cost of the D-Day landings. He shared the joy of the other men in the small victories, the sorrow of defeat, but only now, in this moment, in the room that had been the sanctuary of his youth and in the presence of the man he loved, did Arty fully realise the frailty of life.

  Were it not for Jim’s impeccable timing, Arty would have fallen apart right then and there. Jim encircled him with his arms, and Arty leaned back against that strong, broad chest, each thud of Jim’s heart penetrating his ribcage and becoming one with the beats of his own heart. Warm breaths on his neck soothed away his troubled thoughts, a gentle touch of lips to skin quelling his fears and fuelling his desires. Arty turned within Jim’s embrace, the smile that usually greeted him absent, in its place manifest passion he was unable to resist.

  As their lips came together, so did their tongues, advance, retreat, advance, retreat, a dance or a war, it was all the same now. Arty cupped Jim’s face with both hands while his body sought purchase, the hard flesh of Jim’s arousal digging into his pelvis, a firm grip on his buttocks ensuring he could not escape, as if he would even try.

  In the burning heat of the unstoppable kiss, Jim muttered something about moving to the bed. Arty had not noticed there was one in the room, but accepted the reality when his lover lowered him onto the soft mattress and slowly worked his way down Arty’s body, unfastening each button and pushing his shirt fronts to the sides. When he reached Arty’s waistband, Jim tugged the shirt free and unbuckled Arty’s belt, at the same time ascending his torso and despatching a trail of kisses from his belly to his chest, across from one nipple to the other, before descending once more. With the care of a mother tending her infant, Jim eased Arty’s trouser leg past his damaged knee, pausing to look upon it, his eyes softening in concern.

  “It’s not hurting me,” Arty assured him, and it was the truth. His now naked body was so overwhelmed with desire he could no longer feel the pain.

  Jim stood to remove his own clothes, all the while studying Arty and smiling. “You are so beautiful, Arty. So long have I yearned just to look at you.”

  Jim inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. He too was naked now, and Arty wasn’t sure which he wanted most: to look or to feel those hard muscles against him. It was, after all, the first opportunity he’d had to see a filled, hard penis other than his own. The pale brown-blonde hair around it was much darker than the hair on Jim’s head, which had begun to lighten in spring, and had turned lighter still during the summer months they had been apart.

  “What liars poets and everybody were,” Arty mused. Jim frowned, not understanding. “It’s from the book I told you about, the one by D H Lawrence. It was in this very room that Sissy and I read it.” Arty smiled as past and present conspired to answer the question he and Jim had so often asked of each other concerning how they might consummate their intimacy. Arty recited from memory: “What liars poets and everybody were! They made one think one wanted sentiment. When what one supremely wanted was this piercing, consuming, rather awful sensuality. To find a man who dared do it, without shame or sin or final misgiving!”

  “What in the heck were you two reading?” Jim teased, pretending he did not know of Arty’s love for books of that kind. Jim’s laughter caused his penis to bob up and down, and Arty watched it in desirous fascination.

  No further words were spoken then; Jim returned to the bed and leaned over Arty, the taut muscles in Jim’s left shoulder bearing his weight while his right hand tended to Arty’s needs, exploring each crease and curve of his body, learning it, preparing it. Arty’s body strived for more, and he arched without thought, his legs rising, the painful knee all but forgotten to his desire to possess and be possessed. Just the touch of Jim’s fingers upon him, within him, awakened new, incomprehensible sensations that spread through his entire being. He reached out and grasped Jim’s solid penis, squeezing it in his fist, the first daub of seed warm and slippery against his circling thumb tip. Jim’s hips swayed back and forth, matching the motion of Arty’s hand, stroke for stroke.

  “Every night, Arty Clarke, since I first saw you across the dance hall, I’ve dreamed of this moment. You were standing with your chums, and there was a woman flirting with y’all, but you—”

  Jim paused to change position so that he was lying on top of Arty but leaning on his forearms. Arty placed his palms on Jim’s hips, thrusting up against the probing pressure that seemed to have captured his capacity to speak.

  “I knew you had no interest in that gal,” Jim murmured. His voice, close to Arty’s ear, sent trickles of sensation in every direction. This room, being together, it was their chrysalis; safe, snug and
warm. Jim nibbled at Arty’s earlobe, his neck, his chin, interspersing his words with kisses. “I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you. And I wondered…does he know? Can he possibly be feeling like this?”

  “I was,” Arty gasped. “I do.”

  “Yeah,” Jim said. “I kinda figured.”

  Arty laughed breathlessly. He felt giddy and quite unlike himself. His heart was working too fast, he forgot to breathe, and his body moved to its own rhythms, just as it did when he was dancing.

  Each could now feel the readiness of the other, and Jim allowed Arty to lead so that his entrance was not stark, but a slow gliding of thighs against thighs until their bodies coupled in their divine union. The burning, consuming passion that filled Arty rendered him soundless, breathless, and yet how he wanted to cry out. Jim’s eyes clouded with worry, and he began to retreat. Arty shook his head in frantic urgency, clutching at Jim’s buttocks, forcing him deeper still. Jim’s mouth captured the cry that escaped as Arty gulped and gasped in desperation for more, for less, he no longer knew which.

  As Arty relaxed, Jim chanced some gentle movement, and Arty nodded to reassure him all was well. The combined pain and pleasure made it impossible to do more than that. He did not want Jim to stop, but equally he was unsure he could stand to continue. In his mind, words formed and disappeared like footsteps in wet sand; he had wanted this, nay needed it.

  But how she had really wanted it! She knew now. At the bottom of her soul, fundamentally, she had needed this phallic hunting out, she had secretly wanted it, and she had believed that she would never get it. Now suddenly there it was, and a man was sharing her last and final nakedness, she was shameless.

  Arty’s final thought was a revelation. This was what it was like to be shameless, to be joined with another in a moment of perfect intimacy. This was love, pure, unspoiled, instinctual. For the first time in his life he was complete, but as he began to wonder how that could be, the ecstasy carried his mind to another place, beyond this moment and yet a part of it. The heat of the room and their exertion made him febrile, and he teetered on the edge of his orgasm, gorging his senses on Jim’s gleaming body: the violent thrust of his hips, and the ugliness of pure pleasure distorting his handsome features. Arty’s seed burst from him like gunfire, striking Jim’s chest.

  “I’m there too, Arty,” Jim panted, and he came into him, crying out, again, and again. Unable to hold his weight any longer, Jim fell down on top of Arty, kissing him over and over, tears pouring from his eyes as he declared his love, lest Arty doubt it.

  For a long time after, they remained as one, neither wishing to break the heavenly connection. It would not be their last, perhaps not even their last on this night, but their joint inaction served to keep it a while longer. When the world came into view once more, Jim found a final reserve of strength and slid to Arty’s side, their arms and legs still entwined.

  “What a gift this is,” Jim murmured sleepily. He pressed his lips to Arty’s sweat-damp shoulder.

  “Yes, it is,” Arty agreed. He braced himself and straightened his knee, pleasantly surprised to find it didn’t hurt anywhere near as much as he’d anticipated. He sighed in relief and contentment. “Tell me more about this idea of yours.”

  “The workshop?”

  Arty nodded.

  “You wanna talk, not sleep?”

  “I want to listen to you talk,” Arty clarified. “Just the sound of your voice…” He turned to Jim with eyebrow raised. “It’ll help my knee mend sooner.”

  Jim chortled. “Well, all right. I guess I got no choice, if it’ll help your knee, an’ all. So, I was thinking about us, what we’re good at, how we’re gonna get by when the war is over. I’d like to stay in England, but if you wanted…”

  “Go to America?” Arty asked. Jim nodded. “I haven’t given it any thought.”

  “Wherever we decide to be, I figure between us we could pretty much fix up any old jalopy. All we need’s a box of tools and a yard. We find us a place to live…”

  “You do mean together, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I mean together. Are you sayin’ you don’t want that?” Jim leaned up on his elbow. He looked so serious, and confused, that it made Arty laugh. He grabbed Jim around the neck and pulled him down again.

  “Come here, you daft hoofer.”

  Now Jim laughed too.

  “That does mean dancer, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” Jim rested his arm across Arty’s chest. It was a heavy, reassuring weight. “Tell me what you want, Arty.”

  “You tell me first.”

  “I already did.”

  Arty rolled onto his side, gazing at Jim in earnest. “Then tell me again.”

  “All right.” Jim cupped Arty’s cheek and looked him in the eye, first the left eye, then the right, then the left…Arty smiled and then started to laugh. Jim stopped fooling around and took a deep breath. “I want us to be together. I want you to wear my ring and I’ll wear yours. Nothing fancy—we can tell everyone we’re just a couple war widowers who loved our wives so much we swore we’d never remarry. But we’ll know in our hearts that we’re married to each other. And we’ll have lots of kids together.”

  “Ah, that might be a problem,” Arty said. He lifted the edge of the sheet and peered under it.

  “You know what I’m talking about. I’ve missed our little Socks and Soot more than I ever imagined possible.”

  “And they miss you,” Arty said. “Jean and I check up on them every few days, and they love Jean, of course. But then they’d sit by the door, watching across the field, waiting for…” Arty closed his eyes, determined to enjoy this precious night together, but it was hard to pretend his heart had not ached for all those months, watching the two young cats slowly realise that Jim was not coming.

  “Hey,” Jim whispered. “I’m here now. And when the war is over, there ain’t gonna be nothin’ to keep us apart. I wanna show you somethin’.”

  Taking great care not to disturb Arty’s knee, Jim climbed over him and picked up his pants from where he had dropped them on the floor. From the back pocket, he took a folded square of paper and his Zippo, bringing both back to bed with him.

  “It’s from my momma. She and Joshua got this clever code they use so they can correspond freely. I write, Joshua turns it to code, sends it to Mom, she replies to him, he decodes it and saves it till we see each other.”

  “Blimey, that’s a lot of hard work for a letter.”

  “It started out as a game she played with Joshua when he was small. Pop wanted nothing to do with him, said he was an idiot. He doesn’t think that now, but Mom had to fight to keep Joshua with her. She always knew he was special, and I don’t mean him being deaf and dumb. She played all these games with him, finding different ways to communicate, and he was real good too, ’specially with numbers. Play cards with him sometime and you’ll see what I mean. This is the letter I got last week.” Jim handed the letter to Arty and lit the Zippo so he could see to read.

  Dear Jimmy,

  You cannot know how happy I was to receive your last letter. Your words carried such joy. I am so glad you have found someone. Do you plan to stay in England after the war? If it’s better there for you, then you must realize you have my blessing.

  You’ll be pleased to know that the two old coots are back home. They returned in August under cover of night and came by next day. Poor Tom was heartbroken to hear about their old mare. I think I told you she passed away last fall. She was a real old lady and Billy tried but his Tom wouldn’t see reason. In the end they left the surviving mare with us on account of fearing what the townsfolk will do to them next time.

  I won’t stand for it, Jim. Pop thinks I make my own trouble and I’m sorry to say we fought and I told him about you. He said you wouldn’t be welcome here no more and I told him it was none of his business. You’re my son and if I say you’re welcome, you are. Now he’s telling anyone who’ll listen England is the new Sodom. You know what your pop’s like but do
n’t you worry about him.

  I look forward to meeting the man who has brought my boy such happiness.

  Your ever loving Momma

  Arty held the letter long after he’d reached the end, words here and there continuing to draw his eye. The letters from his own mother were far more reserved and, whilst he never doubted that she loved both him and Sissy dearly, it saddened him that she would never accept his love for Jim. Still, he was fortunate to have the support of those who mattered most: Sissy and Jean. Yet he was also afraid that Jim’s proposal, or what he believed Jim’s proposal to be, was foolish at best. How long would it be before police were breaking down their door and dragging them off to prison, all because they had dared to love one another? Who would care then, that they were good, honest men who had played their part in the war against Jerry?

  Reading between the lines, Arty concluded that Jim’s mother, brave and generous soul that she was, had instilled in her son false hopes for a happy future, where men could love one another freely, without fear of persecution. However much he wanted it, Arty could not bring himself to truly believe it was the life that awaited them after the war. Yet nor could he find the strength within to shatter Jim’s dream, not least because he shared it.

  “What’s on your mind?” Jim asked.

  Arty wordlessly folded the letter and handed it back. Jim watched him intently, waiting for him to share his thoughts.

  “Come on,” Jim goaded. “Talk to me.”

  “Would I be right in thinking you want to tell everyone about us?”

  “Jeez, Arty, I wanna shout it from rooftops—this is the man I love and don’t you tell me I can’t.” Jim laughed as he wrapped Arty in a tight embrace and kissed him with dramatic passion. When he released him, the laughter was gone, replaced by a gentle, reassuring smile. “I’m not saying we should do that, darlin’. But if anyone asks I won’t deny how I feel about you.”

  “We’d be dishonourably discharged. They’d send us to prison.”

  “I don’t expect you to do the same.”

  “I know. But I won’t deny you either. I love you, Jim. Yes, I’ll be your business partner. And I’ll wear your ring.”

  Jim rolled onto his back and, with a smile on his lips, shut his eyes and sighed deeply. Arty’s injured knee meant it took him a while longer to get comfortable. With his head on Jim’s chest, and Jim’s arms around him, he drifted into dreamless sleep.

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  Part Two: 1945

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