When Skies Have Fallen

by Debbie McGowan

  ***

  Arty returned from the bathroom with renewed resolve, strengthened further by Jim’s caginess, which betrayed the mental anguish he was going through just thinking of his father, let alone talking about him.

  “Arty…”

  “No, love. It’s all right. I can let it be, but at least let me help you heal.” Arty went to his bedside cabinet and took out a small, round tin. “Take off your shirt.”

  “I just put the thing on,” Jim protested, though he was already unbuttoning it. Arty approached, his fingers coated in pink ointment. Jim eyed him nervously. “What’s that?”

  “Germolene. It’s antiseptic,” Arty explained as he lightly applied it along the mark on Jim’s chest. “Arm up,” he instructed. Jim complied.

  “Smells like root beer.”

  “Root beer?”

  “You ain’t heard of root beer?”

  “Can’t say I have. Is it nice?”

  “Kids seem to like it, though it’s too sweet for me. I’d rather have a real beer. Never thought I’d say this, but I missed English beer.”

  “There’s a pub up the street. We can go for a pint, if you like. Not now—once you’re rested. There you go. All done.” Arty moved away and replaced the lid on the tin of Germolene.

  “Thanks.” Jim put his shirt back on, avoiding eye contact. Now they were in a room with proper lighting, all of the other marks on Jim’s back were obvious, and he would have known Arty had seen them.

  Once Arty was dressed, he held out his hands to Jim and pulled him up from the bed. “Are you ready?” he asked.

  Jim frowned. “You really ain’t gonna say nothing?”

  Arty considered for a moment. “I’ll just say this: by helping you heal, I don’t just mean slapping ointment on your cuts and bruises.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Arty kissed Jim’s chin, nose, lips. “I mean, Jim Johnson, the scars are in here.” He smoothed his hand over Jim’s hair.

  “I told you, he’s dead to me.”

  “Yes, you did, and however you choose to grieve for him I’m right beside you.”

  In spite of the tears welling, Jim held Arty’s gaze. He smiled and whispered, “Thank you.”

  Arty sighed in mock frustration and grabbed Jim around the head, pulling him close and delivering a noisy kiss to his ear. “Shall we go and see Jean and Charlie?” he suggested.

  Jim nodded against Arty’s shoulder. He slowly withdrew and allowed Arty to lead him by the hand from the bedroom, along the hallway—

  “I love you,” Jim said.

  “I love you too,” Arty replied.

  —out of the door to their apartment and up the stairs. Arty knocked on Jean and Charlie’s door; Jim sniffed the air a couple of times. “Mm. Something smells good.”

  “Ah, hell. It never even crossed my mind. I bet you’re famished.”

  “I am a little. You eaten?”

  “Not since…” While Arty was pondering, the door opened.

  “Hello, hello,” Charlie said, holding out his hand for Jim to shake and then drawing him in for an embrace and a slap on the back. He released him and both men gave each other a nod. “How was the crossing? All right?”

  “Yeah, not bad at all. You’re looking well, Charlie.”

  “Likewise. Come in.” Charlie walked back along the hallway, and Jim and Arty followed. “We’re in here,” Charlie said, veering off into the sitting room, where Jean quickly swiped at the mantelpiece with her sleeve and spun on the spot to face the men.

  “Jim.” She crossed the room at the same time as he did so that they met in the circle of light being cast by the lampshade above, where they hugged warmly. “It’s wonderful to have you home,” she said tearfully. She took a step away and kept hold of his arms while she studied him. He smiled.

  “Believe me, it’s good to be home,” he said, glancing back at Arty.

  A tingle ran down Arty’s spine, and he suppressed a gasp. Though the evidence was right in front of him, he kept having to remind himself that Jim was really here; not a dream, not wishful thinking, but in the flesh and large as life—and with a very empty belly, which was rumbling loudly. Arty shifted his attention to Jean. “Were you about to have dinner?” he asked.

  “We’ve already eaten? Haven’t you.”

  “Er, no,” Arty said, his face heating up as his mind flashed back to what Jim had been doing earlier.

  Jean gave him a knowing look, and he started to sweat. She laughed. “There’s plenty of leftovers. Rabbit stew and dumplings,” she said, already on her way out of the room. “Do you want some, Arty?”

  “Please,” Arty called after her. “I’ll come and give you a hand.” He didn’t wait for a response and quickly followed her to the kitchen, closing the door behind him. Jean put the pan of leftovers on the stove to warm, brushing her hands together as she turned back and looked at Arty expectantly.

  “Do you remember me telling you what Joshua said about their father?”

  Jean nodded and moved to the table in front of the window, where she sat and lit a cigarette, and waited for Arty to join her. “What about it?” she asked.

  “He’s…” Arty frowned and leaned back, watching the smoke drift up and fan out across the ceiling. He sighed. “Don’t get me wrong, Jean, I’ve had my fair share of clips ’round the earhole from my old man, although it was Mum we had to watch out for—you’d think you’d got away with it and then she’d catch you with a backhander on your way past.”

  Jean smiled. “Oh, my mother was just the same, and she’d always follow it up with a remark about us being lucky Dad wasn’t around, or we’d have been getting it with the belt, not that she needed a belt. Her hands were tough as old leather as it was.” Jean laughed and Arty joined in. She didn’t talk much about her family: her mother wasn’t short of money, although her father was dead before Jean was old enough to remember him, and her brother had died from tuberculosis. She’d never mentioned how old he was, but the stories involving him stopped long before adulthood and telling them always left Jean quiet and thoughtful, so Arty didn’t like to ask.

  “How bad is it?” Jean asked.

  “He’s been lashed with a whip, quite a few times. He doesn’t want to talk about it, which I completely understand. He must be worried sick about leaving his mother.”

  Jean put her cigarette in the ashtray and went to stir the pan. “He’ll tell you when he’s ready.”

  “Maybe,” Arty said doubtfully. It wasn’t how Jim was, but with both sons now living in London, Arty could see their mother joining them at some point in the not-too-distant future. By Jim and Joshua’s accounts, she was a tough old bird, and now there was little to keep her in West Virginia. Indeed, from the stories Joshua told, it sounded like she gave as good as she got, so they might yet end up harbouring a murderess.

  Jean brought him back from his thoughts by setting a plate of steaming-hot stew in front of him. She called through to Jim, who arrived a few seconds later, still looking just as tired, although his eyes widened enthusiastically at the sight of the food. He sat opposite Arty and tucked right in, shovelling several spoonfuls of stew into his mouth before he mumbled his thanks to Jean.

  “No thanks needed. See you when you’ve finished.” She left them and returned to the sitting room, the sound of the radiogram momentarily drifting through to the kitchen when she opened the door.

  “Charlie was about to show me his Bing Crosby records,” Jim explained.

  Arty groaned. “You’d best have a few hours left in you.”

  Jim just smiled and continued eating. He was positively voracious, and he’d cleared the bowl before Arty was even halfway through his, at which point he watched Arty eat, whilst licking his lips hungrily, or salaciously, Arty couldn’t quite decide, but it made him laugh. He pushed the bowl across to Jim, who ungraciously accepted and emptied it in less than a minute. Arty shook his head in wonder.

  “Didn’t they feed you on the ship?”


  “Yeah, but not much. And anyway I used it all up earlier, so I figured I ought to refuel.” Jim grinned mischievously.

  “Hm. We’d best get on with it,” Arty said. He took their empty bowls over to the sink, and he and Jim went through to join Jean and Charlie.

  “What do you think of the place, Jim?” Jean asked, handing him a glass with a half-inch of golden liquid in the bottom. Jim sniffed it and nodded his approval.

  “Bourbon?”

  “A gift from your Joshua,” Charlie said.

  “That’d explain it. Cheers.” Jim held up his glass and waited for the other three to do the same in celebration of both his safe return and Jean and Charlie’s pending nuptials. When the toast was made, Jim answered Jean’s question with a vague, “I’ll let you know what I think of the place tomorrow, when I can see a little better.”

  Jean affectionately brushed her hand down Jim’s arm. “We just wanted to welcome you home, Jim. We know you’re shattered, and the wedding arrangements can wait.”

  “Nah, don’t you worry about me. When’s the big day?”

  “We were thinking late May,” Jean said. “But that’s all I’m telling you tonight. Drink your whisky and get to bed.”

  Jim laughed and mock-saluted. “Yes, Ma’am,” he said, letting his arm fall from the salute to Arty’s shoulders. Jean made eye contact with Arty, and they both smiled.

  Soon after that, Arty and Jim bid good night to Jean and Charlie, with a tentative arrangement in place for the four of them to head over to the prospective workshop site the following day. Arty fed the cats, which wasn’t the easiest task with Jim’s arms around him, and Silky wasn’t impressed by Jim at all, although he was all compliments for the smoky-grey tortoiseshell with her fine, sleek coat and polished jade eyes. She ate her dinner and slinked past him into the hallway, where she loitered outside the sitting room, mewing loudly for someone to open the door. Jim went and opened it for her and she shot him a killer glare.

  “Hey, girlie, you already got two guys. This one’s mine.”

  She hopped up onto the armchair and set about cleaning her face, taking furtive glances his way.

  “Once she gets to know you she’s very loving,” Arty said on Silky’s behalf.

  “She’s doing what any pregnant lady would do.”

  “Yes, I suppose. Right, come on, you. Bedtime.” On those words, Arty grabbed Jim with one hand, switched off the lights with the other and led the way to the bedroom. No horseplay: between exhaustion and relief, they needed nothing more than to cuddle up under the cosy blankets, safe and no longer alone.

  So began their life together.

  * * * * *