When Skies Have Fallen

by Debbie McGowan

  ***

  At first, the jobs coming in—almost all of which were taxis, thus had to be done at lightning speed—were few and far between, and the workshop was bitterly cold. It made Arty’s legs ache, but they needed to keep the place manned, so he brought an old eiderdown over from the house. It was just like the old days back in the disused hangars, wrapped up together, talking about anything and everything—politics, Jean and Charlie’s wedding, the late return of soldiers whom everyone had assumed were lost. Charlie’s older brother had returned from Belgium the previous spring, and he was doing well, all things considered. Alas, there had been no news from Arty’s Uncle Bill in over two years, and they had long ago accepted he wasn’t coming home, but there was that tiny, impossible glimmer of hope found in stories like the one Jim told of the two men from his hometown.

  Having grown up together, George and Roy enlisted with the same unit and the two GIs were inseparable. Jim had always known they were more than good pals, and when George was captured by Japanese troops, Roy also surrendered. They were taken to a POW camp in December 1944 and escaped in February 1945. Unaware that their camp had been liberated just days after their escape, the two men trekked across Japan, taking shelter in derelict buildings, until they found a sympathetic farmer who let them stay in his goat shed but refused to help them any further. They survived on goat’s milk, ‘stolen’ from the goat every night, resulting in rage and confusion from the farmer every morning when he discovered his goat was dry, and he never did work out why.

  Eventually George and Roy made it to the border and found passage back to the USA, arriving a good three months after everyone else, fully expecting to be welcomed as heroes, although it was safe to say they were no more compos mentis than the poor Japanese farmer whose goat they had repeatedly milked dry. Nonetheless, they deserved better than the mocking reception that greeted them. They were honest young men, but they weren’t astute enough to even understand what the war was about, let alone that their commitment to each other would result in a ‘less than honourable’ discharge: the dreaded blue papers that denied them their GI rights.

  Jim was livid and powerless to assist without jeopardising his own situation. He had already mentioned in his letters to Arty that he had joined an association set up by a handful of homosexual veterans who had been served blue discharge papers. Jim didn’t care about the dishonourable discharge, but nothing was going to get in the way of him being with Arty, and so he’d waited until he reached London before writing to George and Roy, telling them to get in touch with the association.

  Jim, like Arty, had always been politically minded. It was a commonality they’d discovered in the early days of their relationship, when they’d spent hours discussing the war, the decisions their respective governments were making, their beliefs about equality, and so on. On almost all counts their opinions coincided; all but one, in fact, although Arty concluded it was more cultural than personal.

  When the American airmen first arrived, it was like hot air blasting through the cool stoic ranks of the RAF. For where the British struggled to squeeze out a polite ‘how do you do?’ and talked of ‘missing Mother dreadfully’, the Americans offered hugged declarations of ‘I love ya, buddy’ and cried unabashedly over everything from missing their families to losing a girl.

  All considered, Jim wasn’t so different. He wanted to be open about his homosexuality, and he was prepared to take whatever punishment came from being so, but for Arty’s benefit he kept quiet and reined in any public displays of affection.

  In truth, since the accident, Arty had slowly been coming round to Jim’s point of view, although the change in his thinking began in earnest the day he told Charlie. What Arty had expected at best was that Charlie would keep it to himself and their friendship would be ruined. Indeed, even imagining Charlie might respect him for his honesty had seemed overly optimistic a year ago. It took a while, but Charlie had accepted it, and he and Arty were as close as they had ever been, with the rivalry between Jim and Charlie mostly effected in jest, although they did almost come to blows when the kittens were born. It all came down to a misunderstanding of intention: Arty and Jim had decided they were keeping the kittens, which Charlie interpreted as meaning neither could go through with disposing of them, and he offered in good faith to take care of it on their behalf. Arty had never seen Jim so angry, and he was all for giving Charlie a reminder of the pulping he got the last time.

  After a few days of silent seething and ignoring each other, the two men made their peace, although Silky showed no appreciation whatsoever for Jim’s valour, leading him to joke glibly that the cat was even more vicious than his pop. Arty cringed inwardly and said nothing; it was the first time since returning to England that Jim had mentioned his father. He didn’t ask after him in letters to his mother, nor did she report back on his well-being or lack thereof. Likewise, whenever Joshua visited or they went over to his and Louisa’s place, any conversation about home steered well clear of talking about their father. To all intents and purposes, Jimmy Johnson Senior was already dead and buried.

  Joshua and Louisa were just two of the many visitors they had to Dalton Place. Molly and Daphne would call in whenever they were in town, and Jean had become pally with a few of the girls from the accounting firm she had been working for since the previous autumn. Having run her own office, Jean found it tedious being told what to do by someone who knew far less than she did. He was in charge simply because he was a man, and discussions could get very heated when all of the women descended on Dalton Place at the same time. Some of Jean’s co-workers had lost jobs elsewhere when the men came home, and their present employer was under pressure to sack them, but he couldn’t afford to pay men, so for the time being their jobs were safe.

  The end of the war had brought to the forefront many aspects of life that had previously gone unquestioned, and the conversations at Dalton Place would often carry on late into the night, covering everything from the appalling treatment of black GIs in the USA, a lot of whom were served blue papers for no other reason than the colour of their skin, to the expectation that women on both sides of the Atlantic would readily return to their home-making duties now their husbands were home. If Molly and Daphne were involved, the discussion would veer towards the treatment of homosexuals, during which Jim listened quietly rather than risk breaking his promise to Arty, but it couldn’t go on. Before the war, Jim had been a union man, and it was not in his nature to sit back and quietly accept injustice. He was used to fighting on other men’s behalf for better treatment, fairer pay. Now he wanted to fight for himself, and he was left prostrate by his duty to protect Arty.

  After one particularly late night, when Molly and Daphne had finally gone home, Arty sat on the end of the bed and leaned down to take his socks off, all the while aware of Jim’s restless pacing. The evening had involved a rather distressing discussion of homosexual POWs being made to serve their full prison sentences, with no reduction for their time as Hitler’s guests, and even Arty was outraged.

  “I’m gonna make cocoa,” Jim said, heading for the door. “I ain’t gonna sleep well tonight. You want some?”

  “Please,” Arty confirmed to Jim’s disappearing form, and as he listened to him banging around the kitchen, he realised he had about five minutes to reach the biggest decision of his life: stay silent, or stand up and be counted.

  As things stood, no one batted so much as an eyelid at the pair of them sharing an apartment. It was quite ordinary for men to share the cost of rent and no doubt many shared a bed simply because needs must. And whilst Arty had vowed never to deny what he and Jim had, no one had asked the question. However, the second Jim spoke out, or became involved in any kind of political activity, the rumours would abound and everyone would know the truth. If Jim was that way, then so was Arty, but he didn’t care what people thought. He loved Jim with all his heart. He admired him, and he was proud of him—how patiently he cared, how hard he worked to turn his ambitions into
reality, how handsome, and kind, and honest—to Arty, Jim was perfection itself. Jim was prepared to sacrifice his freedom to fight for what was right: to start another war. Yet we are already among the ruins. How many more skies must fall?

  Arty had barely survived the last war, and he was terrified—not of losing his liberty, but of losing Jim. It was a no-win situation: force Jim to suffer a life of silence and watch as he slowly lost his spirit, or release him from his promise and risk incarceration and a life apart.

  “Are you praying, darlin’?”

  Arty startled and opened his eyes. He laughed quietly. With his palms pressed together and eyes closed in deep contemplation he could see how it would have looked like he was praying. “I’ve been thinking,” he said.

  “About?” Jim left a cup of cocoa on Arty’s bedside table and walked around to his own side of the bed. Once again, he was avoiding Arty’s gaze.

  “I’ll stand by you,” Arty said. Silence followed, and Arty swivelled to face Jim. “If you want to fight, I will be there, at your side.”

  “I promised you.”

  “And I promised I’d never deny us. But that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.”

  “We’re partners, Arty.”

  “We are,” Arty agreed, “and yet it’s always you making the compromises. I think it’s about time I met you halfway, don’t you?”

  Jim ran his hand through his hair and studied Arty for a moment. “You realise if people know about me, they’ll know about you?”

  “I don’t care about that. I love you, Jim. I’m honoured that you want to share your life with me, especially after the accident. I wouldn’t have blamed you for walking away, but you didn’t. And you ask for so little in return. I’m scared, I’ll admit it, but not so scared that it gives me the right to stand in your way.”

  “I can try to—” Jim began, but Arty glared at him. Jim shrugged. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

  “I know.” Arty smiled, grateful for Jim’s continued attempts to protect him, although not so much for his stubbornness. It was hard enough to see this through without being given a dozen escape routes. “What better way is there to keep me safe than by changing the world?”

  “Jeez, Arty. When you say it like that it sounds impossible.”

  Arty laughed. “Not for you, love.”

  “I appreciate your vote of confidence,” Jim said. He chewed his lip pensively for a moment and then sat down on his side of the bed. “I figure there’s more folks like me and Mol out there who wanna put their shoulder to the wheel, but how do we find ’em? That’s the thing. I guess we start with Molly’s contacts, and then? I don’t know. Friends of friends, maybe, or people who went to jail, or…” Jim continued to gabble at speed, thinking aloud whilst he untied his shoes, undressed and put on his pyjamas, pausing every so often to ponder on something he was saying. Meanwhile Arty also changed into his pyjamas and climbed into bed. By the time Jim’s monologue was winding to a close, Arty’s cup was empty.

  “…and we’re gonna need a place to meet. Could be a problem.” Jim got into bed and took Arty’s hand. “Are you really all right with this?”

  Arty sighed in exasperation. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t. And I know somewhere you can meet.”

  “You do?” Jim looked at Arty doubtfully. Arty nudged him with his elbow.

  “Hey! Who found the hangars? And, might I add, in less than a week.”

  “Yeah, all right. So where’d you have in mind?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “I thought you and Jean were planning to rent it out.”

  That was true: when Jim was still in America, Jean and Arty had discussed sub-letting the top-floor apartment to bring in a little extra income. However, Jean had suggested it would be better to leave it empty and make it appear that Jim lived there, just in case any trouble came their way. Arty hadn’t mentioned it to Jim, knowing he’d be against the idea but would have gone along with it for Arty’s sake. The apartment, therefore, was still empty.

  “I’ll talk to Jean about it after the wedding,” Arty said. “I don’t think she’ll mind.” In fact, knowing her as he did, he was confident she’d be all for it, once the wedding was out of the way.