When Skies Have Fallen

by Debbie McGowan

  Chapter Twenty-Two: May, 1946

  Waiting in the atrium of Mrs. McDowell’s fine country home, Arty was reminded less of D H Lawrence and more of Jane Austen. The house was splendid, with almost too much sunlight cascading through every window, bleaching every surface to a dazzling pastel hue. Upon the walls were mirrors, so many mirrors, in fact, that there was no direction one could turn in order to avoid one’s reflection. Arty caught a glimpse of himself in the ornately etched oval glass to the left of the front door; he straightened his waistcoat and tugged his cuffs down past the sleeves of his morning suit. The grandfather clock chimed a quarter to the hour: bride’s prerogative or not, Charlie would soon be having kittens of his own.

  “How do I look?”

  Arty turned to the sound of Jean’s voice, watching in awe as she slowly descended the wide staircase, one hand keeping a tight grip of the banister rail, the other obscured by a swathe of white satin skirt draped over her arm so that she didn’t trip, revealing slender legs, the top of one pale stocking top also in view. Not that it mattered: the others had already left for the church, and Arty had seen Jean’s legs plenty of times during the past two years.

  Reaching the atrium, she stopped a few feet away and adjusted her skirt. The gown was stunning, with a heart-shaped bodice encrusted with small pearls, the V accentuating Jean’s narrow waist, although it wouldn’t be narrow for much longer.

  “You are the most beautiful woman in the world, Jean,” Arty said most sincerely, aware of the quiver in his voice that gave away how emotional he was. Jean met his gaze, her eyes shiny with brimming tears, and he smiled. “No tears today, my wonderful friend.” He crooked his arm and held it out for her to take, which she did, and they departed, arm in arm, through the wide front door.

  “Am I late enough, do you think?” Jean asked as they carefully stepped down from the porch onto the path.

  Arty nodded. “I’d say so.”

  “Good.” Jean grinned mischievously.

  The chauffeur was waiting by the open door of the enormous wax-sheened Bentley. He took off his hat and bowed to Jean.

  “Thank you,” she quietly acknowledged.

  Arty held up the train of her wedding gown while she clambered indelicately over the Bentley’s high sill and attempted to turn and sit down without creasing her skirt. Once she’d organised the yards of fabric into a heap on her lap, Arty climbed in beside her, trying not to show any indication that he was in pain. It was nothing sinister, just the usual ache in his legs made worse by having been on his feet all morning. The chauffeur closed the door; a moment later he appeared in the driver’s seat and glanced over his shoulder.

  “All set, Madam?”

  “Yes, I think—” Jean gasped. “My bouquet!”

  Arty groaned. “Where is it?” he asked, already halfway out of the car.

  “On the draining board.”

  He went back to the house and collected the bouquet, which he had helped Jean to choose because she said she knew nothing about flowers; he’d opted for dusk-pink tea roses nestling against a backdrop of tiny white gypsophila. He lifted the flowers to his nose and inhaled deeply, momentarily intoxicated by the sweet scent of his favourite bloom, his mind filling with memories of summer days long past, chasing butterflies around the garden of his childhood home, while Sissy sheltered in the shade of her parasol, supposedly minding him from behind her book. She’d been invited to the wedding, and she was honoured, but made her apologies; it was only a few months since she had made the arduous trip across Europe to be with Antonio, and she was not keen to make it again.

  “Are you sure that’s everything?” Arty asked Jean on his return to the car.

  “Yes,” she confirmed with a smile, taking the posy from him. Once he was seated, she hooked her arm through his, musing aloud, “Let’s hope Walter hasn’t lost the rings.”

  “Funny you should say that. I was thinking the same thing about Charlie.”

  Jean squeezed Arty’s arm and gave a tiny squeal of excitement. “I’m so glad we’re doing this together,” she said.

  Arty took her hand in his. “Me too.”

  For the rest of the short journey to the parish church, they shared memories of their time at Minton, in particular the nights at the Palais, watching the USAAF airmen show off, concurring that Jim was one of the worst offenders. Fortunately for him, he had the moves to pull it off, and he was so charming he rarely offended anyone. In fact, out of all the Minton personnel there was only ever Charlie who disliked him, but that was all water under the bridge now. If business continued to grow at the same rate as it had so far, within the month Jim and Charlie would be working side by side again, and it was apparent that they were both, secretly, looking forward to it. For all of their past antagonism, each knew they could rely on the other and, though neither would admit it, they had a great deal in common.

  The Bentley rolled to a smooth stop, and Arty peered through the church gates. “It was a very proper wedding. The bride was elegantly dressed; the two bridesmaids were duly inferior…”

  Jean glanced past him and spotted Jim and Betty—her fellow WAAF wages clerk and maid of honour. Jean laughed. “Jane Austen,” she identified. “Alas, I only have Betty.”

  “But her mouth is big enough for two. What do you think they’re talking about?”

  “No doubt she’s telling Jim he had a lucky escape.”

  “Yes, probably.” Arty agreed. “Are you ready, Mrs. Tomkins-to-be?”

  “As I’ll ever be,” Jean said. Arty released her hand for a moment to get out of the car, and took it again, holding steady whilst Jean stepped out onto the pavement. Once she was happy her gown was hanging correctly, she held on to Arty’s arm and they walked up the path to the church doors. With a soundless nod, Jim returned inside to let the vicar know the bride had arrived. Jean and Betty embraced quickly, and Arty told Betty how lovely she looked. He meant it too: her maid-of-honour dress was in the same hue of pink as the tea roses and a wonderful complement to her brown-black hair and dark complexion.

  The organist began to play. Jean took a deep breath, grabbed Arty’s arm once more, and they moved off, with Betty following behind and holding the short train of Jean’s wedding gown. Ahead of them, Charlie and his older brother, Walter, were standing in front of the altar, both in matching morning suits and for once looking very much alike. They were dissimilar in looks and stature, with Charlie being the taller and broader of the two, but they shared the same stance and expressions of nervous anticipation. Beyond them, the vicar was a statue in starched white vestments, a fixed smile on his face as he followed over the rims of his half-moon spectacles the bridal party’s slow-march progress. Naturally, the three of them were in step, taking the mandatory pause as each foot passed the other.

  Finally they arrived at the altar and the service began. At the appropriate point, Arty symbolically gave Jean to Charlie and then took his seat between Jean’s mother and Jim. Someone lightly squeezed his shoulder; he looked behind him and nearly fell off the pew in surprise.

  “Sissy! What are you doing here?” he hissed.

  “Attending a wedding,” she whispered, flicking her fingers in his direction, just like she used to when he was a little boy rather more interested in the ladies’ ridiculous Sunday hats than the vicar’s boring drone. Arty turned to face front again, briefly making eye contact with Antonio, sitting to Sissy’s left. He didn’t seem in the least bit impressed by the Church of England service of holy matrimony Sissy had forced him to attend.

  All in all, the ceremony was unremarkable, which was as well; both Jean and Charlie had been fretting about stumbling over their vows, though neither did. The hymns were rousing—‘Praise My Soul The King Of Heaven’ and ‘All Things Bright And Beautiful’—and whilst Arty had heard Jim singing along to some of their records at home, it was nothing compared to the way he sang in church, with an almost opera-like quality to his deep, rich baritone. It left Arty in a glorious daze, wondering how it wa
s possible that he could fall even more in love with the man he already loved so completely.

  From the chilly recesses of the church, the wedding party and their many guests spilled out into the sunny grounds, liberated at last from the restrictive silence and able to greet each other properly. Many of those who had served at Minton hadn’t seen each other in almost a year, and the reunion was joyous and, in some quarters, raucous. Walter was, on the whole, performing admirably as best man, intervening whenever someone hogged Charlie’s attention for too long, and keeping up a cheery banter in between. The Tomkins men’s sadness for their lost younger brother was their constant companion, even though they endeavoured to hide it whenever their parents were nearby.

  “There’s some of your little guys,” Jim said, pulling Arty from his observations. Jim nodded to the floral borders of the church gardens. “Holly blues, right?”

  Arty smiled. “That’s right.” He watched the small butterflies flit amongst the forget-me-nots, their pale blue wings affording an effective camouflage, and soon both insects disappeared from sight.

  “And small white?” Jim identified, pointing to another.

  “Close,” Arty said. “See the green colouring to the underside of its wings?”

  “Uh huh?”

  “The small white doesn’t have it, so that one is a green-veined white.”

  “Green veins. Got it.” Jim nodded and frowned thoughtfully. It made Arty chuckle.

  “You don’t have to pretend any more,” he said.

  Jim’s frown became a grin. “Your legs all right?”

  “Just about. I could do with a sit down though.” Arty switched his weight from one leg to the other, for what it was worth. Between walking up the aisle and sitting on hard pews, followed by coming up on half an hour of standing around, he was in significant discomfort.

  “You got a couple hours to rest before tonight,” Jim said.

  “True enough,” Arty agreed vaguely. They were returning to the house with the newly-weds, along with Joshua and Louisa, to wait out the time between the ceremony and the wedding reception. However, rest was not on Arty’s agenda, and he was starting to feel a little anxious, although if it did go terribly wrong he could always blame Jean, even if this time the idea had been his own.

  “Arty,” Sissy called as she made her way over. She hugged him fondly and moved straight on to Jim, bombarding him with questions and giving him no time whatsoever to answer. Arty was somewhat startled when Antonio also hugged him, particularly when he followed it up with a loud kiss delivered to each cheek. Flustered and with face burning, Arty watched Antonio greet Jim the same way, whilst Sissy laughed loudly. “Oh, dear brother of mine. How much you have yet to learn.”

  Antonio released Jim and shrugged at Arty. “Ten years in London, I go home and I forget.” His dark eyes twinkled with fun, and Arty chuckled. Antonio Adessi was a handsome man, with thick, steel-grey hair and olive skin that was surprisingly smooth, given his age and all he had weathered over the past few years. He was perhaps as much as twenty years older than Sissy, certainly in his mid-fifties, but he had forgotten nothing; he was making it clear he had no issue with Arty and Jim’s partnership, which meant Arty could safely invite Sissy and Antonio to join them.

  “We’re going back to the house for afternoon tea. Will you come?” Arty met and held Sissy’s gaze, imploring her to agree.

  “We’d love to,” she accepted graciously, and with a modicum of suspicion. “But you’d better come with us in the car, or we won’t know where we’re going. When do you want to leave?”

  “Now, ideally. My legs are sore. I’ll just let Jean and Charlie know.”

  “I’ll tell them,” Jim said. “You go get in the car.” He was gone before Arty could draw breath to protest.

  “Are they getting no better?” Sissy asked, as she, Arty and Antonio set off along the churchyard path towards the road.

  “They’re better than they were at Christmas,” Arty replied, keeping his eyes on his goal: his sister’s pre-war Triumph Dolomite that she had refused to sell, instead renting a garage to store it in until such point as Arty learnt to drive. The truth of it was he never went anywhere that meant he needed to drive. Since the accident he had avoided going to dances, and there was a pub within walking distance of Dalton Place, so if he fancied some company that was where he went.

  As much as Arty enjoyed watching others dance, he was afraid that doing so would force him to accept his lot, and he had affected what he thought was a fairly convincing veneer of indifference. On the few occasions that Jean and Charlie had been out dancing, they’d asked if he wanted to join them, and he’d always dismissed the offer with some quip about not wishing to be the fifth wheel. Before Jim came back, telling them thanks, but no thanks hadn’t been a problem, but no matter his insistence, Jim refused to go out dancing and leave Arty home alone.

  Tonight, however, there would be no getting out of it. It was the wedding reception of their two best friends: the end of a long and complicated courtship, and a new beginning. There would be much dancing and Arty refused to spoil anyone’s fun. No envy, no bitterness; already he was preparing himself, strengthening his conviction to remain happy, for Jean and Charlie’s sake, and for Jim. With so many WAAFs in attendance there would be no shortage of partners to assist Jim in showing off his jitterbug prowess, and Arty was looking forward to watching him in action again. It had been too long. It will be fun, he repeated to himself, as Jim opened the car door and climbed in beside him.

  “Were they all right?” Arty asked.

  “Yeah,” Jim confirmed. “Are you?”

  Arty nodded cheerfully. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  Jim frowned at him, his disbelief apparent. Sissy started the car and moved off. “What’s on your mind?” Jim asked.

  “Oh, you know. This and that,” Arty said cryptically. He waited for Jim to light his pipe, and put his hand on Jim’s knee. Jim smiled away behind the merry little puffs of smoke.

  They were first to arrive back at Jean’s mother’s house, where Jim headed straight for the bathroom, whilst Sissy fussed Arty into a chair and made a pot of tea, lecturing him all the while about talking to his doctor.

  “I’m sure he can give you something for the pain.”

  “I can manage, thank you, Sissy.”

  “Day to day, maybe, but on a special occasion, like your best friends’ wedding?”

  “I don’t want to depend on medicine for the rest of my life. You know how it muddled my brain in hospital.”

  “I’m not suggesting you take it all the time, Arty. It’s not fair on Jim—”

  Arty raised his voice, cutting Sissy short. “It has no bearing on Jim. He worries whether I’m in pain or not.”

  “And do you tell him?” Sissy demanded. “When the pain is as bad as I know it is today?”

  Arty opened his mouth to retort, but Jim was on his way downstairs. “That would be unfair to him,” he hissed under his breath.

  Sissy folded her arms and glowered. Arty shook his head and laughed. “What?” she snapped.

  “You look like our mother.”

  “Attack me, why don’t you?” she grumbled jokingly, although Arty could see she had taken offence, and it was only Jim’s arrival that stopped her from saying anything further.

  “How are we all?” he asked, resting his hands on Arty’s shoulders. Arty peered up at him and smiled.

  “Sissy says I’m to tell you whenever I’m in a lot of pain.”

  “You don’t need to. I already know.”

  “I was only telling him to talk to the doctor,” Sissy protested. “He could take something when it’s at its worst.”

  Jim nodded, as if he were mulling over her suggestion. “We’d have to make up the couch for when D H Lawrence comes a-visiting.”

  Arty felt himself turn red and started to laugh.

  “What’s this?” Sissy asked.

  “The morphine they gave me in hospital made me, er…imagine things
that weren’t real.”

  “And you imagined D H Lawrence?”

  Arty nodded.

  “Doing what?”

  “Reading his stories to me, of course.”

  Sissy rolled her eyes. “Of course.”

  “Look, Sissy, I’m perfectly fine, really I am. With Jim’s physical therapy—”

  “That’s what you’re calling it these days, is it?” Sissy’s remark sent both men into fits of laughter. She watched them for a moment and then bustled over, hugging them both at the same time, which meant Arty’s face was squashed against her midriff; he blew hot air out of his mouth, ruffling the front of her frock. She released them at the same time as the front door opened, and Jean and Charlie burst through it under a rain of rice. Joshua and Louisa were the culprits and followed them in. Jean turned back, holding up her hands to say ‘stop’, and the pair did as requested, still silently laughing as they came through to join the others in the kitchen. Jean and Charlie continued straight past, out into the gardens.

  No more than ten seconds later, the front door opened again, this time to admit Molly and Daphne.

  “Lovely day,” Molly remarked.

  “Absolutely glorious,” Daphne concurred, as they, too, made a beeline for the gardens. Arty glanced up, catching Jim’s bemused frown, and quickly turned away, stifling his laughter.

  Joshua met Arty’s gaze for a moment before briefly shifting his eyes to Jim, and then in the direction Molly and Daphne had taken. Arty gave him a thumbs up.

  “What’s going on?” Jim asked, watching his younger brother’s gestures to Louisa. Before he met Louisa, Joshua had never used sign language, but he was now fluent. “I wish he wouldn’t do that,” Jim griped.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” Arty said.

  “You’re in on it?”

  “More like they are in on it,” Arty corrected.

  With a final nod to Louisa, Joshua started towards the door to the gardens, beckoning the others to follow. Arty rose to his feet and held his hand out to Jim, who narrowed his eyes, but nonetheless took the offered hand and allowed Arty to lead him outside.

  “I thought you needed to rest,” he said.

  “After we’re done here.”

  “What are we doing here?”

  Arty didn’t answer and continued towing Jim by the hand, along the path through the middle of the lawns, past the greenhouses, finally coming to a stop under a rose arch.

  “Where did they all go?” Jim asked, his question immediately answered by the reappearance of their closest friends and family: Jean, Charlie, Molly, Daphne, Joshua, Louisa, Sissy and Antonio. Jim looked around the gathering, his mouth hanging open in bewilderment.

  Charlie stepped forward and clasped his hands together. Clearing his throat dramatically, he said, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together—”

  Jim’s mouth widened into a huge smile as he looked Arty right in the eyes, trying and failing to glare angrily.

  Charlie continued, “We are gathered here together in this company, to witness the union of this man,” he pointed at Jim, “and this man,” and then at Arty, “in…” Charlie looked to Jean, who shrugged. “In good old-fashioned marriage.”

  Charlie gave a self-satisfied nod, and it dawned on Arty that his friend was a little bit drunk, or emotional, or possibly both.

  “Do you, Robert Thomas Clarke, take Jimbo to be your awfully wedded husband?”

  Arty tried hard to keep his face straight as he answered, “I do.”

  “Goodo.” Charlie nodded some more. “And do you, James Johnson, take Arty to be your awfully wedded husband?”

  “I do,” Jim said, working so hard to suppress his laughter that he was grinding his teeth.

  “Marvellous,” Charlie said. “Now, I have here…” He patted his chest, paused, had a sudden thought, and fished in his inside pocket. “Hold that.” He passed Arty a spanner. “Told you I’d bring it back, didn’t I?”

  Arty stared at the three-quarter-inch spanner in amazement. “You bugger!” he said.

  “Ah! Here we are.” Charlie held out his hand, palm up, on which there were two gold bands, and all of a sudden Jim became very serious.

  “Arty, I…er…”

  Arty smiled and took Jim’s hand. “When I asked Jean to help me work out the size of ring to buy, she didn’t say a word about you having already done exactly the same. I don’t know what you were waiting for, Jim. You’ve had me since…well, that first time I saw you across the Palais Dance Hall.” Arty took one of the rings from Charlie’s palm and waited for Jim to hold out his left hand. Arty slid the ring onto Jim’s third finger and said, “With this ring, I thee wed.”

  Jim gripped Arty’s hand and made a very strange noise, making it difficult to discern if he was crying or laughing. He pinched the corners of his eyes and took a few deep breaths, the last being the deepest. He released it slowly and moved his hand away from his face, offering Arty a tearful smile. “You got me good this time. Gimme the ring.”

  Without looking, he held out his hand to Charlie, who duly passed over the ring. Jim took Arty’s hand in his.

  “I guess you already know the rest of it—for better, for worse, in sickness and in health, and so on?”

  Arty nodded solemnly.

  “Just checkin’,” Jim said, gently sliding the gold band into place with the words, “With this ring, I thee wed.”

  A brief pause followed, before Charlie decreed, “I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may now kiss the—” he paused as if to check he was right “—groom!”

  Arty and Jim both smiled as they leaned in to each other and kissed, no longer aware of their friends and siblings standing nearby, clapping and cheering, nor of the pair of brimstone butterflies and their perfectly timed flypast.

  * * * * *

  Part Four: 1947–1954

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