Chapter Twenty-Nine: October, 1955
From across the street, through a slender crack in the blackout paint covering the car’s side window, Arty watched Joshua, who, in turn, stood outside the prison gates, watching the vast wooden doors. Arty couldn’t see the doors from his location; he could see only the gates and Joshua. The designated hour had arrived; Joshua’s stance changed. The gate swung open.
“Jim!” Arty cried, pressing forehead and palm to the cold black glass as the tears began to flow. Joshua and Jim were locked in a tight, silent embrace and stayed so for many minutes, affording Arty time to compose himself, for what it was worth.
At long last, Joshua and Jim released each other, and Joshua led his brother across the road, glancing back so he could read Jim’s lips. Arty read them too.
“In the car?”
Joshua nodded and Jim broke into a sprint. Skidding to a stop, he flung the door open so quickly, Arty fell forward, only just managing to grab the back of the seat and not tumble out onto the road. Somehow he shuffled over enough to allow Jim to get into the car, shutting the door behind him, and then he was encapsulated in arms so strong he could not have broken free if he’d fought with all his might. The kisses, at once familiar, left no time to breathe, or speak, and no need for either. A shaft of light illuminated the dark rear compartment of the blacked-out Morris, and Arty and Jim sprang apart, squinting at the source. Joshua grinned at them and the shutter closed again. The engine roared to life. In the darkness, through touch, Arty wiped away Jim’s tears and smoothed a hand over his stubbled crown.
“I love you.”
“I love you. And I’ve missed you so much.”
“Me too. Oh, Jim. You can’t imagine…”
“Shh. All right, darlin’. I’m here now.”
Arty sniffed and spluttered and dug the handkerchiefs from his pocket: he’d brought them one each, and he pressed the softer of the two into Jim’s hand. “Did Joshua tell you we’re going to stay with him?”
“Yeah, he did.”
“I know you’d rather go home, but it’s safer for us there.”
“Hey, don’t shoot me for saying this, but home is wherever you are, darlin’.”
“Why would I shoot you for saying that?”
Jim laughed quietly, and they kissed again. Arty kept it going for as long as he could, dreading what he needed to tell Jim before they arrived back at the house.
“I’ve already moved our belongings, and the cats.”
“It’ll be so good to see them again.”
“I can imagine. But…Soot…” Arty inhaled, the gulp of air almost choking him. Our sons are dead.
“I know,” Jim said gently, cupping Arty’s head, cradling him, rocking and shushing him, as the geyser of grief erupted. “Everything’s gonna be just fine. I promise.”
Whether the promise proved true or false, it was all Arty needed to confirm Jim had come back to him. Prison had not broken him. His Jim was home again, even if for the foreseeable future home would not be Dalton Place. But Jim was right: wherever they were was home, so long as they were together, and Joshua’s suggestion that they move in with him gave them a far better chance of staying that way.
Joshua still worked for the United States government, and as such was afforded diplomatic immunity. Whilst it didn’t cover Arty and Jim, it created an extra layer of protection, because the Home Office would avoid acting in any way which might sully international relations. The police wouldn’t dare enter Joshua’s home without a search warrant, and the courts would likely refuse to grant one. However, with fear of communism rife, the situation in the States was as dire as it was in England, with suspected homosexuals ousted from their jobs in government because they were deemed to pose a security risk. By offering Arty and Jim room in his house, Joshua was putting his neck on the line, and in accepting, Arty and Jim were, essentially, going under self-imposed house arrest.
When they arrived, Joshua’s chauffeur drove the car straight into the garage so that Arty and Jim were not seen entering the premises. They had spoken little during the thirty-minute journey, content with the physical contact and the comfort it brought. Arty had so much he needed to say, and he sensed the same was true of Jim, but all of that could wait until they had properly reunited.
The silence continued as they followed Joshua up to the rooms that were their accommodation for as long as they needed it.
“See you at eight for dinner,” Joshua said on his way out of the bedroom, where Jim had already flopped onto the plush king-size bed and was revelling in the softness of the mattress and the clean, white linen. He raised his arm and offered his brother a thumbs up.
“You’re welcome,” Joshua replied, wiping away a tear and then adding, with a wink to Arty, “Dumb hoofer.”
Arty was too choked with gratitude to use words, but he knew the sign for ‘thank you’, so he signed it. Joshua smiled and looked Jim’s way as he signed it back. The door closed and Arty locked it, taking a moment to get his thoughts in order before he turned around.
“Come on over here,” Jim called. “This bed’s sweet.”
“I imagine an RAF bunk would be just as sweet after what you’ve been sleeping on.”
Arty about-turned to find Jim had prised himself off the mattress and was in the process of getting undressed. He’d lost some of his bulk, but gained a lot of muscle, and he was as glorious a sight to behold as ever. Arty swallowed hard and his legs started to tremble.
“You need to sit down,” Jim advised.
Arty cleared his throat self-consciously. “That’s not the problem.”
Jim, now naked, shrugged and smiled. “At least get undressed?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Arty said, fairly tearing his buttonholes as he ripped his shirt open and threw it to the floor. Trousers unfastened and pushed to his knees, he sat on the side of the bed to remove them, but before he had the chance to do so, Jim scooped him up and lifted him to the centre of the mattress, kissing him all the while. He carefully set him down on his back and finished undressing him.
“You do realise this is the third time we’ve been through this?” Arty observed from his prone position.
“You forgotten how to count while I been inside?” Jim joked. Kneeling on the edge of the bed, he moved Arty’s feet apart and shuffled forward into the space between them, running his palms over the skin, from ankles, to shins, to knees, applying the same firm pressure as always, since the early days after Arty’s accident.
“I’ve forgotten about you being inside,” Arty said, keeping his eyes trained on Jim’s erect penis to avoid any potential—though improbable—misunderstanding.
Jim chuckled and lifted Arty’s legs a little higher, continuing to massage his thighs, slowly, carefully, easing them up and apart. He shuffled closer, using his hips to hold the weight of Arty’s legs whilst he worked his way along the insides of his thighs, diverting when he reached the top. He tended to his abdomen, hips, stomach and sternum, but could not reach higher than that from his present position, and so he worked his way down again, with the same slow, deliberate care.
Arty sighed in pleasure. He’d expected, after eighteen months of enforced celibacy, they’d both be so desperate for release they’d have jumped straight to it, but it was more than the physical act—the ‘buggering’, as the law so crudely referred to it. It was in every touch, every taste, the knowledge they shared of each other’s bodies, spots no bigger than a sixpence where the brush of a fingertip was sufficient to ignite every nerve ending. And it was in the connection of their hearts and minds, the trust, faithfulness and sacrifice.
The joining of their bodies was no less erotic on this occasion than any other, but its significance seemed to elevate it to another plane. Three times they had been forced apart; three times they had come back together, and beyond the base carnal act there was a deeper connection sustained by mutual resolve. They would fight to protect their freedom, just as they had once fought to libe
rate Europe.
Also rather liberating was the realisation that they could not be heard and neither held in their cries of satisfaction, nor the tears that followed their release. They huddled together in the midst of the enormous bed with its thick, giving mattress, the soft linen sheets adding their caresses to the kiss-whispers of love that eased them into sleep. It was not yet past noon.
They napped on and off for the rest of the day, filling the wakeful moments with more intimacy and a lot of talking.
“You know they tried again to force me to have the treatment?” Jim said. He sought Arty’s hand and laced their fingers tightly together.
“Did they?”
“Yeah. I told ’em if my pop couldn’t beat the queer out of me, then their amateur methods weren’t worth a dime.”
Arty lightly kissed Jim’s cheek, both reward for his bravery and encouragement to continue.
“He never let a day go by without telling me how much he hated me. And he wanted me to leave, but I couldn’t, not till my papers came through.” Jim laughed as a better memory surfaced. “Mom wouldn’t let him in the house, made him sleep in the stable for almost a week. Man, he was stinkin’, and I don’t mean of manure.”
Arty joined in with the laughter. There were so many questions he had wanted to ask about Jim’s father, born of nothing more than his desire to know everything about the man he loved. But the whole conversation was delicate and precarious, like the skin of a recently closed wound, and Arty couldn’t chance it.
Jim unlocked his fingers from Arty’s and turned onto his side, so that they were lying face-to-face. “Mom told Joshua she was planning to come visit.”
“Joshua mentioned it. I can’t wait to meet her.”
“I don’t know when it’ll be. She’s sold the land, did he tell you?”
“Yes. He said she’s looking after the old couple.”
“That’s right. They’re great guys.” Jim’s eyes flashed briefly with anger and then determination. “You know the journalist and that other guy ended up in jail with me?”
“I knew they’d gone to prison. It was all over every front page. He admitted to being a homosexual in court.”
“Yeah. He’s got guts. They beat the crap out of the three of us. But we got to talking. We’re gonna do something, darlin’.”
“Like what?”
“Same as before, but this time we’re gonna get ourselves organised—get all the facts and figures, talk to doctors and politicians, make allies. Peter said the government are putting together a report.”
“Peter?” Arty queried.
“The journalist. He’s got nothing left to lose. He already lost his career, and the man he loved.” Jim stared deep into Arty’s eyes, the message clear. He was going to war, whatever the cost.
“What’s he like?” Arty asked.
“Determined. Bitter. Intelligent. Brave.”
“Handsome?”
Jim laughed with the wondrous booming joy of old. He hauled Arty in and kissed him hard on the lips, and again, and again, each time becoming softer and longer. A sigh passed between them.
“Well?” Arty said, poking Jim in the side.
“I don’t know if he’s handsome. Maybe, I guess. He ain’t you, that’s all I know.”
Arty couldn’t imagine a better answer to his question. “You know, D H Lawrence—”
“No way! Only six hours and he’s already in the room. How’d he know where to find us?”
“It’s relevant,” Arty promised. Jim smirked. Arty ignored him and continued, “He wrote Lady Chatterley’s Lover after the Great War. The copy Antonio owns was published when I was nine years old—”
“A hundred years ago?” Jim teased.
“It’s felt like it at times, that’s for sure.” Arty paused so he could get the anger in check. It had simmered for three months, threatening to boil over when he and Sissy argued and she defended their parents’ decision. It left Arty feeling bruised and betrayed—they’d never argued before—but it wasn’t Sissy’s fault, not really. The gentle touch of Jim’s fingers on his cheek soothed and calmed him, but he needed a prompt to force the words out. Jim gave it.
“What happened?”
“My Uncle Bill came back from the war. I don’t know how long ago, my mother didn’t say. She only called to tell me he was dead, and when I pushed her for details…” Arty closed his eyes and clamped his teeth tightly together to suppress the yell of rage and frustration. Three months had not quelled his hatred in the slightest.
“Was he homosexual?” Jim asked.
Arty nodded. “Yes. The treatment killed him, and then they buried him in a pauper’s grave.”
“Oh, darlin’, I’m so sorry.”
“I have to hold my hands up, Jim. I’m complicit.”
“You didn’t know.”
“If I could just have written that blasted letter—”
“You couldn’t have saved him.”
“But he wouldn’t have died alone. I’m so afraid, Jim. So terribly afraid, because I can’t live without you. I know, because I tried, and I can survive, exist, but not live. I know you’ve got to do this. It’s who you are, and it’s one of the many things I love you for.”
“If you don’t want me to, just say the word.”
“No. That would be asking the impossible.”
“That ain’t never stopped you before.”
Arty laughed. “You make a very good case. However, that wasn’t what I meant. As D H Lawrence wrote—don’t mock—” Arty pre-empted, but Jim’s expression was most sincere.
“You know, you always said it so much better than he did.”
“He wrote—” Arty stopped again, as what Jim had said registered. Whenever he tried to explain he felt so inarticulate, but perhaps Jim was right, and his own words would suffice. “What I’m trying to say is this. I don’t imagine for one minute that the fight will be quickly won. Indeed, Hitler was a far less complex adversary than the one we face. But I’ve stayed silent far too long, Jim. We’re in this together—you, me, Peter, Uncle Bill, those old guys in the mountains—all of us. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.” He grimaced. “That last part was D H Lawrence.”
“Yeah.” Jim laughed. “I figured. So we’re really doing this together?”
“Yes. Together.”
“All right! Let’s bring down the sky!”
“You know you’re asking the impossible?”
Jim smiled and smoothed Arty’s hair back from his brow, leaving a light kiss in its place. “With you at my side, darlin’, nothing is impossible.”
When Skies Have Fallen Page 46
