But perhaps that would be a good exercise, to go about in public together, seen and yet unseen.
“We’ll stick to the beer garden, so Jez can have some nice juicy grass.” George combed his fingers through Henry’s hair, caressing softly. “Sure you won’t be too annoyed by my face on the beer mats?”
Henry grinned. “Promise you won’t think I’m weird? I took one from the pub that day you arrived and put it on my bedside table.”
“So we’re already sharing a bedroom? Sounds good to me, darling.”
The bedroom? Of course Henry had thought of that, had lain awake wondering what it would be like if his empty bed contained George beside him, but here, now, the reality of it— Henry pulled at the frayed collar of his shirt.
“I should go and change, really—if we’re off out. Or do you not mind me looking like a farmhand?”
“You look perfect, I’m the permanent scruff!”
“I was half expecting you to wander into the pub topless, but…you do look nice in your polo shirt.” Henry stroked his hand down George’s chest and across his toned stomach. “It makes you look rather—ahem—sexy. I can say that now, can’t I? Although perhaps not in front of Jez.”
“I don’t spend all my life topless. Good for box office, though!” George laughed and caught Henry’s hand where it rested against his stomach. “People get rather annoyed if I don’t, you know.”
“Can I just say—full disclosure—I wrote none of those letters to Points of View to complain when you kept your top on in that one episode. I mean, you were in a mangrove swamp full of mosquitos—of course you weren’t going to go topless! What the heck is wrong with some people?”
Henry became aware of something—someone—nudging his hip. But it couldn’t be George, unless he’d grown a third hand. Henry laughed and reached into his pocket.
“Sorry, Jez—I didn’t give you your carrot, did I!”
“I’ve only done nude the one time.” George sat back a little so the foal had space to eat. “And then only the rear view, careening across the Norway tundra after a hell of a sauna. Did you see that one?”
Henry’s gaze wandered toward the television on the other side of the room, and the stack of DVDs next to it. George would find out eventually—there was no way he could fib.
“I—I did see it, yes. I’ve got it on DVD, actually. Your bottom looked utterly splendid.”
“You know, I’d be happy to sign it.” George’s smile was as impish now as it had been in childhood. “The DVD, not the arse.”
“If you start signing your DVDs and books in this house, we won’t get to the pub until breakfast.” Henry laughed, but at his words George’s smile grew even more impish and Henry realized what he’d said. “I mean—because there’s lots for you to sign. I wouldn’t presume—”
“First date, Fitz.” He reached out to caress Henry’s face with his fingertips. Very carefully and a little clumsily, Jez rose up to stand on his long, skinny legs, chewing the fresh carrot. George’s gaze flitted across to watch the foal, his eyes shining with happiness.
Henry crouched on the edge of a tired sofa, retying the dangling laces on his decrepit desert boots. What on earth had changed? Had magnetic north shifted so far that this could happen? But it must have, unless he was dreaming, because George’s soft murmurs to the foal were real.
“Come on then.” George rose to his feet and held out his hand to Henry. “Let’s have our date.”
Chapter Ten
The last hour had not gone as George had expected, but far, far better. Hand in hand they strolled down the driveway with Jez following alongside, keeping close to his adoptive father. In all the years of acrimony, George had wondered when he would return to Longley Parva only to learn that Henry had married or moved away. He’d dreaded either bit of news, but somehow the former might have been worse. In a million years, though, he would never have expected that Henry Fitzwalter was gay, this manliest of men, solid and tweed-clad and so very, very straight.
Perhaps if he hadn’t been on television, if he didn’t have so many female fans and so much bound up with his military past, George might not have been so reticent about the private life that he kept so private, but what would happen if people knew? Would that be the end of the meteoric career trajectory of George Standish-Brookes?
Yet it hurt to release Henry’s hand as they reached the end of the lane and came into the village where the early evening roads were dotted with dog walkers and horse riders. Now they were just two mates again, a couple of pals off for a pint or two at their local. With a horse.
Still they walked as close as they dared, and George was prouder than he had been of any BAFTA, any invitation to the palace, simply to stroll through their idyllic village with Henry at his side. They passed the village hall with its collapsing roof, the ivy-covered cottages, the medieval church with its bright blooms bursting in colorful clouds all over the churchyard, all of it soundtracked by a chorus of cheerily chirruping birds.
Henry gave George a rundown about all that had been happening in the village. Daft stories that usually involved locals’ pets, but they throbbed with the import of international events. A dog running through traffic, a cat stuck up a telegraph pole, a mysterious theft of koi carp and the parrot that provided the clue to solve it, the primary school’s hamster and its untimely death, a Labrador that arrived with the snow and vanished as soon as it melted.
And now, a television personality and his foal, heading into the pub garden.
“I wonder if they do tapas,” George mused, even as he suspected that The Green Man hadn’t quite moved into gastropub territory. He took his sunglasses from a pocket and slid them onto his nose. “Or a mezze?”
“A what-y? They do sharing platters—is that the same thing? When Bob introduced those, the Parvans nearly started a riot. How modern, can’t have that, where’s me ploughman’s lunch? There are some people in this village who find a cod goujon a terrifying concept.”
“Grab us a nice table, Fitz.” George touched Henry’s arm, noticing a small crowd of children haring over the beer garden toward them. He had a sixth sense for it now, spotting the keener fans a second before they spotted him. “I’ll just let Jez meet his public then I’ll be right with you.”
He felt Henry’s hand rest for a moment in the small of his back. To anyone else it would appear to be a friendly gesture, an I’ll get the beers in signal, but George knew otherwise.
A little girl with pigtails and the remains of a lolly around her mouth hopped up and down and clapped. “Captain George, Captain George, can we ride your horsey?”
A little boy with grazed knees cheered. “Captain George, can I stroke his nose?”
A much smaller child, who quite possibly had no idea who George was, appeared in his line of sight, borne in on its mother’s arms.
“Captain George, what a lovely horse!”
“What’s his name?”
“Can he meet our donkey?”
“Do you like sheep, Captain George, do you?”
“Will you sign this beer mat?”
“Will you sign my arm, and I’ll get it tattooed?”
“Wish he’d take his top off—shall we pin him down and whip it off?” This from a table of teenage girls, who perhaps hadn’t meant him to hear.
Each approach was met with a smile, a joke, a photo or autograph when required. To the cheeky teens, however, George shot a pout of comical proportions as he told them, “It’s my day off, ladies!”
“Boo!” they shouted.
“Sorry!” He laughed, signing one more arm before he finally retreated back to where Henry and the beer waited. Jez had already made his escape and was standing beside the shaded table, lazily chewing at a clump of juicy grass, his tail swishing happily.
“Grabbed a menu—and look!” Henry pushed a Longley Spitfire beer mat across the table to George. Someone had Biroed hearts around the photo on it of George as a flying ace. “Not guilty, m’lud!”
&
nbsp; “Got a pen, Fitz?” George held out his hand, sure Henry was the sort of chap who would always have a pen. “I quite liked being RAF!”
Henry patted the pockets of the old suede jacket he’d flung on as they’d left for the pub. “Should have one—ah, here you go.”
George scribbled something across the beer mat and passed it back to Henry. There, across his face, he’d written, HF—130—GSB.
“To make up for the cricket ball.” He smiled. A small gesture, but one that felt like it meant something, as though it went a little way to mending the lost years.
Henry held it as carefully as he would have done a precious artifact.
“I’ll kiss you my thanks later,” he whispered.
“I think that’s the least you can do.” George looked down at the menu. “Fancy sharing something?”
“Go on, then! One of the controversial platters? I can’t recommend any of them because I’ve never—well, not had anyone to share with before. I’m a steak-and-ale pie sort of chap. But teach me in your sophisticated ways, Captain George, do.”
“Ladies!” George turned to address the still-giggling girls, not sure whether Henry was being sarcastic or not. Either way, it was adorable. “What do you recommend?”
The girls nominated one of their number to reply. “That Spanish one’s nice, with the chorizo.”
She said the Spanish word with a flourish, and her friends giggled all the more.
“Then chorizo it shall be!” George jumped up from his seat. “And I think another round of drinks for everyone!”
He stooped to kiss Jez’s forelock and told him, “You behave.”
Then George made his way into the cool shade of the pub. More autographs, more photos, more excitement when he put some cash behind the bar and finally the order was placed. He escaped back into the garden to see Henry gently stroking Jez, who looked utterly relaxed in the care of the vet’n’ry.
“I was thinking, Fitz, of those swimming pools for horses.” George slipped back into his seat, just catching himself before he took Henry’s hand. “Would that help my boy’s leg, do you think?”
“Hydrotherapy, you mean? Although I do like the idea of a horse swimming pool—brings a whole new meaning to water polo!” Henry winked at him. “Well, it’s worth a try. Has his leg been X-rayed, do you know? We need to find out if the lameness is muscular or skeletal.”
“Ed’s man said it was muscular. He reckoned Jez won’t make a racehorse, but he could be a happy enough sort of chap.” George reached out and stroked the foal’s neck. “And a happy chap is good enough for me.”
A little hesitant, Henry whispered, as if he shouldn’t really say it but was determined to anyway, “I’m a happy chap.” Then he spoke at normal volume, a vet talking through treatment options with a concerned owner. “It’ll take time, and it’ll take love, and maybe he’ll need to go swimming, but not every horse can be a race winner, and it doesn’t matter at all.”
“I worry about him, though. If I want to go off to the Amazon or the Arctic or wherever, I can’t really take Jez.” George took a drink of beer and said casually, “I might have to hang around here instead and crack on with my next book.”
Henry looked thoughtful, his blue eyes clouding over then clearing into a smile.
“Perhaps you should. And, don’t forget, I’ve got plenty of space at the manor. There’s the old stable block which I could get sorted out, and… Well, depending on how things pan out, of course.”
“I was wondering if there might be a doc in Georgina, you know…” He watched Henry, studying that firm, strong jaw, the faint smile on his lips. “Are the rumors true, that sort of thing? Wonder what you’d find in the county archive? Lots of boring guff about tithe apportionments, or Georgian sex scandals!”
A teenage Parvan arrived at their table with their food. Georgian sex scandals? Well done, George, that would give them something to discuss in the tap room. The enormous plate was awash with meat and cheese, olive oil liberally sprinkled about and numerous, intriguing breaded objects which had apparently been deep-fried.
“How did I never know our village was capable of such a spread!” Henry blinked up at the sunshine. “Who needs to go on holiday? I’m in Spain!”
“Did a bit of rock climbing in Spain,” George reminisced. “Broke an ankle. This is much less painful!”
Henry finished chewing his mouthful. “How on earth did you manage that? Did you fall off?”
“Nope, slipped on a sun-dried tomato after overindulging on sangria.” George laughed, shaking his head. “That was just after I got out of the Army. I wrote the first book while I was laid up and the rest, as the cliché goes, is history.”
And in all those adventures, seeing the world and all its wonders, not a single day had passed in which he hadn’t thought of Henry.
“Perhaps it was just as well you broke your ankle, then!”
Henry balanced a slice of olive oil-drenched manchego on a slice of bread and wobbled the stack of food to his mouth. George watched him, his chin balanced on his hand. Henry shouldn’t wear pinstripes, he decided. He should be lazy in beer gardens forever.
“You all right?” Henry grinned. Olive oil dribbled over his chin as he wedged the bread and cheese into his mouth. He wiped it off with a large cotton handkerchief, just as George felt the desert boot tap against his foot. It rested there, then nudged up the hem of George’s jeans at the ankle.
“I’m just wondering why you pretend to be so buttoned-down and stuck up when you’re really so bloody lovely,” George murmured with a smile. He pushed his sunglasses up into his hair and fidgeted a little bashfully with the regimental strap of his watch. “I missed you a lot, Fitz.”
“I missed you, too.”
Henry brushed the crumbs from his hands and leaned against the table on his folded arms. His intent look told George he was about to confide again and George raised his finger in warning, glancing around the beer garden to check that they were unheard. They were being watched, but no one had approached, so George nodded.
Henry spoke quietly. “When Steph went off with Ed, I really thought about myself—about what I was doing. Hiding who I really was. I thought, now, now’s the time, and for some daft reason, I wanted to tell you. But then you were in the newspapers with that posh woman, and I bottled it.”
“I heard from Ma that the two of you hadn’t worked out and she started nudging, oh, Georgie, it’s obvious how you feel, just tell him!” He rolled his eyes. “But the thought of it, of how you might react. Ma knows everything, you can’t get anything past her.”
“I wonder if your mum realized that—well, I suppose you thought I might swing my cricket bat around again, didn’t you? I’ll never live that down, will I!” Henry shook his head and pronged one of the deep-fried objects with a fork. “Honestly, that whole interlude with Steph. She tried so hard to get me to—not that I should talk about this, but, you know, it was rather awkward in the bedroom. She put up with a lot, and she loved me, I know she did, but I let her go. It was for the best, really.”
George thought of the odious couple at the enormous house of marble and glass, and a shiver ran through him. He recalled too well Ed’s comment about Henry’s bedroom prowess, and that had come from one person and one alone. Stephanie Belcher wasn’t a lady by any stretch of the imagination, and Henry was too good for her, he always had been. She had been a spiteful little girl and a sarcastic young lady and had grown into a gorgon, yet somehow, only he could see it.
He painted on a smile and said, “Well, she’s certainly met her soul mate now.”
“I’m not entirely sure that Ed has a soul, though!” Henry laughed, a noise that veered dangerously toward the hysterical. Then he cleared his throat and held up his fork. “Interesting—deep-fried mashed potato and meat, all wrapped together in a tasty breadcrumb batter. Clever people, those Spanish.”
“Well, she picked him!”
“She must see something in him that none of us can.�
� Henry nodded, as if speaking a well-known truth. “I mean, he does love her. He made such a fuss when I didn’t award her the jam prize. And maybe he has a point about the manor. If Bad Billy really did wager it, and lost, then by rights, as much as I’m loath to admit it, it must be Ed’s.”
“What?” That was loud enough to get the attentions of their fellow drinkers. Was Henry just going to make his bed in the road and let Ed drive his steamroller straight over him? Would Ed Belcher leave Henry flattened into the driveway of the manor? “How the hell can you, a sane man, even think that?”
“I can’t afford a lawyer, George, you know that. I want to fight him, but I wonder if I’m on thin ice—we all know that Bad Billy was a bit of a one. What if I spend loads of money on a solicitor and discover that Ed’s right? What’s the gentlemanly thing to do, that’s what I wonder—stand aside or fight?”
“You’re talking to a former soldier. Never stand aside when injustice is about to happen, Fitz.”
Henry reached across the table and squeezed George’s hand. It was just on the right side of intense conversation between two extremely heterosexual men. George glanced down at their hands and, with an almost painfully apologetic look, reached to take another piece of food.
“You make me feel brave. I should fight him, shouldn’t I? And not just grab his balls, but kick them into next week. Or…use a cricket bat.” Henry gave him a sideways grin, and that foot—oh, that insubordinate foot—was nudging against George’s again.
“We need to go through every inch of our houses, every piece of old paper, and find anything that even mentions their stupid bloody bet. A decent court’ll lob it out, but the likes of Ed will tie you in legal knots.” He popped a piece of tomato into his mouth. “The question I want answered is why? Why your house? Why now?”
“I can’t work it out.” Henry sighed, prodding at another deep-fried Spanish marvel. “Last year he was trying to buy the farm that backs onto his property. The farmer wouldn’t sell up, there was argy-bargy, the farmer parked his pig transporter right outside Ed’s gates, and finally he gave up! Then again, he said the smell of the pigs was upsetting his horses. But my house is on the other side of the village, so… Who knows?”
The Captain and the Cricketer Page 10
