Legendary

by Amelia Kibbie

  “Loads.” Arthur played with a loose string at the ankle of his blue-striped pajamas. “Smokes like a locomotive.”

  “She’s always barging in unannounced, and she’s got a particular problem with the kettle whistling.” James drew one foot up and dangled the other. “If I let the kettle whistle, she’ll bang on her ceiling with a broom. Once I forgot two days in a row, and she came upstairs with a mop. I thought she was going to club me over the head.”

  “Why did she come up and find you in Meopham?” Lance asked.

  Arthur held out his broad hands. “Apparently, we needed luggage. Even managed to grab our toothbrushes.”

  “Yes, because a wizard told her to,” James said. They laughed as quietly as they could, and Lance dug his face into his elbow to muffle himself.

  In the matter of a few hours at the pub, in between talking about Mr. Marlin’s cryptic last words, remembering him fondly, and corralling Mrs. Wylit, a magical switch had flipped. James was amazed; people rarely warmed up to him so quickly. Arthur, on the other hand, had mates from work — acquaintances, more — who were always inviting him to the pub. James was friendly with a few of the customers from the tailor shop, and Mr. Conner’s daughter, Margo, was always very kind to him. But he hadn’t had a friend, besides Arthur in, well... forever.

  “It’s such a strange, sad story,” Lance mused once they’d calmed down. He shooed Arthur out of the desk chair and leaned over it to open the small window. “You lads don’t mind?” He held up his pack of cigarettes.

  “Not at all.” Arthur settled down on the bed next to James, far enough apart as to avoid suspicion. The frame groaned beneath his weight.

  “As long as you don’t plan to chain smoke them like Mrs. Wylit,” James added.

  “I promise.” He lit a match, and James watched the flame pop up, perfectly reflected in Lance’s deep gray eyes.

  “A strange, sad story...” James bit his lip. “You mean Mrs. Wylit? Or...”

  “Matthew, of course.” Lance aimed his smoke for the window.

  “Nim — that was what Lady Barlow wanted us to call her — said her youngest son Matthew was weary of the world, and he died. I always took that to mean that he committed suicide. Mr. Marlin never made any indication to me that Matthew could still be alive somewhere.” James absently stroked the hair on his forehead. “But if it was his dying wish that we find him, then I suppose we must.”

  “Why did he... want to kill himself? Did she say?” Lance puffed out more smoke, took one more drag, and pressed his cigarette down into the ashtray.

  Arthur and James looked at one another, and then back at Lance. “She didn’t say,” James lied.

  Lance opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but then closed it. “Hell’s bells, it’s nearly midnight.” He indicated the shiny chrome alarm clock on the desk next to the bed. “We ought to try and get some sleep, don’t you think?”

  James agreed, and Arthur glanced uneasily at the creaky bed beneath them. It sagged where they sat.

  “Sorry, mate.” Lance half-smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid the bed would be a joke for you. Dad moved Granddad’s bed into the guest room for Aunt Bea — she can’t bear to share with my uncle. Blanket-stealer first-rate. But James and I can fit here. I’ll go fetch some blankets and things for you.”

  He returned shortly with a few quilts and another pillow. Arthur stood and accepted them, then moved the desk chair to the corner and made a nest for himself on the rug. Lance folded back the thin summer blankets of the bed and slipped between them. James climbed into the bed as well, and glanced at Arthur, who gave a tiny nod. Lance propped himself up on his elbow and leaned over James to switch off the desk lamp. James' world was suddenly dark and saturated with Lance’s smell, which he had just come to know — aftershave with hints of musk, lemon, and lavender, mixed with a hint of smoke.

  “Well, goodnight lads.” Arthur made himself as comfortable as he could on the rug. “Wish we were still a bit pissed.”

  “Aye,” Lance agreed. James snorted a laugh.

  They lay in silence for awhile, and James scrunched himself over as far as he could to make sure he wasn’t crowding Lance. Arthur was seconds from sleep when Lance spoke up again. “J-James?”

  “Yes?”

  “Arthur, are you still awake?”

  “Mmmph,” Arthur grunted from the floor.

  “I feel as though I ought to tell you.” Lance exhaled, and put himself up on his elbow again. James could see his outline in the dim light of the moon that glimmered outside the cracked window. “My granddad told me about... erm, well, he told me about the two of you. In that... you’re in love, I suppose you’d say.”

  Terrified silence. James froze, an icy log in the bed. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, to protect his head with his hands.

  “I thought you should know that I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with it,” Lance said. “So don’t feel like you must hide yourselves when you’re with me.”

  “W-what?” Arthur sputtered from the floor.

  “Really? Y-you’re sure?” James' tongue was dumb with surprise.

  “Of course I’m sure.” Lance snuggled down into the bed. “Look, when I heard what happened to Alan Turing, a man whose work saved the country, someone who should have been honored as a hero, it broke my heart.” He gave a heavy sigh, and went on. “I think most people have had feelings for someone of the same sex at one time or another. It’s that society won’t allow us to admit it.”

  Another long silence. Then, Arthur said, “I think you’re right, Lance.”

  “Well, goodnight then. James, if I start snoring, turn me on my side, mate.”

  “Cheers.” An irrepressible grin spread over his face. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

  “ ‘Night, love,” Arthur said, and James' grin spread wider as a joyful tear was freed from his eye.

  James was too happy to sleep, but his curiosity about what Mr. Marlin had said, turned back to the sorrowful thoughts of his passing. The conflicting feelings swirled through his mind, and he lay awake long after Lance’s breathing became long and even.

  James turned on his side and found Lance sleeping on his as well. Now they were face to face. There was enough light from the moon outside to make out his features.

  Arthur’s wrong, James thought, he could be Tab Hunter’s brother.

  He studied Lance’s slackened face until he, too, fell asleep.

  The next morning, James awoke to someone kissing him as the sunlight turned the insides of his eyelids red. He jerked up as his eyes opened and he knocked a flailing hand into a solid mass of body.

  Arthur grunted in surprise and reared back.

  “Sorry!” James' hand snapped to his mouth. “I thought—” you were someone else, his mind finished, but his mouth was wise enough to close before those words came out.

  “It’s all right, the door’s closed.” Arthur backed away from the bed. He was dressed already in his specially altered brown trousers and a white buttoned shirt. James noted a small round burn near the right cuff — collateral damage from Mrs. Wylit doing the packing.

  “I’m sorry. You gave me a start.” James breathed through his smile. “Shall we try again?”

  Arthur grinned and leaned in for a kiss. “Better. Now, up with you. Your turn in the loo.”

  As James made his toilet, there was a knock on the door. “Erm, one moment, please.”

  Someone on the other side grumbled, “What is this, a roadside inn? Are we running a restaurant?” James couldn’t be sure, but it sounded a bit like Lance’s father. Ice squeezed his heart.

  James hurried to finish. He had just packed away his things when Mrs. Wylit burst in. The door’s flimsy lock, which perhaps hadn’t worked in the first place, gave way immediately. She was shriveled, corpse-like, squinting in the morning sun that streamed in through the small frosted window. Her clothes from the previous night were rumpled and damp.

  “I need a wee,” she annou
nced.

  “By all means.” James danced out of her way as she shambled to the pot and hiked up her skirt. He turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm in mid-squat. “Mrs. Wylit!” he hissed in scandalized fury.

  “You be careful,” she said, “you be careful, lad. Don’t let something shiny and new blast apart your past.”

  “What does that mean? What are you — oh God.” He managed to pry her fingers away as she let loose her stream. Then, he paused. She was so pathetic, sagging on a stranger’s loo, everything about her wrinkled.

  “Mrs. Wylit — no, no, I think now, since you’ve... well, you’ve gone to the loo in front of me, that I’m going to start calling you Viola, all right?”

  Mrs. Wylit burped.

  “Right. Well then, Viola, you’re going to have to let me help you a bit, I think. Did you eat at all yesterday?”

  “Sod off.” Her eyes drooped shut as she slouched on the toilet.

  James steeled himself with patience and left the bathroom to retrieve her bag from the side of the sofa. He returned and did his best to help her clean herself. James washed her face, gently pulled a comb through her hair, and made her sit still while he pinned it back. Then, he left her with a fresh dress, a many-times-mended drab green affair. After some protest, she was meek as a kitten, and just as weak.

  “Cup of tea,” she mumbled.

  “If you promise not to put anything in it,” he whispered back. When was the last time she’d eaten?

  Mrs. Wylit inhaled deeply; a no-promises reply.

  James stepped into the dining room on the way to the kitchen, and was met by several pairs of eyes that were either tired, exasperated, or armed with daggers. Mr. Benwick, along with Lance’s aunt and uncle, sat at their breakfasts, frozen, waiting to see what he would say or do. James' heart quivered, and he considered begging their forgiveness — stumbling home from the pub and relying on their hospitality right after Mr. Marlin’s funeral, with Mrs. Wylit no less, was a terrible imposition. He swallowed audibly, and bobbed in some kind of awkward bow. “Morning.”

  Mr. Benwick grumbled something into his tea, but James had already sprung into the kitchen to escape their disapproval.

  Mrs. Benwick was at the stove with the last of the eggs. As he approached, she gave him a tired smile. “I’ve exiled them to the yard.”

  She handed him a plate. It was slathered in food: bread, beans, eggs, bangers, bacon, and mushrooms. He managed to balance the plate on one hand and take a cup of tea in the other. “Mrs. Wylit’s still, erm, freshening up,” he said, “and—”

  “I’ll make sure she stumbles your way.” Mrs. Benwick shooed him away with a bean-caked spoon.

  “Cheers.” James hurried out the door and found himself on the side of the house, paving stones beneath his feet. A small wooden table and benches stood next to a hedge, and there sat Lance and Arthur, chatting away like old women at market between mighty bites of Mrs. Benwick’s stalwart English breakfast. Lance’s hair was gold in the morning light, and Arthur’s mighty body was so long he had to sit with his powerful legs out to the side. The door knob slammed painfully into his lower back as Mrs. Wylit tumbled out, a cup of tea in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “Who stands right outside a door?” Mrs. Wylit shifted her teacup to the other hand and shook her fingers to remove the droplets she’d spilt.

  James rolled his eyes and herded her over to the table where they sat opposite Lance and Arthur. “Good morning,” Lance greeted. “Did you both sleep well?”

  “Very well, thank you.” James set down his plate and took the fork Arthur handed him.

  “I’ve got a knot this thick right behind my shoulder,” Mrs. Wylit held up her hand in the shape of a round walnut. “But, what do you expect from a sofa?” The word sofa wheezed out of her mouth in a cloud of smoke.

  James swallowed an enormous bite of beans and said, “Beggars can’t be choosers. You stumbled into a complete stranger’s home, ranting about God-knows-what, then passed out after begging for a pillow named Maggie.”

  Mrs. Wylit started so hard she dropped her cigarette on the ground. She stared at James, her face an even whiter shade of pale, her mouth drawn down in a twist of sorrow and shock.

  “Yes, you really did. Now eat this toast.”

  “No.” Mrs. Wylit shook herself as if invisible insects were crawling over her flesh.

  “Yes.” James took a bite of his own bread. “See, it’s delicious. Lance’s mother makes a lovely breakfast.”

  “No.”

  “Viola, you’re going to eat the toast, or I’m sending you home on the train.” James held the piece of buttered bread out to her again. He turned to Arthur for help, and found his partner staring at him, wide-eyed. “I’m dispensing with formalities,” he said. “She’s packed our suitcases and vomited on our shoes and... and, well, you know!”

  “Viola.” Lance leaned forward on his elbows to shoot Mrs. Wylit a butter-melting smile that caught James in the spread as well. “That is a very beautiful name. Almost, but not quite, as beautiful as...” He reached out and took the bread from James. “...this piece of toast. There has never been a piece of toast as perfect as this in the history of this sceptered isle. I should like a piece of toast as perfect as this, but, alas, I am not the chosen one. But you, dear Viola, are in fact that special.”

  James couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw Mrs. Wylit’s lips curl up at the ends. She snatched the toast from Lance’s hand. “Vi,” she corrected, and shoved the bread in her mouth.

  Chapter 6

  After breakfast, Lance, Arthur, and James parked Mrs. Wylit outside with another cup of tea and her cigarettes. They returned to the house to say an awkward goodbye to Lance’s aunt and uncle, and then disappeared back into Lance’s room to avoid his father’s glare.

  “You’re sure it’s not wrong to go through his things?” James' body jerked when Arthur put a reassuring hand on his back, an automatic reaction to being so suddenly exposed. He took a breath and forced his shoulders to drop.

  Lance diffused the moment effortlessly. “You’re safe, remember?”

  “Sorry.” James smiled up at Arthur, who continued to rub his shoulders. “I forgot. It’s hard to just let go of all these years of... fear, I suppose.”

  “Doesn’t help your dad’s a policeman,” Arthur added.

  “I understand. But in answer to your question, I’m sure it’s all right.” Lance crossed the small room to kneel before the crates and the steamer trunk, each coated with a fine layer of dust. “Granddad loved the two of you. He saw how happy you made Lady Barlow in the end. Besides, he wanted us to find Matthew. I don’t know where else to start. You lads have any other ideas?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “Ought to get started. Don’t have all day. Need to take the train back.” Arthur cracked his neck.

  “Or to wherever the journey takes us.” James half-smirked as he knelt down next to Lance to help him with the first crate. “Mrs. Wylit seems to think we’ll be gone awhile. My suitcase is stuffed.”

  Together, James and Lance opened the lid on the first wooden box. Arthur opened the other, and systematically they lifted Mr. Marlin’s things from their orderly places and spread them out with gentle, reverent hands. There were framed pictures of steel-faced Victorian relatives, the family bible, a brass-handled trench knife, and a velvet box, lined in satin, in which rested his war medals. In another small box they found a locket, which Arthur handed over to Lance immediately, knowing his large fingers would never open it.

  “Careful,” James advised as Lance attempted to run his fingernail through the seam.

  “Better let you do it.” Lance took James' hand and opened it to drop the chain into his palm.

  James' quick fingers clicked the locket open. The picture inside, yellowed with age, was of a soldier with a youthful face and an oval chin, so boyish beneath his sharp cap. They puzzled over it a moment until Lance said, “It’s Grandad. This must have belonged to my grandm
other.”

  They uncovered tiny, lacy dresses, likely ancient familial baptismal gowns, a portrait of Mrs. Benwick as a child, and Mr. Marlin’s uniform, wrapped in crumbling tissue. Books, official papers, and a set of solid silver candlesticks emerged as well. “A parting gift from Lady Barlow, I should imagine,” said Lance.

  At last, all of Harold Marlin’s worldly possessions lay on the rug or on Lance’s bed. The only item that might be of any use to them was Mr. Marlin’s black leather address book, full of his spidery, perfect handwriting, a lifetime’s worth of friends, acquaintances, and family. James pointed out their names and the address of the flat they shared above Mrs. Wylit, one of the final entries in the book.

  “I suppose someone in this book might know something about what happened to Matthew.” James turned the pages with gentle fingertips. “But there are so many names to go through.”

  Lance put a warm hand on his shoulder, and then stood up to light a cigarette near the window. “Perhaps Granddad was... out of touch with reality. In the end. Perhaps he simply wished that Matthew was still alive. He did love Lady Barlow, you know. Of course those who serve are always proud of the house they care for, but there was something very special to him about the Baroness.”

  “She was an incredible woman,” James said, and Arthur nodded in assent before he hung his head to hide the sudden tears in his eyes. “Arthur and I owe her so much. If Mr. Marlin thought it important that we put these matters to rest, then we must put these matters to rest.”

  “You really think he was losing his grip at the end?” Arthur stood and brushed the dust from his trousers.

  Lance stood as well. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. The doctor never said anything about dementia when he visited in the final days.” He sighed, and tapped Mr. Marlin’s black address book in the palm of his broad, smooth hand. “I suppose this is where we’ll have to begin, then.”

  Mrs. Wylit’s voice growled up from the hallway, muffled slightly by the closed bedroom door, although the impatient cadence cut through the pocked wood. “I know it’s all unexpected, Alice, I do, and I promise we’ll be going soon — but for now I need you to stop chirping in my ear. At least you have your son is all I’m saying.”