(no subject)
A ficlet involving the other canonical older brother.
“Harry. Who was that man you brought home last night?”
He had slept most of the morning. I had been up for hours before I finally heard his feet on the floorboards; I had made my unpleasant discoveries and left before he could come down. I wanted to talk to him, to speak with him soberly rather than losing my temper at him; and I knew that finding him sober would be a difficult task. It had been worse than usual these past few weeks. Settling the estate had been difficult for both of us. It was better that I spend a few hours by myself and let my anger with him cool.
He looks at me sharply, and I can see both alarm and his attempt to hide it with a veneer of disinterest. “What makes you think I brought anyone home?”
I turn to the exhibits on my desk, where I had laid them, prepared. “There were fifteen pounds in my wallet last night.”
Hesitation, more dissembling. I see I am already late; he is half drunk, priming himself for the usual evening out for some time, probably after administering the hair of the dog to make waking bearable. “Oh... I took that, John. I meant to pay it back. Here--” He reaches for his own wallet, but I continue mercilessly.
“And there were six cigars in this box. Did you take them, too?”
Silence, a grey and guilty look.
I had saved the worst for last. “And Mother’s pearl necklace, Harry, the one with the ivory pendant. I kept it in this box.” I hold up the empty china box for his inspection.
“Oh, Christ, Johnny--I’m sorry.” All pretense is gone. He sinks his face into his hands in a gesture of despair.
“Besides, Harry, both of you were drunk and making a row. It could hardly be less of a secret. I know full well this isn’t your doing--when you’ve stolen from me you’ve at least always been open about it.”
“And I’ve always paid you back.”
“You have. But that necklace is gone, Harry. You know how she loved it. She gave it me to give my wife, when I’m married.”
His mouth turns down like a tragedy mask’s. “I’m sorry.”
The abject guilt he projects reminds me painfully of Father--the guilt that grieves but can never take a step to forestall future grief. But Father’s binges lasted a week, four or five times a year, until he lost all control when Mother died; Harry is on one long continual bender. I am also grieved, and angry--it is like watching a man drowning who will only shake his head sadly at his fate, and neither kick nor flail to try to save himself.
“I don’t suppose you know his name, or where to find him,” I press coldly.
He merely looks up at me dolefully. That too is like father.
“God damn it!” I burst out, expressing the anger I wish he would feel instead. “What is wrong with you, Harry? You’ve always had good taste in bad women. Why the hell can’t you find a better class of male to bugger?”
Even this outright offense doesn’t move him to anger. He looks up at me with watery blue eyes, already a little bloodshot, and instead of defending himself he gives a snort of laughter, and starts to giggle.
After a moment I find I’m giggling with him. “It’s a good thing he didn’t find the spare key, I suppose.” I look away from my brother, whom I know will neither explain nor defend himself no matter how I try to provoke him, and pour myself a drink. I might as well bring myself round closer to his point of view, I decide.
When I look back at him I see that the laughter is all gone, and his face is clouded. His mouth is an unsteady line.
“I am going to leave England,” he announces suddenly. “I’ve been thinking about it for months. How about California? Or the gold fields in Australia? Why should we stay in this grey, dull country when there are fortunes to be made?”
I look at him with a feeling of helpless affection, my anger diffused and discarded. There was a time--I don’t know when it changed--when I would have set off eagerly at his heels, anywhere, and been happy to trust to luck to protect us. I would have dropped any hope of a career. I had trusted him, even knowing he was not infallible--he was my brother: handsome, dashing, always strong, always clever, and I had been so proud of him.
His eyes are alight with daring and excitement; he looks as if he intends to spring from his chair and rush off to the antipodes immediately. I had followed that look into many forms of near disaster through my young life--dozens of daring exploits, from looking for buried treasure in the bull-haunted pasture to the time we had fallen through the rotten floor of an abandoned house into the cellar and required rescue by the fire brigade; from my first tastes of tobacco and alcohol to the beautiful girl who had been my first lover--in this very house, while my parents slept across the hall. Every time he had got us in, he had brought us safely out, save for a boxing of ears or the cost of a supper or two. It had been well worth it.
But my trust in him has wavered. What could have transformed him from the stalwart hero who protected me from bigger boys at school to this strange, sad toper who brings drunken, loutish sailors to his room in the dead of night? Was there ever a transformation? Perhaps I am only now mature enough to see the weaknesses his courage has always masked. I look away from the challenge in his eager gaze. “Harry--you know I can’t leave England. I am going to the University of London to get my medical degree. It’s what Father wanted.”
“But we haven’t paid all his debts yet, John. Even if we sell the house and the business, there won’t be enough to set you up in practice properly. Have you thought of that?”
“Of course I have.” I eye him speculatively. “Are you going to sell the business?”
“If I am to leave, I must.”
I ponder that for a moment. I feel I ought to remonstrate, insist that it go to me if he will not accept the responsibility. But it is a sinking ship piloted by a drunken captain, and I am no ship’s carpenter. All I really feel at the idea is a sense of relief. “Wilkinson has been robbing you blind,” I say inconsequentially.
“I know. A crooked partner is all the more reason to sell out. But when you earn your degree,” he continues undaunted, “why, then you’ll have a livelihood, John. You can join me then. How about it?”
I find myself smiling at him again. Perhaps it would be the answer, to go to the aid of those in need in some rough frontier world. I can envision myself suturing wounds from barroom brawls in Adelaide, or setting bones in the American wilderness. “What’s it to be, then?” I ask, only half joking. “California or Australia?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” He smiles back at me, handsome, charming--to all appearances masterful and confident in spite of the flushed cheeks. “I’ll look into it and let you know. Now I’m going out for some fun. Care to join me?” He rises spryly and looks at me expectantly.
“No, thanks,” I tell him. “I’ll just stay here and lock up the plate.”
The gibe brings only a gay laugh. “Suit yourself. Goodnight, Johnny.” He shrugs on his overcoat and dons his hat at a rakish angle as he whisks himself through the door.
I lock the door behind him and carefully pocket the key. Looking through the window I can see him walking jauntily, flourishing his stick. I can hear him whistling for a long time after he has left my field of vision.
“Harry. Who was that man you brought home last night?”
He had slept most of the morning. I had been up for hours before I finally heard his feet on the floorboards; I had made my unpleasant discoveries and left before he could come down. I wanted to talk to him, to speak with him soberly rather than losing my temper at him; and I knew that finding him sober would be a difficult task. It had been worse than usual these past few weeks. Settling the estate had been difficult for both of us. It was better that I spend a few hours by myself and let my anger with him cool.
He looks at me sharply, and I can see both alarm and his attempt to hide it with a veneer of disinterest. “What makes you think I brought anyone home?”
I turn to the exhibits on my desk, where I had laid them, prepared. “There were fifteen pounds in my wallet last night.”
Hesitation, more dissembling. I see I am already late; he is half drunk, priming himself for the usual evening out for some time, probably after administering the hair of the dog to make waking bearable. “Oh... I took that, John. I meant to pay it back. Here--” He reaches for his own wallet, but I continue mercilessly.
“And there were six cigars in this box. Did you take them, too?”
Silence, a grey and guilty look.
I had saved the worst for last. “And Mother’s pearl necklace, Harry, the one with the ivory pendant. I kept it in this box.” I hold up the empty china box for his inspection.
“Oh, Christ, Johnny--I’m sorry.” All pretense is gone. He sinks his face into his hands in a gesture of despair.
“Besides, Harry, both of you were drunk and making a row. It could hardly be less of a secret. I know full well this isn’t your doing--when you’ve stolen from me you’ve at least always been open about it.”
“And I’ve always paid you back.”
“You have. But that necklace is gone, Harry. You know how she loved it. She gave it me to give my wife, when I’m married.”
His mouth turns down like a tragedy mask’s. “I’m sorry.”
The abject guilt he projects reminds me painfully of Father--the guilt that grieves but can never take a step to forestall future grief. But Father’s binges lasted a week, four or five times a year, until he lost all control when Mother died; Harry is on one long continual bender. I am also grieved, and angry--it is like watching a man drowning who will only shake his head sadly at his fate, and neither kick nor flail to try to save himself.
“I don’t suppose you know his name, or where to find him,” I press coldly.
He merely looks up at me dolefully. That too is like father.
“God damn it!” I burst out, expressing the anger I wish he would feel instead. “What is wrong with you, Harry? You’ve always had good taste in bad women. Why the hell can’t you find a better class of male to bugger?”
Even this outright offense doesn’t move him to anger. He looks up at me with watery blue eyes, already a little bloodshot, and instead of defending himself he gives a snort of laughter, and starts to giggle.
After a moment I find I’m giggling with him. “It’s a good thing he didn’t find the spare key, I suppose.” I look away from my brother, whom I know will neither explain nor defend himself no matter how I try to provoke him, and pour myself a drink. I might as well bring myself round closer to his point of view, I decide.
When I look back at him I see that the laughter is all gone, and his face is clouded. His mouth is an unsteady line.
“I am going to leave England,” he announces suddenly. “I’ve been thinking about it for months. How about California? Or the gold fields in Australia? Why should we stay in this grey, dull country when there are fortunes to be made?”
I look at him with a feeling of helpless affection, my anger diffused and discarded. There was a time--I don’t know when it changed--when I would have set off eagerly at his heels, anywhere, and been happy to trust to luck to protect us. I would have dropped any hope of a career. I had trusted him, even knowing he was not infallible--he was my brother: handsome, dashing, always strong, always clever, and I had been so proud of him.
His eyes are alight with daring and excitement; he looks as if he intends to spring from his chair and rush off to the antipodes immediately. I had followed that look into many forms of near disaster through my young life--dozens of daring exploits, from looking for buried treasure in the bull-haunted pasture to the time we had fallen through the rotten floor of an abandoned house into the cellar and required rescue by the fire brigade; from my first tastes of tobacco and alcohol to the beautiful girl who had been my first lover--in this very house, while my parents slept across the hall. Every time he had got us in, he had brought us safely out, save for a boxing of ears or the cost of a supper or two. It had been well worth it.
But my trust in him has wavered. What could have transformed him from the stalwart hero who protected me from bigger boys at school to this strange, sad toper who brings drunken, loutish sailors to his room in the dead of night? Was there ever a transformation? Perhaps I am only now mature enough to see the weaknesses his courage has always masked. I look away from the challenge in his eager gaze. “Harry--you know I can’t leave England. I am going to the University of London to get my medical degree. It’s what Father wanted.”
“But we haven’t paid all his debts yet, John. Even if we sell the house and the business, there won’t be enough to set you up in practice properly. Have you thought of that?”
“Of course I have.” I eye him speculatively. “Are you going to sell the business?”
“If I am to leave, I must.”
I ponder that for a moment. I feel I ought to remonstrate, insist that it go to me if he will not accept the responsibility. But it is a sinking ship piloted by a drunken captain, and I am no ship’s carpenter. All I really feel at the idea is a sense of relief. “Wilkinson has been robbing you blind,” I say inconsequentially.
“I know. A crooked partner is all the more reason to sell out. But when you earn your degree,” he continues undaunted, “why, then you’ll have a livelihood, John. You can join me then. How about it?”
I find myself smiling at him again. Perhaps it would be the answer, to go to the aid of those in need in some rough frontier world. I can envision myself suturing wounds from barroom brawls in Adelaide, or setting bones in the American wilderness. “What’s it to be, then?” I ask, only half joking. “California or Australia?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” He smiles back at me, handsome, charming--to all appearances masterful and confident in spite of the flushed cheeks. “I’ll look into it and let you know. Now I’m going out for some fun. Care to join me?” He rises spryly and looks at me expectantly.
“No, thanks,” I tell him. “I’ll just stay here and lock up the plate.”
The gibe brings only a gay laugh. “Suit yourself. Goodnight, Johnny.” He shrugs on his overcoat and dons his hat at a rakish angle as he whisks himself through the door.
I lock the door behind him and carefully pocket the key. Looking through the window I can see him walking jauntily, flourishing his stick. I can hear him whistling for a long time after he has left my field of vision.