A Little Space to Weep
Chapter 2
She looked just like her brother.
Of course, I knew they were twins and I’d heard chappies go on about how similar they looked in their youth, but when ever I’d been in the company of both, I’d never noticed it.
Funny how much difference hair makes, as she turned from her position by the window, it could have been Hornsby standing there.
“Dashed sorry.” I said, after I realized I’d been standing staring at her for nearly five m. And Rivers was starting to look a lot like Stilton Cheesewright when he thought I was after Florence. “It’s just...”
“You thought I looked just like my brother.” Caroline hugged me, smiling. “You’re not the first one to make that observation, Grandmother is furious.”
“And how is the aged relative?”
“Still alive and carrying out human sacrifices.” She glanced at me. “Your Aunt Agatha?”
“Still crunching glass bottles and attempting to walk Bertram up the aisle.”
Her face creased in sympathy. “We’ll be rid of them some day, Bertie. Remember that.”
To anyone who doesn’t know either of us, such a conversation might sound a tad harsh. But to understand, you have to have met either of the horrors involved.
My aunt Agatha, as readers of my works will be well aware, chews broken glass bottles and is rumored to conduct human sacrifices by the full moon and Curly’s grandmother, who basically raised Caroline and her brother, falls into the same category. They were actually at school together, a fact I didn’t learn until after I met Curly at Oxford, not that it would made any difference. One of the best was old Curly.
I met him at Oxford, Curly I mean, though Caroline was undoubtedly intelligent enough to be there. One of these bright girls you meet around the town. A nurse in the war with the Red Cross. And continuing in that vein now, which is the only reason Bertram hasn’t yet forked out for a fish slice for her and Rivers.
We were apparently in the same class for lectures, though I didn’t notice him until he introduced himself.
“You know it’s interesting.” The voice behind me is something of a shock and I turn to see a sandy haired chap staring down over my shoulder.
“What is?”
“Your notes.” His hair was ridiculously long, making him look like one of those chaps in the paintings. Cavalier. That’s it. “They’re a nearly perfect record of everything the prof’s said, and the reading.”
“So?” I asked, though my heart was in my mouth.
“So,” the long sandy curls were shaken back to reveal huge midnight blue eyes. “I’ve seen your essays. They’re dribble.”
I sighed. “This stuff,” I had to drop my voice as old Fishface (not terribly original, I know, but if you knew the chappy you’d understand.) glared in our direction. “I can do, but when I try to write it out, with all the opinions and what not that they want, I...” I shook my head. “I just fall down.”
He had leant back, his head on one side looking down at me (not exactly unusual, as Curly was about 6 foot, but as we were in a lecture theater he had an additional advantage over me).
“I could help.” he said, softly. “They’re always saying my essays aren’t bad.”
“Oh thanks.” It took me a moment or two to realize that I didn’t actually recognize him. “Feel we’ve started in the middle, what? I’m Bertie Wooster.”
“I know.” The blue eyes sparkled.
“You do?”
The curls moved in a nod.
“Well, then you seem to have me at an advantage what?”
“I like the sound of that.” And just when I was trying to figure out what on earth he meant, he leant backwards smiling. “Constantine Charlot Hornsby”
I was just thinking that I thought Wilberforce to be a bit stiff, when his smile widened. “But Friends call me Curly.”
I could smell the lecture hall, that slightly sweet scent of books, human sweat and that oil they use on wood. Linseed I think it’s called. It took a mo or three for me to realise that both Caroline and Rivers were staring at me, Rivers like I was some form of creature under his microscope and Caroline with concern.
“Oh sorry.” I said, flushing.
Caroline smiled then, the same half tinted smile like her brother used to do. Like that painting by the Italian chap, only better because it’s real and you can see the wheels turning in their head. “Don’t apologise, Bertie, you’re among friends.” She dusted her hands. “Now, I’m afraid Mrs Sloan has become the seventeenth woman to decide that she can’t cope with our mad hours and won’t work with us “living in sin,” so I’m afraid you’re going to have to surrender to my cooking.”
I made protests, along with Rivers. Caroline is a super cook.
“So you’re really doing it?” I asked, slightly nervously, for as lovely as Caroline is, and as gentle, she’s a little like my Aunt Dahlia. In the sense that if you annoy her, head for the hills, not her voice. “Living in sin, I mean?”
Caroline turned, glancing over one shoulder. “You’re not the only one whom the law affects, Bertie; and I’ve told you before. Where there is Love on both sides, there is no sin.”
She bustled off to the kitchen, leaving me and Rivers alone, with River staring at me slightly uncomfortably.
“They say she’d have to give it up when she marries. The nursing I mean.” He said, moving over to the sofa that stood in the centre of the room. “But if they find out about this...” He shook his head. “They’ll dismiss her anyway.”
“At least there's a legal solution to her situation.” I said, surprising myself with the bitterness in my voice. Was I really that angry about it?
“Not with giving up her boys.” River’s voice was soft. “And she’d hate me forever for that.”
Caroline came through them with the pot, and Rivers went to get plates and knives and things, while Bertram seated himself at the table.
It was a good meal, as it when Caroline is cooking. There was no wine, Rivers always said that he deprived his patients of it and wasn’t going to be a hypocrite, but instead of Orange squash there was some quite nice cordial that Caroline apparently had made with her own fair hands.
By a mutual whatsit, conversation stayed, conversation stayed away from the war and the past in general.
We talked of the weather, of Rivers work, of Caroline’s boys. Had a fascinating discussion about some brainy bird called Havelock Ellis, who Rivers was working with. Caroline had read some of his work and Jeeves own a couple of copies, so I was familiar with the name. His ideas seemed dashed clever and Rivers raved about him while we were chomping though the nose bag.
I’m not sure how we ended up on the subject of Fiancés. Oh it was because Ellis believes in the decimalisation of homosexuals, and Caroline was giving this her whole hearted support, but Rivers was being more cautious.
“In theory, he’s right, but what to do about all the poor devils locked up at the minute huh?” He looked around the table. “I mean, you know what they say about Bedlam.”
Actually I didn’t, but apparently the upshot of it was that if you weren’t off your rocker when you were sent there, then you ended up so. Something to do with the treatment one received apparently.
Caroline said that she understood his point, but she argued that it wasn’t fair on the poor devils at the moment.
“Think of all the ones we know, William. Living out there, continually terrorised of the knock on the door or the letter, saying that they have been found out? Or the ones who have been found out and are paying…” She trailed off, “Which reminds me, I heard rumours you were paying court to Honoria Glossop--”
She had that look in her eyes that females get when they hear anything about weddings.
I shook my head. “No wedding bells for Bertram, thanks to Jeeves.”
“Jeeves?”
Rivers and I rapidly brought Caroline up to speed, as the Americans say, and she laughed.
She has a rather nice laugh, so I began telling stories of the other scrapes that Jeeves had got me out of since he arrived on my doorsteps, after I had to let Meadowes go for stealing my socks, and Caroline kept laughing.
It was a few minutes before I realised that Rivers was not laughing. In fact, he was frowning at Bertram, as though extremely worried. I glanced at the clock.
“I say, I’d better think about going what?”
Caroline shook her head. “Don’t be silly Bertie. There’s a spare room here. Why tramp half way across London, when you can get a good nights sleep here.” She began to clear the table. “Let William give you a shot, then you can have a nice sleep here and go home tomorrow feeling much better.”
She had that tone that females who work with loonies have, that makes everything they say seem so dashed reasonable you can’t argue with it, though Rivers sent the little woman a nasty look. Caroline ignored him. “It’s just through there.” She said, pointing to one of the doors off the small room. “There’s some spare pyjamas in there.” Something of what I was thinking must have showed in my face, as Caroline moved around the table and gently hugged me. “You’re hardly the first lost soul to turn up on my doorstep, Bertie. Curly always did have that effect on people.” Her face tightened and she rapidly broke the hug, gathering up the dishes without even an excuse me. William glanced at her, then at me.
“Don’t feel you have to, Bertie.” He said, softly. “But Caroline is right.”
He rose and followed her in to the kitchen. I sat still for a few moments, catching snippets of conversation as the door swung open and closed.
“Sure this Jeeves fellow is nothing to worry.”
“You mean aside from the risk of getting Bertie incarcerated? Anyway there’s nothing going on there, at least not at the moment.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I know Bertie, I know when there’s something.” A sniff. “It’s just...I’m so angry--”
“Oh Caroline.”
Even I could tell that was my cue. I went though to the second bedroom of the flat and undressed and a few moments later Rivers came in with his black bag.
“I’m doing this against my better judgement, Bertie.” He said, withdrawing a hypothermic and a small vial, “And with the proviso that you make an appointment to see me soon. And that means some time in the next three weeks, not three years. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly, old bean.” I said, grinning, my eyes fixed on the shiny instrument in his hands.
I know plenty of chaps who’ve been though what I’ve being though, who hate needles, turn quite pale when ever they see one and so on.
I suppose I’m quite lucky in that I never really minded. When things were bad and the nightmares had me in their grip, I knew that little prick would bring a sleep free from dreams.
Apparently, that’s quite unusual as most people have very vivid dreams while under morphine, but if I do, I don’t remember them,
So I cheerfully bade Rivers goodnight as he withdrew the old n. and settled down to enjoy 8 hours uninterrupted.
*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/
“My god Bertie, where the hell are you?”
I blinked, trying to stop the ringing in my head, looking around at what must surely be hell. Flashes lit up the sky, the noise was deafening, I was soaked to the skin, but there was a voice calling my name.
“BERTIE!”
I must have managed to make some form of sound, as next thing I knew Curly, Captain Hornsby I should say, was standing beside me.
“Come on, Lieutenant; let’s get some where a bit safer huh?”
Well, that sounded like a cracking suggestion, so I ran after him, dropping down into an old trench. Whether it was ours or Jerries I couldn’t say, but it did seem to be safe from that infernal shelling.
“Hells Bells, Bertie. What the devil are they thinking…?” He trailed off in his rant, staring at me. “My god Bertie, You’re bleeding.”
I lifted up my left hand and saw that he was correct. “Just a starch old thing, nothing to worry about.”
But Curly was still staring at me like I was on my death bed and Bertram was about to start playing the harp.
I couldn’t deny it was slightly bigger than a starch and Curly echoed my opinions.
“Tis not as deep as a well, nor as wide as a church door. But tis enough, twill do.” He muttered his face pale. Lieutenant Edgeware touched him on the shoulder and he shook him off.
“Alright, Lieutenant. I know.” He turned to face me, his face blotchy. “Bertie, I need you to stay here with the wounded, until I come back. You understand that? It’s a direct order.” His voice nearly broke on the word order. “Just stay here until I relieve you.” He suddenly surprised me, pulling me towards him and kissing Bertram’s forehead. Not that we hadn’t kissed in places other than the forehead before, but never in public.
“Never forget that I love you Bertie.” He said, tears running down his cheek. “I love you.”
We pulled apart, the men standing around staring as though they had no idea what was going on. Lieutenant Edgware was a bit quicker on the up take and started ordering the men to line up along the edges of the ditch.
Hornsby joined them. “I love you.” He repeated, putting his whistle to his lips. And the signal that sounded like a bell for the doomed youth rang out.