Aubrey and Aloysius from OUT OF THE BLUE
England, December 24th, 1925
Twilight. Those soft, rosy minutes after sunset when shadows
stretched and memory came creeping like a ghost.
For a few moments Aubrey gazed out the diamond-paned window,
watching the sky darken, waiting for those first pinpricks of light in the fabric
of night. The lilting voices of the carolers drifted into the crackling December
air.
The holly and the ivy
When they are both full grown
Of all trees that are in the wood
The holly bears the crown…
Noddy. Pip. Tubby. Heath. Varlik. Gene. Orton. God. Orton. Friend
and foe, he saw them all again in his mind’s eye.
Saw Cowboy. Cowboy. He smiled faintly. Such a long
time ago. A lifetime ago. But in fact, it was only seven years since the war
had ended.
The door below the window opened, casting a long yellow rectangle
across the snowy ground. Waring appeared, inviting the carolers inside.
From his vantage point, Aubrey could see what he hadn’t
noticed before: the bony thinness of the shoulders beneath the butler’s black
coat, the pink shine of his balding back of head. Waring was an old man now.
Well, they were none of them getting any younger.
Years go falling in the fading light. Gene had
written that. Funny to still remember.
The study door opened behind him. Aubrey turned as Archie
poked his head around the edge of the door. Lying on the rug before the
cavern-sized fireplace, Digs raised his knobby little head and began to pant in
welcome.
“Uncle Aubrey?”
Aubrey smiled. “Finished?”
Archie nodded. He was the spitting image of Aubrey at the
same age—tousled pale hair, solemn gray eyes, spindly limbs.
Aubrey held out his hand. “Let’s have it then.”
Archie pushed the door wide and crossed the shining floor to
hand over the missive he had been laboring on for over an hour.
Archibald Reginald William Bryant, Earl Denford, was seven
now. His father, Aubrey’s eldest brother Archie, had died in 1918 while in Spain
on a “diplomatic mission,” i.e., spying, and his mother, Lady Pamela, had
fallen victim to the Spanish flu not many months later. The old Earl, Aubrey’s
father, had been carried off in the same wave.
Aubrey was beyond fond of his nephew, but guardian and
trustee would not have been the future he chose for himself. However, with the
old earl’s passing, his wings had effectively been clipped. If there was one
lesson he had learned during the war, it was that life had a way of getting in the
way of one’s plans.
Gravely, he read over the laboriously written letter to
Father Christmas, mouth twitching a little at the ink stains and occasionally
reversed letter. Archie watched him with
a hopeful intentness reminiscent of Digsby waiting for his walk.
“An aeroplane,” Aubrey murmured.
Archie’s eyes brightened, he opened his mouth, but was
interrupted by the uncharacteristically sharp tones of his governess.
“Master Archibald! Qu'est-ce que c'est?”
Both Aubrey and Archie jumped guiltily.
Mademoiselle Ghislaine Berger was Archie’s governess. She
was young and very pretty and took her responsibilities very seriously.
Mortified that the prisoner had escaped, she began to
apologize profusely for the interruption, but Aubrey cut her off with a smile.
“The boy’s alright,” he said easily. “I must approve the
letter after all.”
Mademoiselle bit her lip, looking a little uncertain.
Aubrey winked at Archie who gazed up at him with worshipful
eyes. “Looks good to me, old son. Go on. Chuck it in.”
Archie tossed the letter into the crackling fireplace. The
three of them—four counting Digs—watched in silence as it shriveled into black
crinkles. Archie’s wishes drifting up with the red embers into the night sky.
Then Mademoiselle snapped back to herself, apologizing again
to Aubrey before shoeing her charge off to bed.
Not all wishes could come true, sadly.
Some time later, Waring appeared to inquire if Mr. Bryant
required anything else that evening and to announce the arrival of Mr. Cooper.
Waring was used to the estate manager’s unceremonious
comings and goings, but he still disapproved of the American’s lack of…well,
being English.
“Thank you, Waring. That’ll be all,” Aubrey said. “You can
show Mr. Cooper in.”
Waring nodded glumly, withdrew, and Aubrey went to the black
and gold chinoiserie liquor cabinet and poured two brandies.
A moment or two later Mr. Cooper arrived, Tall, broad-shouldered,
with just as a hint of a limp as he went to join Aubrey. Mr. Cooper’s eyes were
as bright as Texas blue bonnets, his smile as warm as the western sun.
They kissed once, twice, lingeringly. Aubrey handed Mr.
Cooper his brandy and they chinked glasses, the crystal chiming in the cozy
room.
“How was the kiddie party?” Cowboy asked.
Bat groaned. Loudly.
Cowboy chuckled and kissed him again.
It was not easy for them, but it was a hell of a lot easier
than it had been during the two long years when Bat had believed Cowboy was
dead.
Originally they had flown together with the No. 44 Air
Squadron stationed outside the village of Embry near Calais, but winter of ’17 Bat
had been dragged back to St. Omer to serve as a flight instructor. This was
after his brother Dorian had died in the North Sea, and Bat had always
suspected his brother Archie of pulling strings in an effort to ensure at least
one of them survived to carry on the old family name. Needless to say, Bat had
kicked like hell to return to the front. To no avail.
In any case, that spring Cowboy had been transferred to Escadrille
Américaine. In February ’18 he’d been transferred again into the United
States Army Air Service.
They’d tried to keep in touch, of course, but it hadn’t been
easy. A few months after Cowboy’s second transfer, Bat had learned he’d been
shot down and taken prisoner.
Then came the worst news of all. Captain Aloysius Cooper had been killed while trying to make
his escape from a German prison camp.
Not unexpected, of course. They had talked occasionally of
the possibility that one or both of them might die. Probably would die, in Bat’s
opinion. Cowboy had been more optimistic. Stubbornly, aggravatingly optimistic.
So that had been that.
The war ended—along with most of Bat’s world. But life went
on. Had to go on for there was a squalling, shrieking, red-faced newborn Earl Denford
to be preserved and raised and prepared for his eventual responsibilities. And eventually
to be loved. Loved as if he was indeed Bat’s own son.
Then, unexpectedly, two years after the armistice had been
signed, a wish was granted. A wish that was more like a miracle. Out of the
blue, Mr. Aloysius Cooper applied for the position of estate manager to Denford
Castle in Kent…
The clock on the mantel struck midnight, twelve slow,
silvery chimes drifting across to the rumpled bed.
Cowboy turned his head on the pillow. He said lazily, “Merry
Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” Bat murmured, relaxed and warm and
contented within the circle of Cowboy’s arms.
“It’s snowing again.”
“Mm.”
Cowboy studied the ceiling. He asked, “What’ll you do about
the aeroplane?”
Bat made a sound of amusement. “I’m not buying Archie a
bloody plane.”
“Not this year,” agreed Cowboy. “We can’t afford it this
year. Nor next.”
“Not ever.”
Cowboy’s smile was enigmatic. “You don’t fool me. You’d love
to fly again.”
Bat snorted, but yes. He missed flying sometimes. Sometimes.
He tilted his face up, studied Cowboy’s rugged profile.
“What’s up?”
“What’s that?” Cowboy asked.
“Something’s worrying you. I can tell.”
Cowboy grimaced. “I was going to wait till after Christmas
to tell you. No point spoiling the day.”
Bat ignored the sinking feeling in his chest. “Tell me now.”
“I got a telegram from my sister. The old man’s not doing so
well.”
Bat swallowed. Said, “You must go home then. You can’t wait.
You’ve got to go right away.”
“Yes.” Cowboy’s eyes met his, piercingly blue even in the
soft gloom. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Bat nodded. Cowboy had been back to the States twice before.
Each time was… wrenching. Each time Bat feared Cowboy would not return. Would
be pressured by circumstance to stay as Bat had been pressured by circumstance
to make the choices he had.
“I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Right.”
Three days from London to New York by steamship. And then how
many days by train to Texas? Too many. Too long. That went without saying. It already
felt like forever and Cowboy hadn’t moved an inch from his side.
“Look at me,” Cowboy commanded.
“I’m looking.”
“No. I mean, look at me.”
Bat gazed solemnly into Cowboy’s eyes.
Cowboy said, “England is my country now and you’re my home.”
Bat’s throat closed. He turned his face into Cowboy’s
shoulder. Muttered, “Tall tales and Texans.”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
Bat raised his head, glared. “Yes. You have. As well you know.”
Cowboy laughed. “You still holding that little bitty white
lie against me?”
“Little bloody bitty!”
Cowboy’s mouth captured his. When Bat could breathe again,
Cowboy whispered. “I’m coming back. And that’s a promise.”
Bat managed a shaky laugh. Reminded himself that Cowboy
always kept his promises and, sometimes, wishes did come true.
