SIX DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS!!!!!
Something so lovely for you today. We have fiction from Sarah featuring two of my favorite characters from way back when: Stephen and Mark from the I Spy trilogy.
The press of a pair of lips, the touch
of a hand on his shoulder and the tinkling notes of the café doorbell lingered
for a few moments after Mark had left. Stephen poured himself another cup from
the pot, added milk and stirred idly. He smiled. A cup of tea, in an old
teashop in Cambridge, England (though of course here it was just ‘Cambridge’),
it was all so perfect. It was the first time they’d separated since their
arrival in Britain a week ago. They’d done everything together: a West End
Theatre, the National Gallery, both Tate Galleries, the British Museum, the
walking tour of Dickens’ London, the kingsize bed in the hotel… Mark hadn’t
minded playing tourist as he’d barely spent any time in London. Cambridge was a
different matter; it had been home to Mark for three formative years. He’d been
here when his great uncle - his last
close relative - had died, and here when he was recruited by the Old Man. As he
lifted the cup from the saucer, Stephen’s lips tightened in a little grimace at
the thought of that particular gentleman. Mark had now departed to visit an old
tutor, one of only a handful of people with whom he’d remained in touch.
Stephen had a couple of hours to explore the old university city until they
were to meet up, before taking the train back to London. Tomorrow he and Mark
would be flying back overnight to Virginia, arriving on Christmas Eve.
Buttoning up his overcoat, he made his way along the narrow street. The Michaelmas Term
was over; the students had gone and school-aged children were out with their parents, buying last-minute presents. Following Mark’s advice, he walked across the Cam by Queen’s College and then into the park known as The Backs. From there, the colleges looked magnificent, each framed against the crisp, blue winter sky. Stephen’s thoughts slipped from architecture and history to Mark. Throughout their relationship, they’d really only ever been together on Stephen’s home ground - his house, his country. Here before him was a glimpse into Mark’s past. He stood for a long while, lost in thought.
At Cambridge Mark had excelled and he’d
looked set to become an academic, but then he’d been lured away by the promise
of belonging to an elite, risk-taking group by the Old Man. Stephen thought of
the young undergraduate with no family or home, and he understood that in
addition to the attractions of secrecy and danger, Mark had been driven by
loneliness and a desire to belong. A young man who was scared to let himself be
loved. He’d never forgotten Mark asking if he could come “home” and his faltering voice adding, “I… don’t have anywhere else to go.” In spite
of his anger and hurt, he’d agreed to let Mark stay because he had known that
if he didn’t, he too would always be fundamentally lonely - even if he were
with someone else.
After taking a few photographs of the
colleges, Stephen continued along his
way, crossing back over the Cam and into the town. He took his time, drinking
in the architecture and gazing into the gaudily decorated shop windows.
They’d agreed not to wait for each other, given the cold December air, so he paid for his ticket and made his way into the old converted cottages of Kettle’s Yard. He walked carefully across the floorboards in the hushed interior. There was a warmth here that made it quite unlike the galleries in London. It had been a home and there were no barriers between the visitors and the artefacts. Mark had assured him he would love it and he did. Objects were placed on pieces of furniture and windowsills. There were sculptures and paintings by British artists but what drew his eye was a spiral of pebbles. Small stones, selected perhaps from thousands on a beach, gathered up to be treasured. Lost objects found and given a new home.
“Stephen.”
He turned. There he was, smiling at him. Found. Loved.
His home.
