Chapter Text
‘Only you could have a doctor called Beach,’ Freddie says, poking at Roger’s hip with his toe as they lounge in the Bailey's spare room.
John stretches out on the twin mattresses, grinning when Roger grasps hold of him by the waist and refuses to let go. ‘A pleasant coincidence,’ the blond says tiredly, leaning over and tucking his head under John’s chin, his face a warm weight against the youngster’s chest. ‘I thought I was hearing things when he first introduced himself.’
‘So, he’s alright, is he – this Beach chap?’ Brian asks, wrestling with a double duvet, trying to locate the corner of the floral bedspread without anyone’s help having assured Miriam that he was perfectly capable of getting the bedding sorted for their night in the spare room of the farmhouse. The pinched look on his face suggests he might be regretting his decision of turning down the offer of assistance.
‘He’s a good man,’ Roger sighs, his feet restless as he reclines half on John, half on the twin mattresses secured by a double sheet. If he fidgets much more, John thinks, he will likely end up pinched between them by the end of the night. ‘He’s the first doctor I’ve ever felt I could trust enough to be completely honest with.’
‘Completely honest?’ Freddie asks, rolling onto his back with a frown.
‘Everything I told him was in complete confidence,’ Roger says, shaking his head when Freddie makes a noise to suggest he thinks otherwise. ‘No, really…I trust him. I didn’t leave anything out when I explained about my lifestyle and the people I love. He didn’t bat an eyelid. He didn’t tell me I was wrong, or perverted, or confused. He just listened…no one’s ever just listened without judgement before; it made a nice change.’ His feet still for a moment as he reflects silently on his most recent hospital stay.
‘Did it help?’ Brian asks, pausing in his fiddly task. ‘Being able to openly discuss everything, I mean?’ John suspects he is asking to satisfy more than just his own curiosity.
‘I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t able to talk about everything openly,’ Roger says, loosening his grip on John to look up at the hesitant man wielding the duvet. ‘It helps,’ he says firmly. ‘He’s going to visit me once a week, on a Tuesday evening, just to have a chat to see how I am, but he knows this is a good environment for me, so he said not to worry about being taken back in any time soon. He only listens, and he’s bloody good at it.’
‘Can we meet him?’ John asks, knowing that Brian also wants to meet the aptly named doctor but is likely too afraid to ask for fear of having to admit why. He needn’t be ashamed of seeking out help for himself; he wouldn't face any judgement or criticism.
‘I asked if he’d mind meeting me at Crystal’s once a month – on the first Tuesday of every month, just to have a bit of extra privacy for one of the sessions because I know that Miriam will be loitering nearby if she has the opportunity, and the doc thinks that talking about Rick will help in my recovery, but that doesn’t mean I should drag up the past,’ Roger says, glancing towards the open door of the bedroom. ‘Sometimes it’s difficult being completely honest in this house…’
‘They’re still downstairs,’ Brian says, throwing the duvet over their legs to go and close the door anyway when he sees that Roger will not continue for fear of being overheard. He returns to sit at their feet, brushing a hand over Roger’s calf. ‘You don’t need to hide anything from them,’ he adds. 'You won't upset them.'
‘Sometimes the truth can be painful, whether we mean it to be or not,’ the blond murmurs, brushing at some cake crumbs caught in the folds on the front of his shirt. Brian had warned them about eating their lemon sponge on the half-made bed, but he thankfully refrains from commenting as the blond picks at the sheet, brow pinched. ‘When I’m tired or sick, I always worry about what I’ll let slip…sometimes my mind thinks I’m seeing someone else when Miriam’s fussing. Her eyes...I wouldn’t want to upset her unnecessarily by being too open, even if Beach thinks it will help...’ Roger trails off, his hand falling still.
‘I think she already knows who you see, and I guarantee that she doesn’t mind,’ John offers kindly, having caught the Bailey matriarch’s concern on several occasions when she has made a joke out of checking Roger’s temperature. Rick must have been just as attentive as his mother, looking after the blond when he was at his most vulnerable, frightened, and afraid.
‘You shouldn’t feel as though you can’t talk about Rick whenever you need to,’ Brian encourages. ‘I promise you that the Bailey’s won’t be upset if you ever want to talk.’
‘I don’t want to upset them, not when they’ve both been so good to me,’ Roger says, still uncertain.
‘You’ve been good to them, too,’ John counters, forcefully pressing his lips to the blond’s forehead for a bruising kiss. 'They're grateful for everything you've done for them since you arrived.'
‘I hadn’t forgotten about your tenacity,’ Roger says, smiling when he tilts his head back. ‘Keep at it, won’t you? It helps more than you’ll ever know.’
‘What else helps, Rog?’ Brian asks, straightening out the duvet at their feet. John suspects he is not happy about moving the conversation along without agreeing a proper resolution. No doubt they will revisit the subject in the near future.
‘Our shared diary helps,’ Roger says. ‘Our calendar. That wonderful book you made for me has been invaluable at pulling me out of a mood.’ He encourages Brian up from his spot at the bottom of the bed by reaching out and tugging at his forearm. ‘Keeping busy helps, but not to the point of burning myself out.’
‘Sharing the load would help,’ John murmurs, pressing a softer kiss to the top of Roger’s head when he settles back again. ‘Admitting when you’re feeling poorly.’
‘I wish he’d do that more often,’ Brian chips in quietly.
‘You boys have been marvellous at keeping an eye on me, even when I’ve tried to be strong,’ Roger admits, taking Brian’s hand as the taller man squeezes in amongst the throng where he belongs, wisely picking a spot between Roger and Freddie rather than trying to break apart the two youngest men.
‘Stubborn,’ Freddie mutters, draping an arm around Brian’s waist where he can still reach to tug at the blond’s short hair. ‘Secretive, too. You know you can trust us, so I don’t know why you’re so insistent on pretending everything’s fine when it isn’t.’
‘I’ll try to tell you if something’s wrong in future, so you can bring me back to myself before I get lost,’ Roger promises, swatting at Freddie’s hand. ‘The new medication isn’t as strong, but it's supposed to work in a better way. I might need whisking away to a quiet room or a safe place if I start acting odd again, though.’
John looks to Brian, seeing the same apprehensive look on his face as he is sure he has too. ‘Acting odd in what way, love?’ A flash of Roger’s detached expression on rainy moorland before he was whisked away to hospital dampens any further questions. That lost face will haunt John for years to come.
Roger sighs. ‘If I’m a bit more forgetful or distant,’ he says. ‘Or if I get angry or upset for no apparent reason.’ He absently rubs at his head. ‘If I have too many migraines.’
‘One of your migraines is too many,’ Brian says. ‘Does your new doctor know what’s causing the increase in frequency? You didn’t have so many when we first arrived.’
‘I did, actually,’ Roger quietly admits. ‘I was just better at hiding away until I felt a bit better.’
‘Secretive,’ Freddie repeats under his breath, content to roll onto his back to regard the shadows on the cracked ceiling as the curtains tug at an invisible source by the leaded window, waving in front of the lamp.
‘Strong,’ John adds, feeling Roger sigh. ‘That’s all you were ever trying to be.’
Roger turns and presses a kiss to the hollow of the youngster’s throat, his breath warm against John’s neck. ‘I’ve found a way of hopefully keeping the intensity of the migraines down,’ he says. ‘But it has involved giving up a few of my favourite vices.’
‘Not sex?’ Freddie asks, sounding dismayed at the thought.
‘God, no; not sex,’ Roger confirms, chuckling huskily. ‘It’s something that Bri will be pleased with not having to put up with.’ He wriggles a hand into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled packet, opening it to reveal the tiny wren’s feather he has carried for the past few weeks.
‘Cigarettes,’ Brian guesses, adding when Roger nods, ‘I won’t pretend I’m not relieved, but I know it must’ve been difficult to give them up.’
‘It was bloody awful – still is,’ Roger says. ‘You don’t know how many times I’ve reached for this packet only to be bitterly disappointed to find it empty. I’ve been filling up on boiled sweets instead; I’m going to end up needing about six fillings at this rate.’
‘You’ll soon feel better for it,’ Brian says. ‘As long as you don’t succumb to temptation.’
‘A few more weeks to go before I can say I’ve really broken the habit,’ Roger murmurs. ‘I don’t trust myself enough to think I’ll be able to resist if I’m accidentally offered one.’
‘I think I’ll give up too,’ John says matter-of-factly. ‘They’re an expense I could do without.’
‘Well, then I ought to stop as well,’ Freddie adds. ‘We can’t have you pining over something that’s probably been making you ill.’
‘You don’t have to give up too,’ Roger says, pushing himself up on his elbow with a frown. ‘We don’t all have to be snippy and bad-tempered.’
‘Of course we do, darling,’ Freddie snaps. ‘We show our love and support in solidarity, as we always do. If you’ve stopped, then we’ll stop. We can be snippy and bad-tempered now so that we can be happy and content in the future. Brian can supply the sweets, or perhaps we'll think of other ways to keep our mouths busy.’
Roger’s mouth quirks into a grin at the lewd statement. ‘I’ve one other thing I’ve been told to temporarily abstain from.’
‘Alcohol,’ John guesses, having narrowed it down far too easily. Thankfully, they really don’t have many other vices to choose from.
Freddie groans.
‘You don’t need to join me in abstaining,’ Roger offers generously.
‘We do,’ Brian says firmly. ‘I know my liver could do with a break, and it hasn’t done my nerves much good over the last few months either. Cutting down, even just temporarily, will be good for us all.’ No one rushes to contradict him.
‘You really have returned to us as a clean-cut boy, haven’t you?’ Freddie jeers playfully, climbing over John to straddle Roger. ‘Next you’ll be taking up jogging.’
‘I might just stick to sailing,’ Roger says, flinching when Freddie accidentally brushes against his ribs. The ticklish boy tries not to react when the pianist runs a finger along the hem of his untucked shirt. ‘No,’ he warns, a grin belying any protest he is trying to make against the roaming hands.
‘It’s blowing a hoolie out there, as the Scots would say,’ Freddie murmurs, exploring under the fabric. ‘No one will hear us.’
Roger huffs a soft laugh, looking up at John for some support.
‘I’ll put the radio on, if you like?’ the youngster offers, chuckling at the face Roger pulls in return.
‘Missed me that much, have you?’ he asks, his eyes moving between the three of them.
‘Like you wouldn’t believe,’ John sighs. A gust of wind rattles the loose window pane. It is Freddie who flinches this time, and John remembers that he is most likely in need of a distraction.
Roger cocks his head, as perceptive as he has ever been. ‘Stick the radio on then, but I draw the line at any sexual shenanigans under this roof,’ he says, leaning over when John carefully extracts himself to find a station on the Bailey’s old wireless radio. The bad weather plays havoc with the signal, distortion crackling through the speakers getting louder with each ferocious gust.
The youngster takes a moment to peek out through the curtains, watching the stiff branches of apple trees in the narrow orchard at the end of the courtyard garden flexing dangerously in the wind, caught in the light coming from the sitting room below. He has no doubt that the storm will leave much damage in its wake, but he knows they are helpless, at the mercy of mother nature as she sweeps across their peninsular. ‘The willow that bends to the tempest often escapes better than the oak which resists it,’ Roger says, his voice loud in John’s ear as he joins him at the window.
‘Those apple trees aren’t bending much,’ John notes, racking his brain to remember where he has heard the familiar quote before.
‘Then they’ll probably be down by morning,’ Roger adds, giving the youngster’s bum a quick pat. ‘Give me a hand to fetch down my old record player from the loft, will you? We’ll never get a signal in this weather. We should’ve brought the guitar up with us.’
‘I don’t fancy heading back down for it,’ John says, putting his palm to the gap in the window frame. He wonders if the summer is being pushed along to make way for a premature autumn. He hopes not. The thought of shorter days fills him with a melancholy regret for wasted warm days that hopefully are not yet gone.
‘It’ll be bright and sunny tomorrow, once this spell of low pressure passes,’ Roger says, apparently reading his mind as well as the weather.
John hums, pleased to hear it, even if it could be just an optimistic prediction. He leans closer to the window, catching sight of something darting towards the rear of the sheltered courtyard just as one of the brittle apple trees topples with a dull thud. Miriam can be heard shouting from downstairs, the call enough to cause concern and bring the four of them running to investigate.
‘The tree’s taken down the fence and spooked the pup,’ the Bailey matriarch explains while hurriedly pulling on her wellington boots. She leans out of the open door, the scarf she has tied her hair back with getting tugged in all directions. ‘Alfie; get back in here before you get flattened too!’
If the farmer calls back a response to his wife’s order, then it is lost in the bluster.
‘One in the wind and his fool owner pretending he’s too deaf to hear sense,’ Miriam mutters, wrapping her coat tightly around her shoulders. ‘Alfie Bailey!’
Bailey limps heavily back across the courtyard, swiping at his balding head. ‘Lost my bleedin’ hat,’ he moans, trying to tame what’s left of his hair.
‘You’re lucky that’s all you lost,’ Miriam counters, pulling him back to the safety of the doorstep. ‘If that oak over the wall came down, you wouldn’t have a head to put a hat on.’ She fusses over her husband, looking loathe to take away the support under his arm. ‘You stay here, you old fool; I’ll look for him.’
‘Sammy will’ve gone to the barn,’ Roger says confidently. ‘That’s where I always find him, huddled under that bloody bus. I can go and fetch him. You know how stubborn he is when he’s scared, and you’ll scare him more if you tell him off in that tone you use when you mean business.’
Miriam laughs, taking no offence.
‘You’ve not forgotten how fiery Mimi can be, have you, young pup?’ Bailey mumbles, smirking when his wife thumps the back of her slender hand over his chest.
Roger grins by way of reply.
‘Be careful,’ Miriam warns. ‘I’ve not seen it this bad before.’
Roger shrugs. ‘I’ll take John to hold my hand so I don’t get blown away. Best go now while it’s still light.’
‘You’re going out in this?’ Freddie asks incredulously, gesturing to the door.
‘Would you want to spend the night out in this?’ Roger asks.
‘You know I wouldn’t,’ Freddie grumbles. Brian’s folded arms suggests he is of the same opinion.
‘We’ll stay away from any trees,’ Roger promises, hopping as he tucks his laces in rather than tying them. ‘You don’t have to come.’
‘Didn’t I say we were united in solidarity?’ Freddie asks, reluctantly threading an arm through the arm of his thin jacket until Roger forces him to stop.
‘Stay. We’ll be back in a jiffy. You and Brian can fetch my record player from the loft while you wait; Miriam can show you how to get the hatch open. Oh, and bring down the box with my name on too.’
‘Bossy little so and so,’ Miriam murmurs, unable to keep the smile from her face. She pulls off her rain jacket, draping it around the blond’s shoulders. ‘Straight to the barn and back, keeping away from any trees,’ she orders. ‘If he’s not there, then the little so-and-so can spend the night outside.’ She doesn’t mean it, John can tell by the worry in her eyes.
‘He’ll be there,’ Roger says confidently.
John hurriedly pulls on his trainers and coat, following Roger closely as he weaves his way along the garden path. ‘I secured the barn earlier,’ he says, raising his voice against the blustery conditions. ‘He might not be able to get in.’
‘That dog can fit through the eye of a needle when he’s spooked.’
John staggers as they round the corner, the fierce wind stopping him in his tracks. ‘Blimey,’ he gasps, feeling a tug as Roger takes his hand, his eyes stinging with flying grit and sand, the horizon a burnt orange colour that appears almost apocalyptic in nature as he squints.
They run across the sheep pen to save time, hopping over two gates and an electric fence that threatens to bite if they do not clear it in time. The new flock is safe and secure in their hut when Roger peeks through a gap in the door. ‘Sleep tight, ladies,’ he says, accepting John’s hand.
‘Still think Sam’s in the barn?’ the youngster asks.
‘He’s a creature of habit, even when he's frightened,’ Roger replies, snagging a loose sack as it gets caught up against his ankle. He screws it up and stuffs it into the gap in the door to stop it rattling.
John doesn’t doubt that Roger knows the dog better than he does, but it seems unlikely that Sam will have run all the way from the farmhouse in the bleak conditions. The youngster shudders as the wind creeps up his sleeve, pressing closer to the blond as they hurry across the farm to reach the outlying building.
Roger chuckles under his breath when he struggles to break into the remote barn, fumbling with the secure strapping John overzealously applied earlier in the day. ‘You’ve done a good job,’ he admits once he has managed to wrench the door open.
The youngster preens proudly at the praise. ‘I had a good teacher.’
The tarpaulins covering some of the old vehicles rise up like ghosts as they pass. Roger gives the roof of his Mini a quick pat, hopping over to do the same to the new campervan, throwing John an easy grin when he hears him chuckle. ‘Cars have feelings too, you know?’ he says, momentarily forgetting the purpose of their visit when the youngster pulls him in for a kiss, his lips glistening when they pull apart. ‘What was that for?’ he asks breathlessly.
‘For just being you,’ John replies. He hates to state the obvious, but there is no sign of the collie. ‘I don’t think he’s here, love.’
‘He’s here,’ Roger insists, whistling sharply.
Wind whistles in response through the rafters, a stark reminder that they really shouldn’t be dillydallying for longer than necessary. Roger sighs and ambles over to the dilapidated bus, dropping to his hands and knees. ‘Oi, scaredy cat,’ he exclaims softly, wriggling under the back wheel on his stomach. ‘Oh, Sammy boy. Yes, it’s me, you daft, daft creature. Shall we get you home?’
John kneels to get a better look at the cowering canine, the smell of diesel strong as he peers under the old bus. ‘He’s terrified,’ he murmurs quietly, trying not to spook the collie further.
‘He’s a silly boy,’ Roger soothes, grabbing a handful of fur when Sam tries to make a dart for the gap in the breezeblock wall when the wind rattles the tin roof of the barn with more force. ‘Easy, boy…I know, I know, I know,’ he sings, struggling to get the distressed dog in his arms and stand in the same motion until John helps him to his feet. ‘If I put him down, he’ll bolt again,’ he says, his fingers bunched in the poor dog’s fur, jerking when Sam’s hind legs kick out for purchase against his hip. ‘Easy, Sammy. Let’s get you home. Hopefully Miriam won't be too hard on you for bolting.’
‘Hand him over to me if he gets too heavy,’ John says, catching the wince as Roger shifts Sam in his grip, his wrist unsupported without his cast.
‘He’s alright,’ Roger says, pressing his face into the trembling dog’s fur before they head back out into the elements. Sam whines when they reach the threshold of the barn, unhappy with the amount of time it takes for John to resecure the door.
They return at a steady pace, Roger murmuring reassurances as they skirt the muddy sheep pen rather than hurdling the fences again. John takes comfort in the soothing words, even if they are not meant for him. The squally rain stings against his face, so he keeps his head down, grappling for Roger’s borrowed coat to ensure he stays close as they skirt too close to the steep cliffs for a sickening moment.
Miriam meets them at the end of the garden path, ushering them into the kitchen with a weak word of scorn for her skittish dog as he is set down on the tiles where he does his best to shake off the rain. ‘Maybe next time you’ll do your business and get back indoors before you’re scared off by falling trees,’ she suggests, rubbing Sam’s ears with an old towel.
Roger hangs Miriam’s jacket on the hook by the door, helping John out of his. ‘We might need to wash up before bed,’ he says, pulling a face at the mud on his hands and grinning when Miriam tuts and tells him not to touch anything. ‘Where’s Alfie?’
Miriam points to the stairs before ushering the blond to the kitchen sink where she runs the tap and scrubs at his muddy hands with a wet cloth. ‘Dear Freddie and Brian managed to get my other stubborn dog up to bed after a bit of gentle persuasion. If they didn’t help him up the stairs, I’m sure he would’ve snuck back out into the garden to look for his hat and he needs to get off his feet for a while.’
‘His leg giving him more gyp?’ Roger asks, winking at John when Miriam give his hands the same care and attention, mothering instinctively.
‘He’s been stubbornly ignoring it in the hope that it will get better. He thinks he can hide his pain from me.’ Miriam huffs in disbelief, passing John a tea towel so that he can dry his hands.
‘A bit like Rick did when that nail went through his boot and he tried to hide it because he thought you wouldn’t let us go to the regatta in Falmouth if he was injured,’ Roger says, wincing at the memory and his sore wrist when he flexes it.
John catches the way Miriam’s eyes widen at the unexpected mention of her son, but she covers it well with a breathy chuckle. ‘Stubbornness runs deep in this family.’ It doesn’t appear as though she will expand, but Roger has the bit between his teeth, perhaps spurred on by Miriam’s care and Brian’s earlier words of encouragement.
‘I always thought he got that from Alfie,’ the blond says. ‘I thought he got his better qualities from you; his deft touch in the kitchen, for starters.’
‘He did love to bake with me; you both did,’ Miriam murmurs wistfully. ‘Come September, you two would hound me on each Saturday afternoon, bringing too many apples in from the orchard floor with dirt under your fingernails that would take some vigorous scrubbing to clean.’
‘He used to hoist me onto his shoulders to pull the biggest apples from the branches above,’ Roger admits, grinning brightly. ‘We were too impatient to wait for them to fall.’
‘I know,’ Miriam says, shaking her head. ‘I used to watch you from the window and wonder if you knew when to stop. God knows how many t-shirts you ruined carrying them all back to the house.’
‘All of ‘em. I had to make do with Rick’s hand-me-down's whenever I stretched them beyond repair and we both hoped you wouldn’t notice,’ Roger admits, laughing when Miriam rolls her eyes. ‘It was worth it for the apple pies.’
‘The storm might put an end to them for a while. Alfie’s not too pleased that he’s lost one of the older trees already tonight,’ Miriam says, glancing towards the back window where all that can be seen are dancing shadows in the dusty dusk light. ‘Those apples are his pride and joy. You should see the way he preens whenever they win certificates of merit at the village show.’
‘I’m sure the rest will stand through the night,’ Roger says, moving to her side to peer through the glass, dragging John along by his hand.
‘Hmm, I keep telling him that trees can be replanted, nurtured from seeds, or grafted to the trunk of another,’ Miriam says. ‘They live on, one way or another. I think the same applies to people, even after they've gone.’ She brushes against Roger’s short hair, her expression unreadable. ‘You sounded so much like him earlier, when you were bossing your boys around.’
‘I’m not bossy,’ Roger weakly protests.
‘Yes, you are,’ John murmurs, squeezing his hand. ‘But we love you for it.’
Roger huffs, turning more serious when he studies the descending darkness beyond the window. It is clear he does not know how to react to Miriam's observation. ‘Did I really sound like Rick?’
Miriam turns away from the window, sparing John a fleeting look of wonder that suggests she is still not used to hearing Roger say her son’s name out loud. ‘It was more in your general demeanour, pup. It was pleasantly familiar.’ Silence follows, charged but heady.
‘I never considered that you’d see him in me,’ the blond eventually murmurs, managing a small smile despite the pain in his voice. ‘I see him in you all the time.’
‘I know you do, sweetheart, and it upsets you terribly sometimes,’ Miriam says softly. Sam whines under the kitchen worktop as another gust of wind rattles the windows. Miriam keeps her eyes on the blond. ‘I see something of him in you nearly every day, and I’ve missed that over the last few weeks. It doesn’t upset me, but seeing you upset does.’
Roger sniffs, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, his hand crushing John’s in a grip so strong it is beginning to hurt. Drawing strength with a deep breath, he all but whispers, ‘I’d like to…I think I’m ready to talk about Rick more, but only if you’re happy to?’
‘I’m happy if you’re happy,’ Miriam coos softly, pulling her young ward close, her hand brushing against John’s shoulder when he moves in sync with Roger, unwilling to let go. ‘I’ve been waiting a long time for you to ask, pup,’ she adds, ‘but I’ve always been ready.'