Work Text:
LONELY HEARTS
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Botanist seeking companion. Fond of trees, walks and theatre. Happy to share hobbies!
Contact *****
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Francis stared at the fine column of newsprint, slightly bemused. Companion? An odd choice of words for what the column usually carried, old widowers seeking comfort or middle aged divorcees on the prowl.
Happy to share hobbies? A botanist? He frowned as he cleared away the breakfast things. The idea that someone was using the column to search for friendship was both incomprehensible and deeply humbling. Francis himself was largely friendless, and the idea of declaring it to the world (or the inhabitants of Much Benham) in the hopes of finding someone to talk to was something his pride couldn't submit to, and at worst, a recipe for humiliation.
He pondered on it for the rest of the day. A botanist. He imagined an old soul in a knitted sweater, pottering over plants, grey curling in their hair and a pair of thick glasses corded on beaded string. A small cottage tucked away in the lee of a hill, or by the cantonments. They'd grow their own vegetables, certainly. Theatre, hm? A romantic at heart? Or a lover of the histories?
Or, he thought as he viciously opened a can of beans for dinner, perhaps it was all some kind of devious ploy?
He chided himself for his paranoia. All those years of policework had clearly done their number on him. You're no longer DCI Crozier, he reminded himself in his therapist's voice. It's time you found the Francis underneath.
Well then. He grabbed the column he'd carefully cut out of the morning paper. This was a start.
The correspondent told him to meet them at the local tearoom by the station. Francis hadn't been there in ages, recluse as he was. The station hadn't changed much over the years, still the same run-down swath of concrete with the abandoned half of the platform jutting out like a scar on the downs. Only a few trains serviced Much Benham, the privacy and quiet it offered something Francis had originally been drawn to, a grizzled DCI on the eve of retirement. He now wondered if it had perhaps grown to stifle him.
He tapped his tepid cup of tea and stared at the door. He'd always been known for his patience. 'Like a dog with a bone' the chief had said snidely, sniffing and tramping and running around in maddening circles until he got what he sought. It was a terrible affliction, really. That, the drink and the PUD. 'Perhaps we'll set you to greener pastures, old boy.'
'I say, are you the one who answered my column?'
Later, Francis would blame the light. The dusty curtains, and the rusted bell over the doorway. His own state of stupor, from which he was awakened in a most spectacular fashion.
'I'm James the botanist! You must forgive me for being late, I got the last train down and I think I'd have been faster if I'd walked. The tea any good?'
James. James. he took a good look at the man as he introduced himself, half awake, half dreaming. A vision of a man, this James the botanist. Francis felt like a gaping fool.
Long hair, curling at the ends. A sweet face, open and trusting, and what eyes! They seemed to look into his very soul. Never had Francis seen such a deep and arresting shade of brown. He had an exquisite mobility about him too, long limbed and long necked, like a stallion rearing at the bit, half-tamed. Energy, vitality, youth. Francis had never felt more of a fossil.
The indignation cut into him then. A fool indeed! He'd envisioned an old pottering lady behind the summons, not a young man, too beautiful for his own good, more suited to art galleries than any labour with soil. A prize ponce he'd made of himself, and who to blame? God, he needed a drink.
James was a talker, and thank the heavens for that. Francis knew he was poor company. They'd gone for a 'gander into the woods', as the man put it, with a thermos of chocolate to accompany them. On the way he managed to parse a few details - James, despite his demeanour, was indeed a botanist down in Kew, where he worked 'for most of the week, and I certainly don't mind Francis, but one often feels the urge to ESCAPE, you know?'
'The great unknown, you mean?' Francis thought of the trees and the neatly trimmed hedgerows of Much Benham. He couldn't picture a place farther removed from adventure.
'I grew up near here, as a boy. So much to love, but so quiet!' James looked out wistfully at the tree line. 'It started with books, you know. A toucan, with a splendid yellow bill. It lit a hunger in me. I still have a cut-out of it in my room.
Then it was documentaries. Attenborough, Life on Earth. I fancied myself an explorer of sorts. Such lush flowers Francis! Such life! I wanted to see it all. Stupid really.'
Stupid? Francis felt rage at the thought. What was stupid about love, or longing? For seeking beauty, and the preservation of it? He said as much.
James turned to him then, a smear of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. It was endearing. It was infuriating. Barely two hours in each other's company, and 'twas enough for Francis to be smitten.
'I'm so glad you answered that advert Francis. I think we'll be good friends.'
Good friends. That's all this is Francis, you silly old man. Don't go be makin' mountains of them molehills, now.
They'd exchanged email addresses ('call me old-fashioned, but I'm sick and tired of texting people!) and phone numbers ('but it would be nice to hear your voice once in a while Francis'), and spent a glorious evening traipsing across the fields, James talking and pointing and ejaculating with those great big hands of his, and Francis floating behind him, a man enamoured.
That night, while preparing for bed, he pondered on his good fortune. He felt rejuvenated, in mind and in spirit. He didn't think too much of his infatuation, for any sane man could see James was beautiful, and surely it was within the natural order of things to think him so.
To have his friendship (his company!), 'twas a gift. He would cherish it.
The letters came over the weeks that followed. Francis had written the first one, on a bit of postcard. Thinking of our conversation, how is work, and so on. A few scrawled sentences, belying the acute anxiety of the sender.
The response had come in an envelope, four sheets of paper, a beautiful hand with curlicues and flourishes.
Dear Francis,
I have thought long (and often!) of our meeting in Much Benham, and would it surprise you to hear that I miss your company already? Work goes on as it always has, but perhaps that is a touch uncharitable - I enjoy what I do, and I know it is important work - you might remember I told you I worked in the Kew Herbarium? Most of my time is spent ordering the archives and processing requests, but occasionally I lead out a group of visitors and take them on a tour of the gardens. I am very fond of these 'guided trails', especially when there are school trips (though as you would expect with children, they are quite MESSY and have a propensity to get LOST).
I spend quite a lot of time in the Princess of Wales Conservatory, where most of our wet and tropical specimens are housed. Have you come to Kew Francis? You would enjoy it, I'm sure. There's a bit of something here for everyone. We have a Temperate House, a Palm House, a Bonsai House, an Alpine House, and a Waterlily House, amongst other ornamental buildings and collections. There's even temples and follies, if you're into that kind of thing.
The PoW Conservatory is fantastic because of its range - all kinds of orchids, bromeliads and carnivorous plants! It was fascinating to me as a child (on a school trip, I threw up redcurrants I'd eaten for breakfast in the school bus, it was terribly embarrassing), and probably the closest I've ever been to the actual rainforests of my dreams. It is nice to have a slice of it nearby, just for me.
You must come down sometime. In fact, I insist upon it! I will be conducting a guided walk of the PoW soon and have enclosed the flier with this letter. I have also attached some postcards and a seed packet of peas (easy to grow for any beginner - I assume you are one? Or do you possess a green thumb I am as yet unaware of?) - in my next letter, I will tell you of Gregor Mendel and his extraordinary experiments with peas - such an innocuous vegetable, but so important to the history and modern understanding of genetics! I will stop here before I get carried away.
- James
He sowed the seeds he'd received in a planter by the front porch. He'd gotten quite a few odd looks in the flower shop at the purchase, along with the trowel, the gloves, the compost - well, he'd wanted to be prepared. Better to do a proper job of things (and he dearly wanted these peas to grow). Suppose he received more in the future?
He'd also made a stop at the library for some books (A Beginner's Guide to Gardening, English Wildflowers, Comprehensive Botany) and then proceeded to pen his reply to James in the station tearoom. Of course he would make it to the guided walk, and no he had no green thumb to speak of, but he was willing to try and would do his best by the peas. No, he did not know of Gregor Mendel or his interesting experiments, he did not know of herbariums, or what bromeliads were, but he was willing to learn. Anything James would tell him. Anything.
Several letters passed back and forth in the weeks leading up to the walk in Kew. There was a phone call too, a hurried explosive thing, where Francis had stuttered and stammered with heart in his throat, and James talked and talked and talked until he remembered he had something to finish. It was terrible. It was awful. It was everything he had ever wanted.
Dear Francis,
How I must have bored you in our call! It was only after I finished that I realized I had spoken for so long, without you getting in a word edgewise. It was good of you to put up with my nattering, though you should really stop me in future - it's a bad habit of mine, and one I need to curb!
Glad to know the peas are flourishing, but I find it hardly surprising given the care they have been given. You mentioned you would like to try flowers? I will ask around for the best varieties.
I cannot wait to see you next weekend! It feels so far away, you must think me silly for being so excited. I feel somehow we have been friends our entire lives. Do you feel the same?
You asked me in our call about the rainforests - the yearning is still there, but it is no longer that burning thing of old. You talked of beauty Francis, and the preservation of it. Let me tell you this - there is great beauty here too, in good old England. In the oaks of our woods, our lakes and rivers and broadleaf forests. Perhaps you see it, or perhaps you do not, but I will do my best to conserve it.
- James
The day came, and Francis took the train into London. A place he hadn't been in years. He ignored the hustle and bustle around him, clutching James' letters in his pocket like a talisman.
He was swept into Kew with a rush of schoolgirls, chittering around him like little birds. He spotted James easily enough, tall and lissom with that perfect set to his shoulders. He'd memorized the man's gait the first time they'd met in that dusty tearoom.
'Hullo Francis!!'
And so commenced the walk. James was dressed in trousers and boots and a high-vis jacket. There was nothing remarkable about it whatsoever, but it didn't have to be. He was the most beautiful person Francis had ever seen.
He followed the girls and their clamouring schoolteacher in a dream. James flitted in and out of his vision like a pretty moth, wrapped up in tales of towering trees and wet undergrowth, of parasitic vines and poison dart frogs and flowers that feasted on rotting flesh. The girls lapped it all up, eyes alight in ghoulish wonder. Francis watched on, in love.
Love. Love?! He stumbled. He quailed. No, no. He'd learnt his lesson. He'd once yearned enough to touch flame, and by God, how he'd been burnt.
He wouldn't be so foolish again. He wouldn't. He couldn't -
And yet! James. James, whom he'd loved the moment he'd set eyes on him. James, who he'd loved ardently, with desperation, with fervour. He'd been wilfully blind, all these days, refusing to see, refusing to acknowledge, what had been there, all this time…
The girls went. A fly buzzed. The hair hung heavy with humidity.
'Francis?'
James' voice was quiet, and Francis was struck by how wrong that was. It should always be loud, and bright. With joy and life and vivacity, all the colour he had brought into the world of a tired retired DCI, more dead than alive.
He grabbed hold of the other man's hands, larger than his own, but slender. The palms were smooth and soft, where his own were weary and calloused.
He couldn't keep it to himself any longer. It would be the end of him, but James was owed the truth. A friendship ended as soon as it had begun, lost to a terror of Francis' own making.
'You must know,' he began, voice queer and muffled. 'how much I adore you.'
He couldn't bear to meet the others' eyes. The grief threatened to choke him. Distantly, he felt James tightening his hold on him.
'You are upset, Francis.'
'I have coveted you since the moment I saw you James, 'twas wrong of me. You only sought friendship, something good and pure, and now I have sullied it.' He would not cry. He could not bear it. 'As I do with everything I touch.'
'Oh you silly man!' James laughed. It was loud and bright and full of colour. 'You silly, silly man.' His warm hands cupped his own weathered face, and Francis was lost in eyes as dark as upturned soil. Perhaps this was a dream.
James leant down to brush a kiss on his brow. As soft as moss. Barely there and gone again. Francis did not wish to wake.
'Haven't I told you how beautiful I find the English oak?'