DEDICATION
For Nathan, Daniel, and Alan, my menfolk, without whom I wouldn‟t even have half my understanding of the male of the species, despite them believing that I don‟t understand them at all sometimes. Hugs and kisses, guys. I love you dearly.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS A
HUGE thank you is owed to my extended family of friends, beta readers, and fans for your patience, your loyalty, and above all, your help and support. It is much appreciated.
Thanks go to Heather for her unshakable faith in me, Jann for her wisdom and constructive reviews, Alison for her invaluable advice, and last but not least, Becca, Rachel, Yvonne, and all my readers for their loyalty and friendship. Thanks, guys, you‟re the best. Also, I owe a debt of gratitude to the men and women of Bomber Command, Fighter Command, and the Air Transport Auxiliary, fliers all. I salute your courage and your dedication and offer humble thanks for being part of my inspiration for this book. The character of Molly (briefly mentioned by John Ashley) is based upon a real ATA girl, one who overcame her physical disadvantages to become one of a very few women who were cleared to fly the heavy bombers, including Jack‟s favorite (and mine), the Lancaster. May we all overcome adversity to reach our stars.
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THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM “OH GOD, Bronwen, please!” Jack pleaded but the words fell on deaf ears. “Not so many….” “I‟m sorry, Jack, but this is a momentous occasion. It‟s a day we all thought might never come, after all.” She was grinning widely, amused at his entreaty. Despite the strain placed on her during the war years, Bronwen‟s sense of humor was undiminished. She stood in the door to the sitting room, hands on her tweed-clad hips, every inch the fashionable post-war lady, heading into comfortable middle age and enjoying it. Isn’t five minutes since she was a gawky girl from the valleys with a crush on me the size of a small country, Jack thought fondly. She was a wife, mother, and head of the local Welsh Women‟s Institute, but she was still his little cousin underneath the veneer of respectability. “But I don‟t know half of these people, and the other half probably hates me.” Jack always defaulted to a slight pout when he didn‟t get his own way. Some people—thankfully, they included Bronwen—thought it was cute. Others—unfortunately for Jack, this group included his companion, Ifan Griffith—didn‟t share that opinion. “Don‟t talk nonsense, sweetheart. They don‟t hate you,” she retorted in her “reasonable voice,” a mix of sympathy and mother-knows-best. “Why do you always have to make a mountain out of a molehill?” “And why do you have to blow things up out of all proportion?” “Now, now, children, play nicely.” Ifan chose that moment to arrive with the tea tray, and he set it down on the table, casting a glance across at Jack, who was standing by the fire, one elbow on the mantelpiece, a glower drawing his brows together. “She‟s doing it again,” Jack growled, gesturing toward his cousin, who had moved farther into the room to allow Ifan to get past. Bronwen was gazing thoughtfully out the window that overlooked the terrace,
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although both men knew she was fully aware of everything they were saying. “And what would that be, sir?” Ifan dropped back to his formal butler routine, polite and correct. “Damn it, Ifan, lose the „sir‟! How many times—?” Jack threw his hands in the air in vexation, lost the prop of the mantelpiece under him, and nearly overbalanced. “And how many times must I call you that before you‟ll realize I‟m having fun with you?” Ifan asked gently, catching his elbow and steadying him. “It‟s only been… what, six years?” Jack huffed down his nose with exasperation, but then he allowed himself a small smile. “My cousin is inviting too many people again. This is my fortieth birthday, not a state occasion!” “Exactly, this is your fortieth!” Bronwen stressed the number. “I want it to be special for you, that‟s all.” “Bronwen, if it‟s one of your parties, it‟ll be special anyway.” “Thank you, sweetheart, but flattery will get you nowhere,” she said firmly. “Ifan, let‟s see that list I asked you to draw up.” Eventually they managed to get the number down to thirty-two people, a modest number as far as one of Bronwen‟s parties was concerned. Bronwen got her way after Jack had absolutely insisted that he be allowed a small private party of his own, solely for family and close friends.
“I WANT you to come to the family party,” Jack said to Ifan that evening as they were going to bed, “because you‟ll probably be working when Bronwen throws the main event.” “I‟ll be there for you if you need anything, you know that,” Ifan replied reassuringly. It had been six years since Group Captain Arthur Edward “Jack” Ratigan‟s Lancaster bomber had crashed near the end of the war. Months and months of physiotherapy had followed to enable him
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to walk again, and it had been six years since Ifan Griffith, butler to Jack‟s cousin, Bronwen Powell, had thrown caution to the wind and become Jack‟s caregiver. Now he shared his butler‟s duties with Rhys Llewellyn, devoting the rest of his time to being Jack‟s companion. It had not taken Ifan long to evolve first into Jack‟s friend and then into his lover. Jack still walked with a heavy limp, could manage without a stick only for short distances, and—as evidenced by his lack of balance—had difficulty being on his feet for too long. He still required his wheelchair, and he couldn‟t walk too far unaided without suffering fierce backache—which was a good excuse for Ifan to give him a massage. He could manage with either a stick to lean on or Ifan, the latter being the support of choice, but Ifan complained that supporting Jack gave him a bad back in return and made people stare. “Yes, but thirty-two people, Ifan. You and Llewellyn will have your hands full.” “My tad and I used to manage quite well,” he said reassuringly, thinking back to the old days when his father, Emlyn, had been the Powells‟ butler and he the lowly footman. Now it would be he and Rhys Llewellyn who would organize this event. Parties had been grand occasions, first at the behest of Major and Mrs. Aubrey, Bronwen‟s parents, and now Bronwen continued the tradition. There would always be cocktails in the library preceding dinner, then entertainment afterward in the drawing room. Ifan‟s father had given his life in the Home Guard during the war, but Ifan had seamlessly taken his place as butler, continuing to serve in the role throughout the war. Although he had been eager to serve his country, a childhood injury to his wrist had quashed his ambitions. The military doctors had deemed that he wouldn‟t be able to grip a rifle properly and rejected his application. Ifan had thrown himself into his job serving his employers instead of his country and had eventually found his niche in more ways than one. “The secret is in the organization,” he explained patiently. “The proper arrangements and management will ensure success. Timely action, Jack, anticipation and planning. If you have those, it won‟t be a problem.” Jack grinned. “Yeah, those were the days.” A grin split his face and his eyes lost their focus as the memories came back. “We always had a
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party when I came over with my folks. Bron played the piano and I sang.” Jack was obviously in the mood to reminisce. “I used to tease you terribly. How did your father ever keep his cool? The things I used to do….” “I remember when you decided to ring every damn bell in all the downstairs rooms and then bugger off out of the terrace window and come in the front door as if nothing had happened!” Despite himself, Ifan smiled. “He knew it was you. Nobody else ever did anything like that, not even Young Hugh. He‟d never have got away with it.” Ifan smiled at the thought. Young Hugh, the Powells‟ eldest child, was almost grown up now. He was more man than boy, and both he and his sister, Emily, were members of that new group of young people known as teenagers. “I bet you don‟t remember how my tad got his revenge, though, do you?” Ifan challenged. “Oh, I remember.” Jack sounded chagrined. “He let all the air out of Bessie‟s tires.” Bessie was his old and much-loved motorbike. “Well, it must have been him. Who else would have?” Ifan was nodding. “He came in that morning before any of the rest of you had woken up, and he was chuckling. Wouldn‟t tell me what he‟d done until later that day. I do remember the swearing when you found out though….” “Took me ages to blow them up again, and it made me late getting back. I got a right old rollicking from my CO!” “Served you right!” Ifan exclaimed. “Yeah, I guess so,” Jack agreed. “I missed your old man when he died, did you know?” “No, you never told me that.” Ifan was touched by the words. “He was a fixture, your tad, a familiar face. When I got there that day and you told me what had happened, I felt really bad for you, and him. I felt bad for not being able to apologize to him for what I did.” “He never begrudged you, you know?” Ifan smiled that reassuring smile again. “He always used to say to me that it was just a release of tension, pranks, nothing malicious. He always tried to make me aware of how much pressure the war was putting on you, how short the life expectancy of a bomber pilot was supposed to be. He never expected you
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to survive. Always said I should take care to make my peace with people as soon as possible because there may not be a tomorrow to apologize in. I think he meant I shouldn‟t take offense at what you did. He definitely didn‟t. He was always at pains to explain that a lot of Americans didn‟t understand the life of servants in Great Britain.” “I guess he was right.” “That was my father for you. He was usually right about things, was Tad. Wise, you know?” “Yeah. Look, Ifan, I don‟t want to seem ungrateful about Bronwen‟s party, just….” “I understand. You don‟t like crowds.” “You remembered.” “I know you, sir,” he added and looked pointedly at his lover. “Ifan…,” Jack growled and grabbed him round the waist. They tumbled inelegantly to the bed, whereupon Jack began to thoroughly kiss him, their tongues battling for dominance. Throaty laughter escaped, hands roamed, and suddenly clothes were in a heap on the floor and all thoughts of birthday parties flew out of their heads. Jack teased a nipple with his teeth, sucking and nipping, his fingers finding and gently pinching the other erect nub of flesh. Ifan gasped and arched into the touch, his fingers threading through Jack‟s hair. He tugged and brought the man‟s head up, Ifan‟s mouth claiming Jack‟s in another scorching kiss. Ifan ran his hands over Jack‟s chest and stomach, his fingertips tracing the ridges and bumps of muscle as they always did, a familiar map under his firm touch. As his hands moved, sliding around Jack‟s back, he felt the scarring from the burns Jack had suffered in the crash. Their eyes met, and understanding filled each gaze. Ifan had long ago accepted this as part of his lover. The scars didn‟t repulse him; they were evidence of Jack‟s bravery. He slid his hands down past the scarring toward the man‟s firm buttocks to drag him nearer, pressing their bodies close, the friction arousing them both still further. Ifan reached down and took them both in hand, his long, graceful fingers pressing their erections—equal in size and girth—together.
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Jack glanced down, the sight making him groan. He loved watching Ifan take control, loved the feeling of being handled, of being cared for. For Ifan did care about him, was always at pains to make sure Jack was content, happy, and fulfilled—sometimes even, Jack considered, to Ifan‟s own detriment. Yet now, as he relaxed back against the pillows and watched as his lover stroked them both to completion, Jack could not quite conceive of how they had managed to get together. Chance, and Ifan‟s pragmatic acceptance, had conspired to give Jack his dream. The dream coalesced rapidly into a rush of sensation that nearly swamped his senses. As if every time surprised him, Ifan‟s eyes widened as he climaxed. Jack loved to watch him come apart, all formality and control gone. Ifan‟s orgasm rocketing through him was enough to trigger Jack‟s own, and he spurted over Ifan‟s hand moments later. Afterward, as always, they were content to relax in each other‟s warm embrace, spent and tired. Jack‟s hand idly stroked Ifan‟s hair as the dark head rested on his chest. “Life doesn‟t get much better than this, does it?” Ifan murmured, and Jack‟s smile was in his voice as he agreed. “I just hope it lasts,” Jack said softly. “It worries me sometimes, if anyone gossips, if anyone suspects anything….” “Well, it hasn‟t happened yet,” Ifan said pragmatically, surprised that it should be he reassuring Jack on this one. “As far as anyone knows, I am still butler here and you still need me to care for you. What else could they construe? Sometimes, what you‟re suggesting is so far beyond people‟s expectations they don‟t even consider it. It would need some serious proof for them to even start to think like that, especially about you. You‟re a war hero, for God‟s sake.” Ifan paused, one hand stroking Jack‟s chest absently. “If you‟re so concerned, try using that wheelchair more when we‟re out. You‟re entirely too stubborn about trying to walk. Stop being Mr. Independent and try being more Mr. Vulnerable and people would probably have more sympathy. Now go to sleep before I‟m forced to knock you out.” “You and whose army?” Jack murmured.
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“I don‟t need an army. I‟ve got a decent right hook.” Ifan swung his fist up, grazing Jack‟s jaw gently. Jack captured the offending hand and kissed the fingers, then closed his eyes, still holding Ifan‟s hand in his.
THE letter dropped on the mat a week later, typewritten address on the front with a Swansea postmark. Ifan thought nothing of it and delivered it to Jack, noticing there was a comparable one for Bronwen. Frowning, he handed Jack his and left Bronwen‟s on the bureau and then went to make the tea. “Shit!” Jack‟s out-of-character exclamation made Ifan turn back before he had even left the room. “What is it? Jack?” His lover‟s face had gone pale. Jack was reading the letter with a horrified expression, then wordlessly crumpled it and threw it at the fire. It caught the grate and bounced, landing at Ifan‟s feet. “Ifan, don‟t! Don‟t read it, just… throw it away!” “Jack, what is it?” Ifan retrieved the letter, but something about Jack‟s expression made him pause. He gently unfurled the crumpled paper to Jack‟s agonized “No, please don‟t!” Ifan recoiled from the hatred that almost dripped from the page like venom. Some words jumped out at him, like “filthy Sodomite,” “unholy Bastard,” and “May the wrath of the Almighty be rained upon your filth.” “Ifan?” Jack‟s expression was bleak. “Obviously some malicious gossip,” Ifan said dismissively after the initial shock had passed. “Just a crank.” “That is not just a crank, Ifan, and you and I both know it!” “We should call the police, then.” “Ifan, we can‟t!” “Why not?”
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JESSIE BLACKWOOD “In case you haven‟t noticed, we‟re not exactly innocent here.”
“And we‟re not guilty either. We have never shown any outward signs of our relationship in public,” Ifan commented firmly. “Ever. Remember what I was saying to you a few nights ago? I can say that without fear of contradiction.” “This is dangerous, Ifan, too dangerous. They‟ll investigate.” “Exactly why we call the police so we can stop this thing. They‟ll find nothing concerning a breach in our behavior. Dr. Smith wouldn‟t tell them, and neither will Bronwen. Nor Hugh, for that matter, if he even realizes, which I‟m not sure he does, completely.” “My old CO knew. I‟m sure of it.” “Group Captain Davidson? He‟s an officer and he‟s your friend. Even if he suspects, he doesn‟t know anything, does he? He‟s a respected man.” “That‟s why they‟d listen to him, they‟d believe him—,” “And that‟s why he wouldn‟t do it. Neither would John Ashley or any of the rest of your old air crew. Jack, see sense. I am Bronwen‟s butler and I am your manservant, and no matter how antiquated that might be, it still stands. You are a decorated RAF officer, DSO, CGM, DFC, you‟re a bloody hero!” “Which makes no difference to the lunatic who wrote that!” “If it is a lunatic,” Ifan pondered. “What else could it be?” “Dense all of a sudden?” Ifan smiled. “This could be a prank, a sick joke, scare tactics, who knows? Whatever it is, it‟s not right. This needs to be reported, now, before it can go further.” Jack sighed, undecided as to the best course of action. His deliberation was cut short as a scream from the direction of the hall scraped across their nerves.
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HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS IFAN was out through the door as fast as his legs would carry him, leaving Jack to follow as best he could. Bronwen was in the hall, holding her head and leaning heavily on the hall table. Blood was dripping down her face. “Oh my God, Bronwen, what happened?” Ifan sat her down on one of the hall chairs and peeled her hand away. “He threw it at me!” “Threw what? Who did?” Ifan glanced wildly toward the door but saw no movement, nothing out of the ordinary. Bronwen‟s tears mingled with the blood as he carefully examined the wound on her forehead. It wasn‟t deep, but head wounds bled furiously anyway. He fished out a clean handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against the cut, his firstaid training from his war service kicking in. Like his father before him, Ifan had joined the Home Guard and then accepted Voluntary Aid Detachment training. He heard Jack arrive behind him. “What the hell just happened?” “I don‟t know yet. Somebody threw something at Bronwen,” Ifan said as calmly as he could. The door to belowstairs banged open as Rhys Llewellyn came hurrying up from the kitchen, closely followed by the stout figure of Mrs. Redfern, their cook, who was hastily wiping her floury hands on her apron. Worry lined her motherly features, and she immediately hurried over to offer Bronwen some comfort. “Jack,” Ifan added gently, “please call the police and Gordon Smith, now.” “We heard a scream….” Llewellyn was plainly concerned. “Somebody threw something at Mrs. Powell!” Ifan explained. “Who the hell would do such a thing?” Llewellyn was horrified. “I‟m not sure she can tell us right now, even if she knows. Rhys, would you go to the farm and find Mr. Powell, please? Mrs. Redfern.” Ifan
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laid a hand on her shoulder. “Some of your hot sweet tea would come in very useful right now.” Without another word, Ifan picked Bronwen up in his arms and carried her into the sitting room. He deposited her gently on the chaise and tucked some cushions behind her. “I‟ve called the police and Gordon. I think this is it.” Jack was tossing a stone in his hand. “Found it under the chair in the hallway. Whoever it was threw it clean through the glass panel in the door. There‟s glass all over the porch floor.” Ifan was busy checking Bronwen for signs of a concussion. From her answers, he doubted she had double vision or difficulty focusing, but she was shocked. He met Jack‟s troubled gaze with his own concerned one. “If this is connected…,” Jack began. “Connected with what, Jack?” Bronwen asked, her voice weak. “Bronwen, may I open the letter you received?” Ifan asked. “We got one with a similar postmark, and it was quite unpleasant. If you‟ve had the same….” “All right,” she agreed, curiosity piqued. “You can open it.” Sure enough, the letter was as abusive and cruel as the one Jack had received. Almost identical but telling Bronwen she would burn in Hell for harboring “Sodom and Gomorrah” in her house. Ifan was reluctant to show it to Bronwen, but she insisted, citing that it was her letter, after all. “Oh my God, they‟re actually accusing you of….” Bronwen was shocked. She wasn‟t surprised by the accusation itself, because she knew about Jack‟s proclivities, but the fact that someone else seemed to know was rather alarming. “Yes, they are. But we all know this a lie,” Ifan said, his voice calm. “How can you say that?” Bronwen looked at Jack and then at Ifan. “Bronwen, without a word of a lie, we have never done anything to warrant this,” Ifan said gently. “In public, I‟m Jack‟s manservant, that is all. We‟ve never done anything that we are ashamed of.” “So how do they know?”
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“How do they know that Jack and I are queer?” Ifan said gently. “The answer is they don‟t, because they can‟t. It‟s an assumption, a cruel one, but an assumption nevertheless. There really cannot be any evidence,” Ifan insisted, “because there isn‟t any. We have never transgressed in public, ever. I can promise you that.” “I believe you, Ifan. I might not believe him—” and she glanced at Jack again “—but I do believe you.” “Bronwen! Bronwen? Where are you?” Hugh stormed into the room to find Bronwen on the chaise still holding Ifan‟s handkerchief to her head. “What happened here?” “Mrs. Powell was attacked, sir. She had a stone thrown at her,” Ifan said, carefully hiding the letters. He stood back to allow Hugh to kneel beside his wife. “Jack has called Dr. Smith and the police. They should be here soon. I don‟t think she‟s suffering from a concussion, but I would let the doctor decide. We should keep her warm. I‟ll get a blanket and chase up Mrs. Redfern.” “You do that,” Hugh agreed, and Ifan hastened away, leaving the three family members behind. “Now tell me, love,” Hugh addressed his wife gently. “Exactly what happened?” It transpired that Bronwen had gone to the door to pick up a piece of paper she saw on the floor—a blank piece of paper, as it turned out—and the stone had been hurled with enough force to smash through the pane of glass in the door and hit her a glancing blow on her head. She had seen somebody running away, someone clad in dark clothes and not very tall, a boy maybe, running toward the lane to the village. Dark hair or a cap, she wasn‟t sure. He had a bicycle with him, a big black delivery bicycle. There was no shortage of those in the town, though. Ifan could see that Jack was both angry and upset. Both events were too coincidental and, coming as they did on the same day, hard to accept. Ifan remained aloof in his butler‟s guise despite an almost overwhelming urge to comfort the man. Time enough for that later. Ifan had never let his appreciation of the proprieties drop, and he wasn‟t about to start now. Since the end of the war, Ifan had returned to being Bronwen‟s butler alongside Llewellyn, who had also found employ on the farm as a part-
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time mechanic. All in all the arrangement suited everybody concerned, as it meant Ifan could share more of his time with Jack. Ifan had ensured that they rigidly maintained their outward appearance and never let the façade down in public. It was the only way they could be together and still be safe. Outwardly they were butler and employer, the retired RAF Officer and his manservant. Ifan was Jack‟s shadow, pushing his wheelchair, supporting him, serving him, tending to bodily comforts and necessities. Even in front of friends and visitors, Ifan was still Mrs. Powell‟s butler and Group Captain Ratigan‟s aide. Only at night and behind locked doors were they anything else, which made this latest development all the more galling, seeing as how they had been so careful. Ifan often found himself wondering at the last six years of his life. It had not been easy at times. Like all lovers, their emotions had run both hot and cold. There had been differing opinions and even arguments, but there were times when they were in such perfect accord they finished each other‟s sentences or said the same thing simultaneously. Had anybody told him ten years ago that he would be in a relationship with another man, he would have laughed them out of the room. Now he couldn‟t envision living any other way. Dr. Smith arrived before the police, took one look at the scene, and ordered Bronwen to bed. Hugh carried her up and all three vanished upstairs, leaving Jack and Ifan to receive Constable Todd, who arrived on his bike less than a quarter of an hour later. “Captain!” The policeman extended a hand as he was let in by Ifan. “Didn‟t expect to see you looking so well. How are you, sir?” “Fine, Owain, you‟re looking well yourself,” Jack replied, shaking the offered hand warmly. “Thank you, thank you kindly. Sergeant Bevan sends his regards, sir, and apologizes for not coming himself, but we‟re rather busy at the moment. There‟s been a spate of burglaries in the Port Tennant area, and we need to concentrate our resources on that. It rather takes priority, you see.” “Nonsense, please thank him for sending someone so promptly,” Jack responded.
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“So, what is all this about? You said Mrs. Powell has had a stone thrown at her?” “Will you sit down, Constable?” Ifan asked. “Can I get you anything? Nice cup of tea perhaps and a slice of Mrs. Redfern‟s bara brith?” “Well, I don‟t mind if I do, Mr. Griffith. Thank you.” Ifan left to arrange a tray, leaving Jack to tell the man about the letters and what had happened. When Ifan got back, he deposited the tray and served the two men, then retired to his customary position standing behind Jack as he sat on the sofa, facing Owain. The man finished reading the letter, fixed them with a look, and said, “Malicious, that‟s what this is. I‟ll have to hand these over at the station. They‟ll decide where to go from here. The attack on Mrs. Powell, though, we cannot rule out that it was perpetrated by the same person, but there is no conclusive proof it wasn‟t coincidence as of yet. I need to speak to her, if she‟s up to it.” As he spoke, Dr. Smith came into the room, and Owain stood up, setting his cup down and waiting for the doctor to speak. “Well, she‟s not concussed, but it‟s still a nasty injury.” He frowned, a delicate line drawing itself vertically between his eyebrows. “I dread to think what would have happened if it had hit her in her eye. Whoever did it had a hell of a throw. I suggest it might be an older boy or young man.” He glanced longingly at the teapot, then smiled warmly as Ifan poured some out for him in one of the extra cups. He accepted it gratefully and added, “She‟ll be all right to speak to you if you need to ask her questions, Constable, but please don‟t tire her. She‟s had a severe shock and she needs to rest.” Dr. Smith let the door close behind the policeman before fixing them both with a hard look. “Please tell me that you two idiots haven‟t been indiscreet?” he said quietly. Ifan shook his head. “Never, sir, we have no idea where this attack has come from.” “Well it must have come from somewhere. Who else might know about you two?”
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“Apart from Bronwen and maybe Hugh—although we‟re not sure about him—nobody else, I swear,” Jack said, hand placed over his heart. “We‟re very circumspect when we‟re outside.” “I‟m nothing more than Group Captain Ratigan‟s manservant. We are careful, we have to be,” Ifan reassured. Smith gazed at them, his eyes studying first one man, then the other. “Well, Bronwen is shocked but not badly hurt. I gather she went to retrieve a paper from the lobby floor and the stone came right through the glass. The paper was blank, a lure. Someone is playing funny buggers, and I only hope the police can sort this out quickly before it starts to eat us alive. We‟re a small community, and we do not need this, either from inside or out.” Jack looked at him and frowned. “Well, I have no idea where this has come from, but I don‟t like how it‟s making me feel. How can I look anyone in the eyes again until we know? It might be anybody.” “Yes, well, keep me informed. You two need to take more care from now on. I‟ll be back to see Mrs. Powell tomorrow, and I‟ll talk to you again then. Sorry, I have to get off. I have a hundred things to catch up on. Thank you for the tea, most welcome.” As Ifan saw him out, he scanned the fields and the road, wondering exactly who could have it in for them. The countryside was quiet, as it always was. The wind blew in from the south, carrying with it a faint tang of salt from the sea. Crows rasped to each other in the trees, and the distant growl of a tractor reached his ears. The peaceful scene did nothing to settle his disquiet, though. It felt more like the calm before the oncoming storm. When he went back inside, Hugh was ranting at Jack. “I‟m not bloody blind, Jack Ratigan! I know what you are and I‟ve never complained. What a man does in the privacy of his own room is his own business, but this… my wife is injured because her bloody beloved cousin can‟t keep it in his pants!” “Hugh, we haven‟t compromised ourselves, I promise you! We‟ve never—”
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Ifan came into the room, and Hugh rounded on him. “You, you ought to know better too. She trusted you!” “What is that supposed to mean, Mr. Powell?” Ifan tried to keep his voice level. “Exactly what it‟s supposed to, Mr. Griffith!” Hugh snapped back. “You and him….” He shook his head. “I don‟t pretend to understand it. All I know is now Bronwen‟s been hurt because of it and we‟re receiving poison pen letters!” He glared at Jack. “I think it might be easier all ʼround if you two went away for a while—” “What? You mean we ought to run, with our tails between our legs, as if we‟re the guilty ones?” Jack was incensed. “You said you needed a holiday, didn‟t you?” Hugh looked uncomfortable. “You were going on one anyway—” “Mr. Powell, going away will not stop the problem—” Ifan objected. “A quiet life, that‟s all I want,” Hugh muttered, ignoring him. “Just keep your heads down.” “Where would we go? Answer me that.” Jack took the blunt approach. “Why don‟t you go back to that liberal-minded country of yours, go back home to America?” “Home? But….” Jack paused. This is my home, he wanted to say. I was born here. I’ve been here for ten years, but my heart has been here for much longer…. Jack had spent more than half his life in the USA, but here and now, confronted by Hugh‟s demands, he no longer felt as if going there amounted to going home. He had returned to his native Wales to join up at the beginning of the war, spurred by a sense of duty to protect the country of his birth. Thinking about it, Jack realized he felt less and less American these days. “You‟re wrong, Hugh,” he said defensively. “My home is here….” Hugh shook his head angrily and stomped out. They heard his footsteps disappear upstairs. “Jack.” Ifan was looking at him. “Don‟t worry, cariad. Home is where the heart is, where we‟re together. We can go anywhere.”
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ON THE ROAD TO NOWHERE “YOU can‟t blame Hugh,” Ifan said in his employer‟s defense. “He‟s worried what this will do to Bronwen.” They were sitting in their bedroom, on the bed, sipping cocoa (one of Jack‟s indulgences), and just being together, in peace, at the end of a fraught day. “I thought he was a better friend….” Ifan put his arm round Jack‟s shoulders and hugged the man close. “He‟s not so bad, he‟s never complained. He‟s just worried, that‟s all.” “There you go again, seeing the best in everyone,” Jack said fondly, and placed a gentle kiss on his lover‟s lips. “I should be careful what I say.” Ifan smiled. “It got me into trouble the first time.” Jack grinned at the memory. “You don‟t think this will just go away, do you?” he suggested. “I don‟t know. I don‟t want to lie to you, Jack. I have no idea what will happen.” “We might get prosecuted….” The fear in Jack‟s voice was plain. “I was reading the paper the other day. There was a report… this guy in London was convicted of gross indecency.” He shuddered. “It was horrible, what they offered him….” Jack‟s eyes were bleak. “Jail or chemical castration, can you believe that? Injections of female hormones to suppress his libido? The poor bastard….” “Jack, stop worrying. They‟ll need to present better evidence than mere gossip,” Ifan retorted. “PC Todd doesn‟t believe the accusations. It‟s obviously never crossed his mind that we‟re anything other than friends.” He yawned. “Oh God, I‟m so tired….”
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“Come to bed, then. It‟s been a long day.” Jack bent to kiss him, his lips pressing hard and urgently as if afraid he was going to be denied, or maybe he was simply afraid. Ifan pulled back and took Jack‟s face in both his hands. His smile was, he hoped, warm and reassuring. “Hey, there, I‟m here. If you want to make love, we‟ll make love, but there‟s no need to rush.” Jack‟s grateful smile almost broke Ifan‟s heart. He was much less confident about a lot of things these days, even though his ability to walk had slowly returned. He still used the chair when he got tired, although he didn‟t use it enough in Ifan‟s opinion. Jack Ratigan had a stubborn streak a mile wide. Even so, he seemed more vulnerable, as if advancing middle age were reminding him he wasn‟t as strong as he used to be. He didn‟t need poison pen letters to reduce his confidence still further. They made love slowly, gently, but Jack guided Ifan‟s hand down tentatively, as if seeking permission. Jack was so much in need of reassurance Ifan couldn‟t refuse him, but he took his time, moving slowly, savoring each moment, each touch, and every sensation. Moving deep within his lover‟s body, Ifan always found a moment of perfection, a moment when time seemed to stand still. Balanced on the brink, he was always full of wonder at the moves fate made to bring people together or tear them apart. This time his resolve hardened. Nothing would do that to them, not now, not ever. As he tipped over, felt Jack‟s body tumble over with him, he held on tightly and rode the waves of pleasure, silently vowing that he would not let this tear them apart. If the war couldn‟t do it, then one person‟s hate would not be allowed to.
HUGH was notably absent the following day, and Bronwen was applying herself to the plans for Jack‟s party. He was not pleased when he found out. “Bronwen, no. You cannot be thinking of holding it now? I couldn‟t relax enough to enjoy it. I don‟t know who I can trust anymore.” “Nonsense,” she retorted sharply. “Nobody I invite would be capable of such a thing. This is friends and family, Jack, nobody else. You don‟t
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need to worry on that score. Anyway, what better way of showing that you have nothing to hide than by going ahead and celebrating? Come on, what would you like to eat? It‟ll be your day, after all.” “Mrs. Powell is right, Jack.” Ifan came in carrying the tea tray. “What better way of showing we‟ve nothing to be ashamed of?” “I still don‟t feel like celebrating. I don‟t want this to overshadow something that we should be enjoying.” “Jack, I appreciate that,” Bronwen said. “I really do, but this is your day. You shouldn‟t be made to feel uncomfortable by anybody. If you do, they‟ve won!” “Okay, okay. I get the point,” he said sullenly. “Just don‟t put any cucumber sandwiches on the menu. I hate ‟em! Every time we had a do at the Officers‟ Mess it was always bloody cucumber sandwiches!” Bronwen laughed and made a firm note of it in her journal.
“… AND so Janet said….” Emily was chattering excitedly as she followed her brother from the terrace through the French windows, letting in the cold of the autumn day. Jack shivered in his seat at the bureau. He was trying to write in his journal, and already his patience was thin. After the events of the previous day, he felt worn down and out of sorts. “For God‟s sake,” Jack muttered under his breath, realizing they had left the terrace door wide open behind them. “You might shut the door….” His voice was raised, but the young people had already disappeared into the hall to rid themselves of coats and hats and didn‟t hear him. Jack sighed, levered himself to his feet, grabbed his stick, and went to close it. Then he hobbled to the fire and poked the embers into life, attempting to add another piece of wood to it with the tongs. Juggling a walking stick and fire irons wasn‟t easy, but he managed, eventually, and straightened up, feeling slightly proud of himself. Small victories like that were to be savored; another proof of his independence. At that moment the door opened again and Emily rushed in, holding a letter in her hands. She was holding it out of Young Hugh‟s way and
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taunting him while the young man tried to take it back. “Ooo, she says to tell you she‟s missing you terribly!” She giggled and swung around a chair, evading him. “Will you give that back?” Hugh demanded, outraged at his sister‟s behavior. He was also embarrassed, if the blush that rose to his cheeks was anything to go by. Emily pretended to read the letter and pouted, blowing kisses. “Aw, does she miss her bunnykins, then…?” “Emily, give it back.” “No, I want to make sure she has only the best of intentions toward my brother!” “I said”—Young Hugh lunged toward her—“give it back!” “No!” Emily darted out of his way around Jack, using him like a shield. Her sudden movement was enough to overbalance him, and they both nearly tumbled to the floor. “Enough!” Jack roared, and Emily turned toward him, giggling nervously, both facing his wrath with guilty expressions. “Will you two stop behaving like little children!” Jack‟s shout was loud enough to scare. “First you leave the door open and let the cold in. I had to go shut it myself or freeze. Then you decide to make a shield out of me. You need to stop taunting your brother and be more careful, little lady. You nearly tumbled us both to the floor!” Emily‟s lip trembled, and she ran. “I‟m sorry, sir,” Hugh said, glancing after his sister. Jack deflated and shook his head. “Please, just… don‟t let it happen again. You‟re old enough to know better, young man.” Hugh fled as Ifan came in the door. “What did they do this time?” Ifan asked as Jack sat down heavily. “Emily just ran past me crying her eyes out….” “Left the door open, so I got up to close it,” Jack explained. “Then she decided it would be fun to taunt her brother about that letter he got
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from Megan. He tried to get it back, she resisted, used me as a shield and nearly knocked us both over.” “They‟re still young,” Ifan said understandingly. “Same the world over.” He studied Jack as he sat staring at the fire. “Are you all right?” They had received another poison pen letter that morning. There was the same venom in the content, same typeface, same paper. “No.” He looked up at Ifan and sighed. “Not feeling very good in the first place, and then I go and make Emily cry. I don‟t like shouting.” “You‟re on edge. We all are.” “That means Bronwen will be on the rampage again soon. Maybe I shouldn‟t have shouted so loud. I scared her.” He covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders started to shake. “God, will you look at me? I‟m a wreck,” he gasped. “I can‟t hold my hands steady when I write… I‟m overreacting, snapping at everyone…. Ifan, what can I do?” “Oh, cariad,” Ifan murmured. He desperately wanted to run his hands through Jack‟s hair and wrap his arms round him, but he restrained himself. Not even in the house would he relax his rigid stance, just in case. “I wish I knew, but I think it‟s about time we called on Gordon Smith again, don‟t you? This whole thing is taking its toll on you. Maybe he can help?” “I‟m going nuts, is that what you‟re saying?” “I‟m not saying anything, Jack. I‟m suggesting you need help—help I can‟t give you. I just don‟t know how.” Jack looked into Ifan‟s troubled eyes and frowned. His behavior was hurting Ifan, making him worry. The butler was definitely more stoic in the face of attack than Jack would ever have given him credit for. He may have been younger, but he seemed to be the stronger of the two of them, and Jack admired him for it. He was the rock Jack was currently clinging to in their present storm. Jack took himself off to bed and stayed there. When Bronwen came looking for him, angry at him for shouting at Emily, Ifan told her that Jack wasn‟t well and had gone to bed. “What‟s the matter with him? He was well enough to yell at Emily.”
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“Far be it from me to judge the young people, ma‟am, but they did nearly knock Jack over,” Ifan said pointedly. “Just youthful exuberance, but they caught him at a bad moment. We got another letter this morning.” “Oh my God. Not another one?” Bronwen‟s anger dissipated. “That makes three, doesn‟t it?” “Yes. Look, I‟m sorry… Bronwen.” Ifan still didn‟t feel right calling her by her first name, even though she insisted. “Jack is sorry he yelled, but he‟s been feeling more vulnerable recently. This party… he doesn‟t like crowds, never has, but I‟m afraid he‟s not facing growing older very well either.” “Why not? None of us are as young as we were. Besides, physically isn‟t he better than he was? He can walk again.” “Yes, but he‟ll never be as able-bodied as he was before the war. He gets tired easily. Look, I‟m trying to persuade him to see Dr. Smith again. I don‟t know what he can do, but Jack‟s not taking any of this very well, and it‟s having a very bad effect on him.” Ifan shrugged, not bothering to voice that it was rubbing off on him too. “It‟s taking its toll on all of us, Ifan. This is a hateful business.” “Mrs. Powell… Bronwen? Could you have a word with your policeman friend maybe—Pwl Bevan—see how the investigations are going?” “I can try.” “Hugh wants rid of us too. He was very angry when you were attacked.” “Hugh does not want rid of you!” she refuted. “He‟s concerned, but he‟d never abandon you.” “He suggested we leave for a while, go to America, get away on our „holiday‟ and leave this to blow over.” “Hugh did? Why the…?” “He‟s worried about you, Bronwen. You were injured, he was scared for you. He loves you. How else do you expect him to react?” “Not by telling you to leave!” she said indignantly.
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“Suggesting it, then! It doesn‟t matter, Ifan. Either way, this is your home, yours and Jack‟s, and leaving wouldn‟t necessarily make things better. The village gossips would have a field day. God knows there are enough of them. You‟d be condemned for running away. They‟d say it was because you were guilty. I know these people, worthy women all, and some of them would verbally rip each other‟s throats out if they could get away with it. Come to that, some of the men are no better….” She sighed. “No, you both need to stay strong and stay here.”
“GOOD morning, gentlemen. Can I help you?” Llewellyn cast a glance over the unfamiliar man who accompanied Pwl Bevan and then returned his gaze to the sergeant. “Llewellyn, good morning. Is Group Captain Ratigan at home?” Bevan asked. “I believe so, sir. Who may I say is calling?” He stepped back to allow the men to enter the hall just as the lounge door opened and Bronwen stepped out. “Pwl, good morning.” She smiled warmly at him and then turned her gaze on the man who stood a little behind and to one side. “And who have you brought with you?” She held out a hand in welcome. It was gripped firmly. The newcomer was a shade taller than Bevan, dressed in a plain dark-brown raincoat belted at the waist, a trilby hat perched on his head. He removed the hat, revealing gray hair trimmed short and combed over his skull. He handed both hat and coat to Llewellyn, his washed-out hazel eyes cold and indifferent, taking in every detail of his surroundings. A neat moustache traced a thin line along his top lip. Altogether, he looked plain and forgettable. “Bronwen, this is Detective Inspector Meredith. He‟s been sent from Cardiff to help in the investigations.” Next to Meredith, Pwl looked positively colorful in his dark-navy suit.
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“Oh, I see. Well, you‟d better both come in. Llewellyn, would you bring some tea up for us? Detective Inspector, would you care for tea or coffee, perhaps?” “Tea will do fine, thank you, Mrs. Powell.” DI Meredith smiled, his gravelly voice quiet and respectful. “I gather Group Captain Ratigan is at home? We really came to talk to him.” “Oh, I see. Well, he‟s about somewhere,” she supplied vaguely, leading the way into the warm lounge. She indicated a chair and took one herself, sitting near the fire. DI Meredith sat opposite. “Llewellyn will find him for you,” Bronwen assured. “While we‟re here….” DI Meredith turned his gaze on Bronwen and smiled. She was not happy to see that it didn‟t seem to reach his eyes. “Yes?” “May I ask, the group captain, is he… seeing anyone at the moment?” “Seeing anyone? I‟m not sure I understand.” “Does he have a lady friend? A lover, maybe?” “Not to my knowledge. May I ask why you want to know?” Bronwen allowed her voice to sound a little affronted at such a question. The DI sat back, relaxed, threading his fingers together across his waistcoat, and smiled. “I‟m trying to rule out a disgruntled lover being behind these malicious letters,” he explained. “We had a similar case last year in Cardiff, although unfortunately we didn‟t manage to find the culprit. The letters stopped before we could apprehend anyone.” He paused, gazing round him. “You have a beautiful home,” he said disconcertingly, then came back to the matter at hand. “As I‟m sure you can imagine, I do hope to have better success with this case.” “I‟m sure you do…,” Bronwen began but was cut off as he spoke again. “You should understand, Mrs. Powell, there are many factors involved concerning who might instigate letters such as these. I merely wondered if the captain had relations with anyone prior to this incident.”
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“I‟m sure Jack hasn‟t had a relationship with anyone who would do such a thing,” Bronwen said firmly. “Then, in your opinion, does the captain display any… tendencies that may draw this kind of attention?” “What kind of tendencies, Detective Inspector?” Bronwen couldn‟t keep the edge out of her voice. “The letters were very specific, I believe. They refer to the captain as a sodomite. My apologies,” he offered, without much sincerity. “In last year‟s case, there was more than a grain of truth to some of the accusations. I don‟t mean to offend, but I am trying to ascertain whether there is any truth in the rumors concerning the group captain.” “Rumors?” Bronwen‟s heart was suddenly beating too fast, and her mouth had gone dry. For someone so lacking in personality, Meredith suddenly seemed very threatening. “The captain has quite a reputation, I believe,” the DI suggested, his voice harder and more insistent than before. “Oh, that.” Bronwen forced herself to laugh lightly. “Jack is a notorious flirt. Always has been. He loves to shock, you see. Always was a terrible practical joker too. He was always a little too unruly for my parents.” She smiled reminiscently. “He was brought up in America, you see. He returned here to join up when war broke out.” “So I understand. He is decorated, is he not?” “Yes, he is, he‟s a war hero,” Bronwen stated pointedly. “Three medals actually. Jack flew bombers.” “Yes, so I understand. Tell me, then, Mrs. Powell….” The door opened and Llewellyn came in carrying the tea tray. DI Meredith fell silent. He waited while the man poured tea for them. “Llewellyn,” Bronwen said, “would you see if you can find Group Captain Ratigan, please? The inspector would like a word with him.” “Very good, ma‟am.” Llewellyn smiled and nodded, leaving unhurriedly.
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Meredith didn‟t speak until the door closed. Then he turned once more to Bronwen. “Mrs. Powell, I‟ll ask you again. In your opinion, does the captain display any tendencies that might attract such attention?” “Jack? No, of course not. The idea is unthinkable. Jack is a joker and an impossible flirt, but… that? No, not Jack. Definitely not.” And may God forgive me, I’m now lying to the police for him, she thought in dismay. “And yet he has your former butler as his companion, does he not?” “Yes, he does. He has needed someone to help him with day-to-day living since the crash. Ifan, Mr. Griffith, has Voluntary Aid Detachment training. He was refused call-up on medical grounds, so he enlisted in the Home Guard instead.” “But Captain Ratigan is on his feet again, I believe?” “Detective Inspector, Jack‟s plane crashed. He was paralyzed from the waist down for months. Yes, he can walk again, but not far nor for very long. You can speak to our family doctor, Gordon Smith. I‟m sure he‟ll fill you in on the details. Jack still needs his wheelchair and Ifan to help him, and his doctors at Stoke Mandeville Hospital all agreed he might never regain full mobility. Why? Are you suggesting he doesn‟t need help any more, is that it? That he‟s using it as an excuse?” She looked askance. “Well, really!” “Are they close?” “Detective Inspector.” Bronwen‟s voice turned icy. “Ifan Griffith was my butler. He took over that role when our previous butler—his own father—was killed in the Blitz. He has served this family well for years. We were at school together, for goodness‟ sake. I‟ve known him for years, and he has never displayed any tendencies, as you put it. Now you come along and have the gall to suggest there is anything going on between my cousin and his companion? Without Ifan‟s help and support, Jack would probably be dead.” “All very laudable,” Meredith said impassively, and Bronwen was a little reassured to see that Pwl was looking very uncomfortable with this line of questioning. Pwl Bevan was a friend, but he was obviously unable to contradict this gray man who outranked him. She looked up at Pwl and
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was rewarded with the apology in his gaze. She nodded almost imperceptibly and turned back to Meredith, taking a sip of her tea to buy some time. “So, Detective Inspector, judging by this line of questioning, am I to understand you are no closer to finding the person responsible for these letters?” Bronwen asked. “Our investigations are ongoing,” he replied and checked his watch. “Now, if you‟d be so kind as to inform the group captain of our presence? Your butler appears to have got lost….”
“WHAT a horrible man!” Bronwen burst out. “Coming into my home, accusing you, making suggestions, whatever next?” “He‟s only doing his job, Bronwen,” Ifan defended. “Job, my eye, he‟s enjoying it too much. Little Hitler. What are we going to do?” “I‟ll talk to them,” Jack said gently. “Let me speak to them,” Ifan said. “You‟re unwell. You shouldn‟t be disturbed—” “Ifan, they‟ll just come back. No,” Jack said when Ifan opened his mouth to argue. “I‟ll go answer their questions.” He turned resolutely to the door.
“DETECTIVE Inspector Meredith?” Jack was geniality itself, offering his hand to the man who rose to greet him. “Pwl, nice to see you again. Has my cousin been treating you both right?” “Mrs. Powell is nothing if not generous, as always,” Pwl said. He watched as Jack limped heavily over to a chair and sat down, resting his stick against the chair arm and gesturing to his guests.
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“Please don‟t stand on ceremony with me,” Jack said. “Sit down, both of you. Now, Bronwen said you wanted to ask me some questions.” “Yes, sir.” It was plain Meredith was sizing him up, drawing conclusions about the man in front of him. Jack smiled back, his eyes taking in the man‟s formality. “I‟ll come straight to the point, sir,” Meredith said. “We‟re trying to ascertain the motive for these letters, looking at why they might have been sent to you. I gather you‟re not seeing anyone at this time. No jilted lovers? No upset husbands?” Jack laughed. “Chance would be a fine thing,” he replied. Meredith cocked a questioning eyebrow, and Jack patted his leg. “Since the crash, some things are not as easy as they once were, if you get my drift.” “You must understand you still have quite the reputation, though, Captain.” “I know. Misspent youth, I‟m afraid. What can I say? My cousin probably told you I‟m not the most circumspect of people.” “Mrs. Powell was most informative, sir,” Meredith replied, his eyes never leaving Jack. “I hope I didn‟t distress the lady too much, but you must understand that I have to ask these questions.” “Oh, I do, believe me, I do. So go ahead.” Jack nodded. “Ask away.” Meredith paused for less than a heartbeat before asking, “I need to know if the accusations in the letters are true, Captain Ratigan.”
“WELL, what did you say?” Bronwen wanted to know. “Well, what could I say? I denied it, didn‟t I?” Jack was pensive, worried. “Jack, there‟s nothing he can do,” Ifan said, attempting to reassure. “He‟d need a better case than this to accuse you of anything, as I told you.” “I know, but I feel… vulnerable. I‟m the victim here, but I‟m being made to feel like the culprit.”
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“Jack, it‟s not just you,” Bronwen said softly. “Ifan is accused as well, don‟t forget.” Jack‟s eyes flickered to Ifan and away again. “I think you should probably get to bed,” she added. “I know it‟s early, but this business is taking its toll. You should rest.” “Bronwen is right, Jack,” Ifan encouraged. “Come on, I‟ll see you into bed and go make us some cocoa.”
“JACK, I‟ve been thinking.” Ifan was in his bedroom, the room adjoining Jack‟s. He took off his jacket and hung it on a hanger in the wardrobe, quickly removing the rest of his clothing and folding it carefully. Jack was in his own bed, cradling his cup of cocoa and trying to put a brave face on things. “Isn‟t that dangerous?” Jack quipped. The man was apprehensive, strung taut as a wire. After DI Meredith had left, Jack‟s anxiety had returned with a vengeance. “So what were you thinking?” His voice sounded strained. “I think Hugh was wrong to ask us to leave. You said that running away won‟t solve anything, and I agree. We cannot simply absent ourselves, especially not now. We‟ll be convicted in our absence, socially if not criminally. The gossips would win.” “I thought you said that we could go anywhere?” Jack said. “Why can‟t we just get away? I want to take you to America. I could show you where I grew up…?” “We can, and I would love that, I really would,” Ifan said, “but I‟m suggesting we face this down and wait until it‟s over. We shouldn‟t show anybody else that this is getting to us. We should put on a brave face and show we‟ve nothing to hide.” “You said you didn‟t know what would happen.” “I don‟t, Jack, but it‟s no good leaving. That would look bad, wouldn‟t it?”
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“They‟ve probably already decided. It was plain DI Meredith didn‟t believe me. Look, I wasn‟t going to tell you….” He looked at Ifan as his companion entered the room clad in his brocade dressing gown. “Tell me what, Jack?” “I overheard Mrs. Redfern this morning. She was telling Alice that somebody in the village was talking about the letters. She knows! That means that the whole bloody village knows, and pretty soon the whole of Swansea will know too.” “I wonder who Mrs. Redfern was talking to. We ought to ask her. The police may want to question whoever it was.” “You can if you want to. Frankly, I‟m sick of it all. I will not stay here to be betrayed by the very people I joined up to protect!” “Jack, I‟m thinking of our future here. If we don‟t face this down, there‟ll be no future here for us—” “I‟m not sure I want my future to be around people who condemn me after all I‟ve fought for! Look at me! I‟m a cripple! I‟m a charity case! I‟m no more good than a broken racehorse who should have been put down when he fell, because I chose to defend this country, to defend them”—he stabbed a finger in the vague direction of Swansea to emphasize his point—“and look at where it got me!” “Jack, please!” Ifan tried to be moderate. “I know we have never done anything, anything at all to warrant this—” “How can you say that, Ifan? How can you be so damned certain?” “Jack, I know.” Ifan was confident in his reply. “One hundred percent, we have never, ever transgressed. I am sure of it.” “Well, I‟m not sure of anything!” Jack snapped, uncertainty in his eyes and fear in his voice. “I can‟t be as cocksure as you that I never said or did anything I shouldn‟t have nor trusted the wrong person. You, Ifan, you have never transgressed!” He spit the word out like an insult. “You can‟t speak for me. Look at you, you‟re so damned starched! You‟re so up yourself you can‟t see the daylight!”
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Ifan just looked at Jack in shock. The outburst was so sudden and hurtful that it rocked him to the core. “Jack, what are you saying? That I don‟t appreciate the situation? For God‟s sake!” “Appreciate it? Ha! You‟re so damned English, stiff-upper-lipped tight-assed control freaks! Of course you would never be the one to slip up, would you? You could never „slip up‟, you could never do anything wrong!” Ifan stood up, trembling with anger. “You bastard!” he burst out. “Don‟t you ever”—he stabbed the air for emphasis—“ever call me English again! I think you ought to sleep on your own tonight.” He turned tail, marched into the adjoining room, and slammed the door. Jack heard Ifan turn the key turn in the lock, sending his message loud and clear.
IFAN stood in the middle of the cold bedroom, trembling with shock and anger. Not in six years had Jack ever attacked him like that. He was out of his depth; he didn‟t know what to do. He flung himself down on the bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling. Had Jack finally succumbed to a nervous breakdown? Did he really mean what he said? Feelings of helplessness and anger washed through him. He couldn‟t believe how callous, how cruel Jack‟s words had been. He knew the man was scared, but this? This was so unlike him that Ifan did not know what to do. He hadn‟t seen how deeply all this had affected Jack. He lay there, confused and angry, desperate for the pain of it to go away, aware of how childish it all sounded, more like two six-year-old children arguing than grown men. Yet the fear made him feel all too young again, vulnerable and scared. He knew Jack might leave without him, knew it would be the irrevocable end to their relationship if he did. Ifan could not leave just like that, despite all he had said about them being able to go anywhere. If they left now, they would never return. Ifan found he could not, would not, do that. He had grown up in this place; it was his home, his life, and he wanted to be able to return in safety. In six years nothing like this had ever hit them. Differences had been ironed out; disagreements had risen and been worked through. They loved
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each other, truly, deeply, and wholeheartedly, or Ifan had thought they did. Sometimes Ifan had passed the church during a wedding and wished it could be them, wished they could share vows and rings and domestic bliss like a proper couple. The world wasn‟t ready for that yet, he thought sourly and wondered if it ever would be. Sometimes he ached to hold Jack‟s hand in public, to show people how he felt about this wonderful man. They couldn‟t even talk sometimes, couldn‟t even share a joke. In public, Ifan Griffith was Group Captain Ratigan‟s companion. He was not there to voice an opinion or speak for him; he was formal, servile, and respectful. But it didn‟t stop Jack loving him, didn‟t stop them sharing a bed at night, talking into the early hours, sharing hopes and dreams. Now Ifan wondered at the fragility of what they had, of how easy it was to sweep it all away in fear and anger. Suddenly, his resolve not to let this break them began to waver. Would he be able to keep them together, to ride this out?
JACK tried to sleep, but it evaded him. Deep down he was not as secure in his relationship with the Welshman as he would have liked to believe. In the back of his mind, despite the last six years, Jack just could not conceive of why Ifan would want to stay with him, why he would want him, a man who was both physically and mentally damaged. They were both so different; it was a spark of something indefinable that attracted them to each other. Something about Jack attracted and held Ifan like a moth to a flame, but now Jack wasn‟t sure if it was enough. He felt like he was falling apart, and he didn‟t know how to stop the feelings. Their relationship had gone through some rocky patches, but they had worked through them. Not without some compromise on both parts, but then, what was a relationship about? Jack loved him, loved every inch of the person of Ifan Griffith, but right now he had no idea what to do, how to fight through the overwhelming fear the thought of being discovered engendered in him. The interview with Meredith had scared him, badly.
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Ten years ago, he hadn‟t cared what he did. He had flirted with anyone who took his fancy, men and women both, ignoring the reputation he was creating. He hadn‟t known if he would be alive the next day to worry about it; he had not known if he wouldn‟t crash and burn like so many before him. They had all lived for the moment, so when he had found a kindred spirit in James Ashley, the elder brother of his flight engineer, he had held on to him, loved him even, but like so many other young men at that time James had been killed, and Jack had not expected to survive long either, never mind find another person capable of loving him. Back when he had been younger, able-bodied, and proficient, nothing had seemed too great to face. When his legs, his flying, and his singing had all been perfect, he had felt capable of anything! Now, he felt incapable of rising to the challenge. He was off-balance, disabled, tired, and defeated by his own fears. He knew he needed to talk to Ifan; he needed to apologize, to make things right again. He rolled out of bed and went to the adjoining door. The insistent knocking woke Ifan from a disturbed sleep. The clock said twelve minutes past three. Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock…. He lay there until it became unbearable, then rolled out of bed muttering, “All right. All right!” He took a deep steadying breath and composed himself, then opened the door. Jack stood there, frown in place. “Jack. You‟re going to wake the whole house up!” “I thought you agreed that running away didn‟t solve anything?” Ifan glared at him but didn‟t dignify him with a response. “I couldn‟t sleep…. I wanted to talk—” “Jack bloody Ratigan strikes again!” Ifan growled. “You couldn‟t leave me to sleep, could you? No. Here we go again, just because you want something, the rest of us have to suffer.” “Well, it wasn‟t the best way for you to say „goodnight,‟ was it?” “I wasn‟t the one who threw the insults!” Ifan snapped and made to shut the door again, but Jack moved quickly and blocked it. “Ifan—” “Jack,” Ifan replied coldly, “go to bed.”
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“No, I… we need to talk—” “I need sleep. I‟m up early.” “Ifan, this needs airing. We can‟t ignore it—” “We can talk in the morning.” “Ifan! Don‟t be a stubborn idiot!” Jack said desperately. “Cnucha bant!” Ifan snapped angrily, losing his composure “Ti’n llawn cachu, Jack!” Jack‟s blank expression would have been almost laughable if Ifan hadn‟t been so angry with him. Jack had a good idea of the content of those few words, but the exact meaning was beyond his meager understanding of the language. “Ifan, what about us? What the hell are we to you?” he shot back. “Does what we have mean so little to you?” Ifan‟s fist connected solidly with Jack‟s cheek. He staggered backwards, shocked and stunned by the violence of the response. “How dare you question how much this means to me!” Ifan shouted, past caring if anyone else heard. “I gave up six years of my life, Jack, to care for you and to love you and to live with you. Six years of my life and all you can do is suggest it means nothing to me?” Jack had never seen Ifan so angry. “If that‟s all you can say, Jack Ratigan, then that‟s it, it‟s over between us!” Ifan was near to tears. “Six whole years, Jack! In all that time I‟ve been your lover and your friend and your caregiver. For what? What, Jack? So you can stand there and throw it all back in my face? So you can insult me and say it means nothing to me because I won‟t stand here at nigh-on three o‟clock in the morning and talk it through with you? I‟m so tired, so damned tired! How much do you care about that, eh? How much do you care about what I want or feel or need?” Ifan took a breath but launched off again before Jack could interrupt. “Do you even know what this hateful business is doing to me? I have a job to do, responsibilities, Jack, people who need me to be there for them. I‟ve taken your insults, your insecurities, and your demands, and this is the last straw! I‟ve had enough, Jack, enough of all of it. You don‟t need me; you need a robot you can order around, someone who‟ll take everything you
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throw at them without complaint. Well, that isn‟t me anymore, Jack. You can do what you like, I‟m going to bed!” He disappeared back into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Jack heard the key turn in the lock again, and this time, he knew that nothing would induce Ifan to open it again.
“YEAH, I need a taxi to Swansea railway station please, as soon as possible…. From Ty Pren Redyn…. Yeah. Right…. Thank you.” Jack replaced the telephone receiver back on its rest and exhaled unsteadily, staring out of the front door at the sky brightening in the east. Two bags sat near his feet on the floor, his coat draped over them. His face throbbed where Ifan had hit him. He had never expected that, not in a million years. He knew his eye was closing up. He deserved it, he guessed. He had never seen Ifan so angry, but then, he had said some stupid stuff, after all, triggered by his own fears and insecurities. He had failed. He knew he had let Ifan down badly, probably irredeemably, and he had no idea how to make it right. He would go back to America, he figured. Stay in London for a few days, maybe write to John Ashley and explain. He looked back up the stairs toward their room, a lump forming in his throat. Ifan was better off without him. He had no desire for Ifan to be hurt by gossip and innuendo. Even if they found whoever had written the letters, the damage was done. Jack turned resolutely back toward the door and resumed his watch for the arrival of the taxi. By the time Ifan woke up, Jack would be away from there, out of reach, far enough away not to be able to cause more pain. He would be out of Meredith‟s clutches, his pointed questions, his accusations. Jack, however, had overlooked the simple fact that his absence would cause more pain than his continued presence ever could.
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RESCUE FROM AN UNLIKELY QUARTER “‟ELLO, ‟ello, what we got ‟ere then?” Jack turned to see Hugh coming downstairs. He had forgotten that the man was always up around five o‟clock to go tend to the cows for early milking. “You two sneakin‟ off without telling anyone, then? Bronwen will kill you.” “This is what you wanted, isn‟t it?” Jack said tiredly, his chin jutting defiantly. “Bronwen will understand.” There was a pause before the other man replied. “Will she? Running off without saying goodbye? And where‟s Griffith, then?” Jack stayed silent, and Hugh raised an eyebrow, taking in the purpling bruise spreading across Jack‟s cheek, partially closing his eye. “Well, well, somebody has a good right hook….” “He doesn‟t know I‟m gone.” The admission was as painful as the blow. “I thought I heard you two. Didn‟t realize things had got that bad. What the hell did you say to him?” Jack looked startled. “He was telling me we shouldn‟t leave or they‟ll decide we‟re guilty. I said it didn‟t matter, they‟ll have decided anyway…. I accused him of being English….” Hugh—Welshman that he was—winced at that. “Too stiff-upper-lipped to make a mistake, I said. Then I… I questioned what our… relationship meant to him.” “You bloody fool,” Hugh muttered. “First off, I‟m sorry for what I said to you the other day, but I was worried about Bronwen and the children. I hope the bloody police catch the one who threw that stone, because they better hope I don‟t catch ‟em first!” He flexed the fingers of one hand into a fist, indicating exactly what he would do with the culprit if he ever found out who it was. Then he surprised Jack with his next words.
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“This is a time when we should be rallyin‟ round each other, you know, stickin‟ together, not runnin‟ away! Do you care about what happens to Young Hugh and Emily with all of this?” Jack looked down at the floor. “What good would I be to them? Ifan even had to stick up for me in the pub once. I‟m not able enough to protect anybody.” “Jack, nobody is asking you to wade into a fight, although I can imagine how that makes you feel—as if you‟re no longer a man.” It was Jack‟s turn to wince with the hard truth of that one, but Hugh carried on, “But what you did, every time you went up in that plane…. You‟re not a coward, man. Look, I‟m damned glad I‟m a farmer, I ʼad a reserved occupation. I was lucky, Jack, lucky. I was never called up, but every time you came home I ʼad to face my own guilt, you know that?” “What did you have to be guilty about?” Jack was surprised. “You remember when you came home, after the crash, when you told me to stop lookin‟ as if the world had ended?” Jack nodded. “And I said to you, you were takin‟ this much better than I would ʼave? I was glad, Jack, glad it wasn‟t me. Coward that I am, I was happy Bronwen didn‟t ‟ave to deal with that. I didn‟t come home burned or crippled… or worse….” He ran a hand through his short wiry dark hair. “If I‟m honest, I was jealous of you for such a very long time. You know, you could ʼave ʼad Bronwen if you‟d wanted her. If you‟d been inclined, she‟d ʼave said yes straight off. She was in love with you, Jack. Still is, part of her, I guess. Every time you came home, I wondered why you didn‟t ask her to marry you, and let me tell you, I was in fear of you doing that very thing every single time she told me you were comin‟ over. Until I found out why you didn‟t want her, that is.” He paused, watching Jack‟s expression turn wary. “Oh, don‟t worry, Bronwen never told me. She didn‟t need to. I saw you with her cousin Francis one Christmas, and we all knew what a poof he was… sorry, but he was a right fairy. I remember watchin‟ him flirtinʼ with you and realizing right then why you weren‟t interested in Bronwen. I could accept that, God help me, because it meant you were no longer a threat to me. I guess I gave up being jealous of you then, because to me you weren‟t a real man anymore.”
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He stopped, looked at Jack‟s stunned expression, and smiled awkwardly. “And then you went and proved me wrong again when you came over here and joined up, flying bombers of all things.” He shook his head sadly. “I‟m sorry for it, Jack, but you are a better man than me. I would never ever give you up to the likes of Meredith because of that. You‟re worth ten of him. Me, I‟m just a bloody farmer. I‟m not brave or clever. But one thing I do know.” He wagged a finger at Jack in emphasis. “This is your home, man. Never mind that the house is yours by right, I‟m not talkin‟ about that. This is your home, and upstairs is a man who has dedicated his life to looking after you, and you‟re what, going to throw it all back in his face just because someone is spreading rumors? Because some high-up copper from Cardiff is snooping around?” Hugh snorted his derision. “Nothing has even been proved. Can‟t have been, or you‟d already have been arrested. But look at you; you‟re on the run anyway. I‟m surprised, a man like you. You‟ve faced down worse and overcome stuff that would have broken lesser folk, including me. What makes this so different?” Jack just stared at him. He had never heard Hugh come out with such a diatribe before. “I don‟t know,” Jack admitted quietly. “Maybe I just want it easy. I‟m tired of fighting. Fought for the last ten years. Just had enough, I guess. Don‟t have the strength any more. I just… I want to get away.” “Look at what you are letting this do to you first. Nobody knows like I do that women love gossip. My mam was terrible, used to drive my tad round the bend. At least Bronwen isn‟t like that, but all her cronies seem to be. But it is gossip, Jack, bloody idle talk, and daft talk at that. You‟d ‟ave thought they‟d have learned their lesson durin‟ the war, you know? Walls have ears? Careless talk costs lives? But it‟s fallen on deaf ears now the war‟s over. Look, it‟s no good leaving because of some vicious old witch with nothing better to do but slander good people. We haven‟t ‟ad any more stone-throwin‟, so I reckon that was just some little bastard who needs his arse birching. Your taxi‟s ‟ere,” he observed, looking up and watching the car spraying gravel as it came up the drive. “Now, what are you going to do?” Jack frowned. All this was the last response he had expected from Hugh. “What do you mean?”
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“Mean? What are you, suddenly dense or somethin‟?” Hugh shook his head in wonder. “I mean, what are you going to do? Are you still going to leave the best thing that ever happened to you, just like that?” “Hugh… I…?” “Ah, I see, want me to spell it out for you, eh?” Hugh fixed him with an assessing look. “Well, if you go ahead and leave, it‟s not just your life you‟ll be ruining. You‟ll make Ifan‟s a misery and you‟ll upset Bronwen too, and if you do that, you‟ll answer to me because I have to live with both of them. You‟ll never be welcome here again!” He glanced at his watch. “I‟d better be off. Cows don‟t wait for anybody.” “Hugh, before you go… would you do me a favor?” The man regarded Jack for a moment, then smiled and said, “What? You want me to pay the taxi off and send ‟im on his way?” Jack smiled. “Thanks, Hugh.” He paused, and then turned back to the man before he walked out the door. “Hugh? For the record, you‟re way more of a man than I am, and no way are you just a bloody farmer. You‟re a bloody amazing farmer.” Squaring his shoulders, Jack walked resolutely back upstairs. Hugh chuckled and went to pay the taxi.
IFAN woke up with a dreadful tension headache, probably brought on by their fight and not helped by his interrupted night‟s sleep. He rolled out of bed, groaned, and groped for his dressing gown, wincing as his bruised fingers complained at the movement. He opened the connecting door with the express intent of ignoring Jack and heading straight for the bathroom, but what he saw brought him up short. Jack was sitting, fully clothed, on the bed, his bags at his feet. “Jack… what the hell?” Jack looked up, his eyes dull and red-rimmed, as if he‟d been crying. Ifan frowned. Jack‟s left eye was almost closed, and the livid bruise on his cheek stood out in the glare of the ceiling light. “You‟re leaving, then,” Ifan said, voice choked with emotion.
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Jack looked miserable, his eyes glinting with unshed tears as he met Ifan‟s gaze and shook his head forlornly. “I was going to,” he admitted. “Hugh found me, waiting for the taxi.” He sniffed. “Told me how much of a stupid idiot I was, that I wasn‟t being fair to you or to Bronwen….” His voice dropped to little more than a whisper. “I‟m sorry, Ifan.” Then he moaned and gasped out the words between sobs. “How… much… of an… utter fool… have I been? I‟m sorry! I‟m just… so scared. I can‟t face… jail. I can‟t be parted from you like that… and the… the alternative… it‟s too horrific….” Ifan sighed and closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms round Jack‟s shoulders and holding the man to him, stroking his shaking body and kissing his hair. When the sobs subsided, Ifan went to the bathroom and retrieved a facecloth and towel, wiping Jack‟s face and patting it gently dry. Jack winced as Ifan cleaned the graze on his cheek. Ifan let him go and walked to the door, saying, “Stay there, I need to get something for that bruise.” Ifan walked briskly downstairs and picked up the phone. “Operator? Yes, can you get me Dr. Gordon Smith, please?” Ifan gave the number and waited as the operator connected him. “Ifan, are you alright?” Bronwen popped her head round the living room door. “Yes, thank you, ma‟am,” Ifan replied. “I‟ll be with you shortly… yes, hello?” He turned back to the phone as someone began to speak at the other end. “Yes, it‟s Ifan Griffith, at Pren Redyn House. I was wondering….” Bronwen drew back into the living room, leaving Ifan to his phone call. She went to sit by the fire, picked up the morning paper, and began to read, the radio playing a Chopin piano piece she quite liked. “Madam?” Bronwen turned at the voice and smiled. “Ifan, are you alright? You‟re still in your dressing gown?” “Sorry, madam—” “Nonsense, and stop calling me madam. Come in and sit down for a moment. Are you and Jack all right? Hugh said he heard you shouting.”
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Ifan blushed and looked away. “Sorry, ma… Bronwen. We had a disagreement.” “Not what he said when he got back,” she said and cocked an eyebrow. “Said he found Jack about to leave….” Bronwen smiled sympathetically. “Ifan, Jack can be awkward sometimes. He also gets the wrong idea….” Ifan sighed. “I know. Look, I‟m sorry but I really shouldn‟t stay. I have to go find the first-aid box.” “Why? What happened?” “It was unforgivable…. I hit him.” “Ifan? You hit Jack?” She looked at him a little incredulously. Ifan flexed his sore right hand. “Yes… I‟m sorry, Bronwen, I really do need to go. Jack‟s waiting for me. I‟ve called Dr. Smith to come see him. It‟s long overdue. Jack‟s near a nervous breakdown.” “Ifan, before you go, I had a phone call early this morning, from Pwl. They‟ve received six complaints like ours, all identical, same paper, same accusations. He confided something I‟m not supposed to know, so please, I know I can rely on your discretion, but don‟t tell anyone. The mayor was one recipient; you know he has that young man who acts as his secretary. So we‟re not alone. Apparently the letters have all been written on the same typewriter, same pattern, same paper even. There‟s definitely a poison pen out there, and it‟ll only be a matter of time before they find out who it is, Pwl thinks. I dare say it‟s a relief to know we‟re not alone.” “In a way,” Ifan agreed. “Although I‟m not sure the damage hasn‟t already been done.” He got up to leave. “Ifan.” Bronwen stood along with him. “DI Meredith can‟t accuse Jack of doing anything to attract such hate, not when there are other people involved. I want you to know we‟re here if you need us.” Ifan smiled and nodded. “Thank you.” He put as much feeling into the words as he could.
“SIX complaints?” Jack was astonished.
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“Yes, same style of letter, same insults, same paper, same typewriter even.” “So they think they can catch whoever it is…?” “They‟re not sure, but it‟s more than Meredith had to go on when it happened in Cardiff.” “Good. That‟s good, isn‟t it?” “Yes, it is. Hold still.” “Ow!” Jack winced as Ifan applied iodine to the cut on his cheek. “Sorry,” Ifan muttered, stroking his thumb across Jack‟s jaw. “Apparently, one of them is the mayor. He has a young man working for him as a secretary, and they received a similar letter, only you don‟t know that. Pwl Bevan told Bronwen in confidence.” “God, Ifan, I don‟t know what I was thinking last night….” “You were scared, Jack. Meredith faced you with the possible consequences of being caught when we thought we were safe. It‟s all right to be scared, you know.” “Yes, but….” “No buts, Jack, let it go. I‟ve called Dr. Smith, and you are going to see him. This has taken too much out of you. You need his help.” Jack looked into Ifan‟s eyes and capitulated. He had tested Ifan too much already, ignoring the fact that the incident had drained him too. He hid too well behind his butler‟s façade, and Jack had been too self-oriented to see past his own nose. He rested the uninjured side of his face against the familiar chest, against the soft fabric of Ifan‟s pajama jacket, and felt the warmth of his lover‟s body through it. Ifan‟s strong arms wrapped round to hold him close, and Jack realized how appallingly close he had come to losing the man who held him.
“WELL, in my professional opinion, Jack, you‟re suffering from nervous exhaustion.” Gordon Smith sat down on the end of the bed and regarded his patient with a frown. “I gather this is getting too much for you, eh?”
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“I nearly left him last night,” Jack admitted, watching Gordon frown in response. “I said some things I regret, we fought….” “So you didn‟t walk into a wall, then?” “I hit him,” Ifan admitted, shamefaced. “I lost my temper… unforgivable, really. He… Jack said some cruel things….” Ifan reached out and squeezed Jack‟s hand. “We‟re both sorry.” Gordon regarded them both, seeing the troubled looks in both men‟s eyes. “It seems like this situation has put you both under a great deal of strain. I think you need to be aware of the effect it is having on you too, Mr. Griffith. You cannot expect to escape the strain yourself, you know? You‟re holding down a job, you‟re expected to look after Jack as well as the family. Who is looking after you?” Ifan sighed and didn‟t answer. Jack looked down at the bedclothes. “I should have been the one to do that,” he said. “At least, I should have seen what it was doing to him.” “Don‟t chastise yourself, Jack,” Gordon said gently. “Couldn‟t be helped. At least you‟re still together, but you both need to get this into perspective.” “Apparently, Pwl Bevan told Bronwen this morning that they‟ve received six complaints in total, and who knows how many more are out there who are just too embarrassed to admit anything?” Ifan told him. “Only that was in confidence, so we need to keep that quiet… please,” he added, receiving a nod from the doctor. “And you had another letter yesterday morning?” Gordon inquired. Jack nodded. “It was as bad as the first two. We‟re going to drop it into the police station later.” “I‟d be happy to drop it off for you if you wish. I‟ll be going past on my way home. No need for you to come out unnecessarily.” “That would be kind of you,” Ifan answered and went to retrieve it from the nightstand. “May I read it?” Gordon asked.
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Jack paused, looking at him with a frown. “Okay, but you won‟t like it.” Gordon smiled as he took the letter from Ifan. “That‟s not why I want to see it,” he said and took the paper out and unfolded it. He raised it to his nose and sniffed. He scanned the damning words and frowned at the particularly venomous bits, reading the whole thing through twice and then pursing his lips in thought. “Well, I can tell you that you are looking at a reasonably well-educated person, someone who knows their Bible passages too. This was written by someone who must be fairly well-off, middle-class maybe. It was certainly a woman who did the typing, on a decent quality typewriter too. Whoever they are, they‟re used to using it, so someone who spent time as a personal assistant or secretary may be the culprit.” “I thought Watson was the doctor?” Ifan said with a grin, and Jack laughed. “Good point. Since when did you change your name to Holmes, Gordon?” Gordon smiled. “I have studied forensic practices; the police use me occasionally. None of it is hocus pocus, I assure you. Look, the typewriter is good quality. You can tell by the lines of type—they are quite straight, and there are no ink marks on the edges of the paper. The paper is good quality, heavyweight cartridge paper, not cheap stuff. It‟s a good brand. You can see the watermark, there.” He held it up to the light, squinted at the mark revealed by the illumination. “The Bible references are spot on. Someone who went to Sunday school, maybe? The content is indicative of someone who is well educated due to the vocabulary used and the correct spelling, grammar, and punctuation. Education of this type is the prerogative of the middle and upper classes, but you won‟t get someone who is from the upper crust being a secretary, unless maybe during the war. Maybe this was dictated to a personal assistant, we can‟t rule that out, but that would mean an accomplice or accomplices. Someone had to throw the stone, if the events are in fact related. There‟s nothing to suggest either way.” Gordon paused and glanced at Jack over the top of the paper, taking another sniff. “Whoever typed this was a woman. Have neither of you
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smelled the cologne? It‟s faint but it‟s there. I think my wife uses the same one from time to time. And whoever typed it is used to typing. There are no spelling mistakes, no mistakes at all, in fact. Don‟t worry.” He smiled at them both. “I intend to pass my findings along to DI Meredith when I hand this over.” Then he laughed at their expressions. “What? Have I suddenly grown two heads?” “I had no idea of your powers of deduction, Holmes. They are really quite remarkable,” Jack said with a pseudo-cut-glass English accent. Ifan laughed and shook his head. “That is… amazing,” he admitted. “You can tell all that from one letter?” “Absolutely. No tricks, just experience. Objects are like patients: they can tell you things. You just have to know how to ask.” His gaze on Jack was assessing. “You, on the other hand, are telling me everything I need to know. I‟m going to prescribe some sedatives, for both of you, and I want you to use them, one a day for the next week. They‟ll calm you down and help you to relax. I want you, both of you, to rest, stay in bed, read, listen to the radio, chat, anything as long as it isn‟t strenuous. Got that? Mr. Griffith, I am going to tell Mrs. Powell that as of now, you are off duty. You and Jack can get some rest together. Please bear in mind that I said rest, so don‟t overdo it. You know what I mean, Jack.” “Yes, sir,” both men answered simultaneously, then glanced at each other and smiled.
“DIDN‟T I tell you, Jack, running away is not the right thing to do? Didn‟t I tell you that back when Ifan was so ill with pneumonia last Christmas?” Bronwen was ensconced in the sitting room, newspaper on her lap. She looked at her cousin and her butler, both of them in pajamas and dressing gowns, with blankets over their knees and slippers on their feet, looking like nothing so much as a couple of convalescents. They were both taking Gordon Smith‟s orders to heart and getting proper rest. Llewellyn came in with a large tray, served them tea and cakes, and withdrew quietly. He had been more than happy to take over the remaining duties Ifan still performed as butler. When it was explained to him that
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Ifan was suffering fatigue, Rhys had been most vocal in support of his superior and friend. “We have to stick together as a family, a community,” Bronwen was saying. “I have the WI meeting tomorrow night, and they are going to get a piece of my mind. Someone must know what is going on. It‟s their duty to come forward. Mrs. Pritchard is so fond of quoting the Bible at everybody, but she‟s never there when anyone is in trouble. She‟s been here less than a year, came from Cardiff to look after her grandsons, but she thinks she‟s the cat‟s pajamas, and she‟s not the only one either. Community spirit? Pfft!” she muttered dismissively. “Not everyone has your conscience, Bronwen,” Jack said gently. “Well, maybe it‟ll stop now. The papers have got hold of it, have you seen? Whoever is doing this will know the police are investigating.” Jack took the local paper from her and read the headline: “Poison Pen Points Finger at Mayor.” Jack frowned. He scanned the article, which was written with a certain amount of gossip-mongering glee and voyeuristic pleasure. “It‟s saying that the mayor of Swansea has received a poisoned pen letter insinuating a relationship between him and his young secretary, Albert Wilky.” Jack paused. “I know him, he‟s a nice guy. Bit quiet, not unlike you really, Ifan. Met him when I was on that committee for the war memorial last year.” Jack returned his attention to the paper and resumed reading aloud. “The mayor has refuted the claims, immediately reporting the incident to the police, who confirmed a number of similar complaints had been made. Mr. Wilky, 28, who lives with his mother in the Port Tennant district of Swansea, was apparently unavailable for comment. Mr. Wilky served in the Royal Welsh Fusiliers during the war and has twice been decorated for bravery. The police are no nearer discovering who is to blame.” Jack handed the paper to Ifan, who read it and gave it back to Bronwen with a distasteful expression in his blue eyes. “Whoever it is has caused such damage…,” Ifan said gently. “I hope they can live with themselves. I hope you‟ll forgive me, ma‟am, but I‟m going back to bed. I‟m too tired to think straight.” “I‟ll come with you,” Jack offered before he realized what he‟d said. He shot a guilty look at Ifan and mouthed “Sorry,” but Ifan only sighed, and Bronwen smiled.
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said. Jack grinned at him. “I know, but you always tell me to be careful….” “As if you ever listen to a word I say….” Ifan sighed and led the way out.
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TRUTH OR DARE TWO days later, the morning paper reported that “Mr. Albert Wilky, 28, of Port Tennant, Swansea, was found drowned early this morning. His body was pulled from the Tennant Canal after being spotted by a gentleman walking his dog in the early hours of the morning. His mother reported him missing last night at around ten o‟clock when she found a suicide note that her son had left in his room, sparking a city-wide search which proved fruitless. She had gone into his room to wish him goodnight and found the note, which is now in the possession of the police. The young man had lived through the horror of the Normandy landings in 1944 and received the DSO and the France and Germany Star. The Port Tennant Poison Pen, as the anonymous writer has been nicknamed, sent a damning letter to the mayor of Swansea, Mr. Geraint Jones, making lewd suggestions concerning him and his secretary, Mr. Wilky. Mr. Wilky‟s mother, Mabel, 51, refuted suggestions he was homosexual, citing the fact that he was stepping out with their neighbor‟s daughter, Gertrude Davies. Miss Davies was unavailable for comment and was said by her brother to be too upset to talk about the incident.” Jack finished reading and put the paper down. “That could have been you,” Bronwen said angrily. “Or Ifan. A young man is dead because he couldn‟t live with the shame this… this horrible person has cast on him.” “This has to stop,” Ifan said softly. “Surely they can see how much damage they‟re causing.” “They‟re sick,” Jack suggested. “They have to be. No sane person would do this.” “What‟s up?” Hugh said, walking in on them all sitting in the living room. Seeing them so subdued, he said, “All right, who died?” “He did,” Jack said and passed him the paper. “Oh God, not Mabel‟s lad,” Hugh said sadly.
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“Mam was at school with her sister. They lived three doors down. I think Mabel married a docker, but he was killed in the Blitz in ‟41. Bert was her only son.” He flung the paper down angrily. “This bastard has a lot to answer for….” “Language, Hugh,” Bronwen admonished, but her voice was gentle.
“I
CAME to invite you all to the Remembrance Service on Sunday.” Reverend Michael McCullen stood at the door, looking wet and windswept. Llewellyn had let him in, taking his hat and coat and guiding him inside. Bronwen, Jack, and Ifan were just about to sit down to tea and scones in the sitting room. Bronwen immediately ushered the minister to a chair by the fire, which was doing its best to hold back the cold of the November day. He looked the two men over, took in the blankets over their knees and their dressing gowns, and said, “Are you quite all right, Captain? Mr. Griffith? Have you both been ill?”
“Would you get an extra cup for Reverend McCullen, please, Llewellyn?” Bronwen asked, and the man hastened to comply. “I‟m afraid they both got soaked,” Bronwen said brightly before either man could reply, “and they both succumbed to a chill as a result. They‟re recovering, though. That old bike of Jack‟s, it broke down on their way home. They got stuck in the rain and the cold, poor things.” Ifan coughed a little dramatically. “Yes,” he agreed. “Weak chest too, ever since that pneumonia I had a few years ago.” “Oh, that is most unfortunate,” McCullen said with a sympathetic smile. “I shall pray for your speedy recovery. You‟re in the best place, though, bosom of your family, you know? I‟m sure Mrs. Powell is doing a sterling job of looking after you.” He beamed at Bronwen, who smiled back modestly. “Ah, that‟s better,” he said gratefully as Llewellyn handed him a cup of tea. He also accepted a warm buttered scone, slathered with homemade jam and cream. “A sight to gladden anyone‟s heart,” he added appreciatively as he tucked in. “Thank you. Now, how are you all in this stressful time?”
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“We‟re….” Bronwen paused, wondering how much he knew. “We‟re bearing up, thank you, Reverend,” she replied carefully. “How are you?” She could see the tense line of Jack‟s shoulders and the wariness in Ifan‟s eyes. “Actually, I‟m feeling rather strained myself at the moment,” Reverend McCullen prattled on. “The community spirit seems to be a little thin at this present time. I seem to have been required in a supportive capacity quite a lot lately. I‟m sure the person who sent these letters….” He paused. “I assume you know to what I am referring, Mrs. Powell?” Bronwen nodded. “We were just reading about it in the paper. A dreadful business, is it not?” “A dreadful business indeed. I‟m glad this house has been blessed with the Lord‟s protection in this matter. At least you haven‟t been bothered by it, beyond the effect that it‟s having on everybody in this community, that is. You‟ve been doing sterling work with the ladies of the Women‟s Institute, I hear. Well done.” “Thank you. I do my best,” Bronwen said modestly, noting the relief in Jack‟s posture. It seemed McCullen didn‟t have a clue about their involvement in the affair. “I‟m sure they believe in what they are doing,” he was saying. “It is not the right way to go about what they perceive as God‟s work, though. There are many distressed people all requiring my words of comfort and support, and I‟m finding it hard to accommodate them all. However, that‟s why I‟m here, after all. Wouldn‟t want people to think I wasn‟t here for them. Now, could I perhaps persuade you to do another reading, Jack? You always have such a way with words.” Jack smiled. He had let the man inveigle him into doing a reading every year, ever since the first one, just after the war had ended. “Sure, Michael, what did you have in mind this year?” “Oh, tolerance to one‟s fellow man, peace and hope, that kind of thing. This business with the letters has been devastating to the community. Everybody is waiting for the next one. It‟s like a witch hunt. The newspapers don‟t help, and nobody knows who they can trust anymore. We need something to pull us together again. We need some
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inspiring words of hope in a dark world. Especially after young Wilky‟s death. That was most unfortunate.” “How is his mother doing?” Bronwen asked. “Do you know? Hugh was saying his mother used to know her.” “I‟m not sure. She attends the chapel near where she lives, and I haven‟t spoken to the minister there recently. She must be devastated, though. For the boy to have survived the war, only to be consumed by”— he paused, glancing at Jack—“such guilt.” “Guilt?” Jack jumped on the accusation. “That implies the letter was true, doesn‟t it? We don‟t know that.” “Well….” “I think,” Bronwen stepped in at that moment, “we need to see what the police find out. It‟s a tragedy, though. He obviously couldn‟t take the pressure, lies or not.” “Suicide is often the result of a guilty conscience,” McCullen said sadly and then brightened. “I‟ll say prayers for the man, though, despite the fact he took his own life. He must have been desperate, the poor soul.”
“GUILTY conscience? He must have been desperate! He obviously had no one to talk to, no one to listen… poor soul indeed!” Jack railed after McCullen had left. The rest of the interview had left him with a sour taste in his mouth. “Jack, it‟s Reverend McCullen‟s way,” Ifan said gently. “God, that poor man!” They knew to whom he was referring. “You see what we‟re up against? Even if he was innocent, they‟ve condemned him anyway! What the hell do I do? If I speak up, they‟ll condemn me. If I don‟t, what then? Let ‟em get away with it? If I keep my head down and say nothing, I‟m as bad as the letter writer! It‟s like lying by omission. Not saying anything is as bad as being the one who started it.”
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“Jack, you have responsibilities too,” Ifan said firmly. “Bronwen, Hugh, the children… everybody who works here. You are not taking the coward‟s way out by not saying anything. You‟re protecting them.” Jack looked at him. “I can‟t fight for them, I can‟t physically protect them, but I can protect them with my silence, is that what you‟re saying?” he asked thoughtfully. Then he shook his head. “Is that protecting them or making it worse for the future?” He looked into the fire, and the flames reflected in his eyes, flickering in the blue depths. “Fight fire with fire…?” he murmured. “Look, this world we‟re in now is different from the one we had before. It‟s so much scarier. We could blow ourselves to kingdom come so easily, just with the press of a button. We‟re in danger of losing our sanity, our comfortable existence. Two world wars in fifty years, weapons of war that can wipe out cities in one go, makes what we did to Dresden and Cologne and Hamburg look like peanuts….” He sighed. “We don‟t need fanatical idiots like the Port Tennant Poison Pen making life hell at home. We need….” He paused, shrugging. “We need tolerance, we need compassion….” “So tell them that on Sunday,” Ifan said.
“AS MOST of you know, I was a bomber pilot during the war.” Jack stood in front of the lectern to one side of the altar, surveying the assembled congregation. The family was gathered in the church with all their neighbors, all except Mrs. Redfern, who was visiting her sister in Neath. Alice‟s sister, Hannah, had taken over as housekeeper for the weekend in her stead. Remembrance Sunday had dawned bright and clear and cold, and with Jack‟s birthday not far away, he was in good spirits. “I was sent on missions to destroy enemy positions, factories, and cities,” he continued. “That‟s war for you. You follow orders and hope that your superior officers know what they‟re doing. But underneath it all, there is a human cost. Thousands of lives lost to both sides. There is pain, grief, and suffering.” From the front row pew, Ifan watched Jack turn his charm and charisma on the congregation. He spoke easily, confidently. They all knew
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him, though what the present situation had done to color their attitude to him, Ifan had no idea. Not much, if the expressions on the faces of the assembled were to be believed. “The challenge is to retain your humanity, to remember what is worth fighting for and why. Those things are not always easy to remember, nor are they easy to keep hold of.” He caught Ifan‟s eye as he spoke, holding his gaze for a long moment. Jack‟s confidence had been knocked but not destroyed. For a while he had almost been back in that dark place again, engendered by fear and vulnerability. It would always be there, Ifan supposed, hovering, waiting, the dark residue of the effect the war had on ordinary people. Jack had suffered pressures and stresses Ifan had no idea about, had not experienced, things he could only stand ready to combat with love and patience and compassion. Now Jack had something to say, though, he would say it; he had found his voice again, and he would use it to challenge and provoke. The all-consuming fear was gone. Such power both the written and the spoken word holds over you, Ifan thought, spreading rumor, eroding reputations, breaking down confidence, talking you into your death or bringing you to your senses. He recalled the words of the celebrated Welsh poet Dylan Thomas: The hand that signed the treaty bred a fever, / And famine grew, and locusts came; Great is the hand that holds dominion over / Man by a scribbled name. Ifan cast a glance round the assembled congregation, surprised to see DI Meredith in the back pew. He hadn‟t gone home yet, then. It was unclear if he was moved by what Jack said or not. His face was an impassive mask. “My God,” Jack continued, “is the God who can be discovered within yourself. He is not some fantasy, a fairy godmother from a fairytale, someone who waves a wand and magics everything better. He‟s simply the one who holds you, cradles everything you really are, and keeps that safe and makes it possible for you to look out on the world without loathing and despair and fear.” He looked at Ifan as he spoke his next words. “In the darkest places—and I‟ve been there more than once,
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believe me.” He smiled, self-deprecating, and patted his leg pointedly. “In those dark places you might be lost to fear and self-loathing. If you are lucky, others are there to offer hope, compassion, and love. If you‟re not, they cross to the other side of the road. But whatever happens, the strength to overcome the darkness is God‟s presence within you.” Jack turned to the Bible sitting on the lectern, removed the page marker, and began to read. “But the Lawyer, desiring to justify himself, said to Jesus, „And who is my neighbor?‟ Jesus replied, „A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he fell among robbers, who stripped him and beat him and departed, leaving him half dead. Now by chance a priest was going down that road, and when he saw him he passed by on the other side. So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, as he journeyed, came to where he was, and when he saw him, he had compassion. He went to him and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he set him on his own animal and brought him to an inn and took care of him. And the next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper, saying, „Take care of him, and whatever more you spend, I will repay you when I come back.‟ Which of these three, do you think, proved to be a neighbor to the man who fell among the robbers?‟ and the Lawyer said, „The one who showed him mercy.‟ And Jesus said to him, „You go, and do likewise.‟” Jack finished the reading and looked up. He spotted Pwl Bevan with his wife and their two children, Mary and Bryn. There was Gordon Smith, his wife Emily, and their little girl, Sarah. He smiled again and said gently, “Let us remember that we are all neighbors, friends, and family here, not enemies. If the Samaritan can offer compassion and hope to his enemy, we can surely do it for our friends. I for one owe my friends and family a great deal. We owe all those who gave their lives for our freedom a debt we can never repay. On this Remembrance Day, let us find our compassion for the living as a way of repaying the debt we owe to our dead. Find the God within you to lend compassion to those in need.” He said nothing more, just stepped down and walked, with the aid of his stick, to join Ifan and Bronwen and Hugh and the children. Silence followed his departure. Reverend McCullen stepped forward and announced the hymn, “Abide With Me.” Then the “Last Post” was
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played by a friend of McCullen‟s from the local band. As the last notes died, Jack saluted the newly laid plaque on the floor in front of the altar, a tribute to the unknown soldier who represented all those from the community who had lost their lives to the conflicts. On their way out, very many people shook Jack‟s hand, making some appreciative comments. Bronwen and Hugh had invited Gordon Smith and Pwl Bevan and their families back to Pren Redyn House for Sunday lunch and had moved ahead to sort out who was traveling in which car. Ifan and Jack were walking out, Jack leaning on Ifan‟s arm for support as they exited the church. Ifan was back to being his politely reserved self, Captain Ratigan‟s right hand man. Emily was just in front of them, giggling about something with her best friend, Jenny. Suddenly Ifan felt Jack leave his grip and fling himself forward, throwing Emily to the ground. She screamed in fright, and something shattered against the side of the church porch, spraying Ifan and some of the rest of the congregation with shards of stone. He blinked away the dust as a male voice yelled viciously, “Blasphemers! Sodomites! I hope you burn in Hell!” Another missile followed the first, smashing into the archway above Ifan. Ifan grabbed Jenny and propelled her behind him, back into the dim entryway. He saw Mr. Jenkins, the grocer, by the door, shielding his wife and her sister. “Get them back inside!” he shouted. Jenkins took Jenny by the arm and hurried her through, bundling his wife and her sister along in front. Jack was covering Emily with his own body, ignoring the pelting stones. People scattered, husbands sheltering wives, children screaming. Ifan threw up his arm to protect his head from the missiles and dived forward, taking Emily by the arm. He dragged her out from under Jack, got her onto her feet, and hurried her after Jenny, sheltering her as best he could and guiding her into the church and safety. Then he turned back for Jack, who had managed to get himself under the protection of the porch to crouch against the wall. Blood ran down his face from where a shard had hit him. His coat was covered in dust. “You all right?” Ifan asked breathlessly as he, too, sheltered against the wall. “Yeah, I‟m okay. Who the hell is that?” Another stone shattered near Jack‟s head, and he swore, ducking down. Ifan dived forward and grabbed him under his arms and pulled him back through the still-open inner door
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of the church. Mr. Jenkins came forward to help, and both men managed to get Jack seated in a pew. Mrs. Jenkins and her sister were tending the girls, but Emily ran into Jack‟s arms and buried her head in his shoulder, weeping with fright. Jenny was being comforted by Mrs. Jenkins. Ifan took out a clean handkerchief and pressed it to the cut above Jack‟s hairline. He took Jack‟s hand and pressed it against the cloth, silently urging him to hold it in place. Then he turned and surveyed the church, spotting the entrance to the sacristy on the other side of the nave. Without another word, Ifan ran down to the door and turned the handle, satisfied to find it open. Ignoring Jack‟s shouting behind him, he went inside. The room had another door to the outside, which was locked, but Father McCullen had left the big key in the lock, and Ifan let himself out. He was on the other side of the church, and he knew that if he moved round to the right, he would find himself behind their attacker, assuming the person had not moved, of course. It would be Ifan‟s bad luck if he had. Cautiously, just in case he met their attacker head on, he walked through the graveyard, weaving between lichen-covered tombs and even older headstones, keeping his eye on the way ahead. Suddenly he saw a man clad in a black coat with a hat pulled down low enough to cover his eyes crouching behind the war memorial, ironically that of a weeping angel carrying a dead soldier. Ifan ducked behind a gravestone, peering out to judge distance. Ahead of him, round toward the front of the church, he could hear Pwl Bevan‟s voice and Gordon Smith‟s gentle Scottish accent as they tried to talk to the attacker. Stones pelted across the graveyard, one after another, smashing against the church, against other tombs, against the wall. Whoever it was had a seemingly endless supply of missiles. Someone cried out, a woman‟s voice, in pain or fear, Ifan couldn‟t tell. Ifan continued to move from gravestone to gravestone, working his way closer until he could see the back of the attacker not ten yards in front of him. Now what? He stopped to think. If he didn‟t act fast, someone would get seriously hurt, probably already had, but more might follow. If he did the wrong thing, the person might get away. If he… what the hell would Jack do? Damn, damn, damn! Stop thinking, just do!
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Ifan looked around, found what he wanted, and with a deal of care, emerged from behind the gravestone. Ten yards, nine—he crept closer— eight, seven—he drew his arm back—six—far enough. He bowled overarm, cricket fashion. The gravel he had picked up sprayed the area like lead shot, pinging off the gravestones and the back of the person throwing the stone chunks. It stung the unprotected neck below the hat brim but achieved the desired result, causing the assailant to turn toward him in order to identify the source of the counter-attack. The man was met full force with another handful of gravel. This time the stones stung him in the face, while others ricocheted off the stone pile beside his feet. Growling, he lunged, running straight at Ifan. Playground memories meant Ifan remembered all the evasive moves. Ifan recognized the man as he turned to face him, that recognition bringing memories of scuffles in the school playground to the forefront of his mind. Yet now, Ifan Griffith was older, wiser, and very, very angry. This man had dared to hurt the people he now thought of as family. He feinted left and then dived flat, rolling away to come up, he hoped, behind the attacker. The man was crazed, a rock in his fist as he swung at Ifan‟s unprotected head. Ifan took his chance, diving at him in a rugby tackle worthy of Cardiff Arms Park. The man‟s feet flew out from under him, and the rock flew out of his hand. It was too much to hope that he might hit his head on a gravestone as he went down. He stubbornly avoided doing any such thing, and the fight might have been an uneven match—Ifan was by far the lighter of the two, and his attacker was desperate—had not Pwl, Gordon, and Rhys Llewellyn run up to help at that moment. Pwl and Rhys grabbed the man just as Ifan drew back his fist and punched him, hard. “That’s for Jack!” Ifan shouted angrily and swung again. “And that’s for Albert Wilky!” He felt strong hands grab him and wrestle him away; Gordon Smith had to exert all his strength to drag him back. “Dai Pritchard, I‟m arresting you….” Ifan listened as Pwl Bevan listed Pritchard‟s offenses. It was taking Pwl and Rhys all their strength to hold the man until DI Meredith stepped forward and placed handcuffs on him, and then all the fight seemed to drain out of him and he pitched heavily forward. Bevan finished reading him his rights, and Pritchard was dragged back toward the front of the church, DI Meredith following in their wake.
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Gordon exchanged a meaningful look with Ifan, who suddenly felt ashamed of his lack of control. The butler took a deep, steadying breath and straightened his clothes, although rolling around on the wet grass in a graveyard had done nothing for his appearance. He picked a stray twig from his lapel and tried, unsuccessfully, to brush the mud off his trousers. He ran a shaking hand through his short hair, removing a few leaves as he did so. “It‟s all right to be angry, Mr. Griffith,” Gordon said gently, giving his arm a reassuring pat. “You did very well there. Quite the hero, in fact. Hadn‟t realized quite how strong you were, though.” He flexed his shoulders. “I‟m sorry, doctor,” Ifan offered, but Gordon shook his head. “Nonsense. Here, let me take a look at your hand.” He inspected Ifan‟s right hand, gentle fingers examining the extent of the damage. “Hmm, not too bad, considering, although that‟s the second time you‟ve done that in as many weeks. I suggest we get it cleaned up, though, as soon as we can.” He led the way back toward the front of the church, glancing back to make sure he was being followed. When they rounded the corner of the church, Ifan was met with a cheer. Hugh reached to shake his hand but held off and clapped him on the shoulder instead when Ifan indicated his damaged fingers. “Ifan, man, are you all right?” His eyes were concerned, but he was grinning. “You saved ‟em, man, you and Jack, you bloody saved ‟em!” He meant the girls, of course. Ifan nodded. “I‟m fine.” He saw that Emily was in Bronwen‟s arms, her brother hovering protectively behind them. Bronwen looked up, tears in her eyes but gratitude on her face. Everybody was gathered round, offering congratulations and praise. Jenny‟s parents added their effusive thanks to the whole. “All right, all right, give the man some space.” Pwl Bevan shouldered his way through and fended off a couple more well-wishers, Meredith not far behind him. The gray man faced Ifan, his expression unreadable. “Well done,” he said gruffly. “He had us pinned. Normally I wouldn‟t advocate a member
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of the public having a go like that, but… you did well, Mr. Griffith. We suspected Mr. Pritchard was acting on behalf of his grandmother, Elizabeth. She was arrested this morning, and her youngest grandson, Billy, was taken into care, but his elder brother, Dai, went on the run. We currently have her under investigation, but we‟re pretty sure she was the letter writer. She incited her grandsons into becoming the attackers…. Mr. Griffith?” He was studying Ifan carefully. “Are you all right? You look a little pale….” Gordon glanced sharply at him as Ifan leaned back against a nearby gravestone. “Mild shock, I should think,” Gordon Smith offered. “Reverend? Would you, by any chance, have any brandy in the vicarage?” At that moment Ifan saw Jack, propped against the doorway of the church. He levered himself away from his stone support and made his unsteady way across to Jack, forgetting his own situation in his concern for his lover. He parted the dark hair, examining the damage the stone had done. Jack submitted to the scrutiny without fuss and leaned gratefully against Ifan‟s chest. “Doctor?” Ifan called, and Smith came hurrying over. “Jack was hit too. Would you take a look?” Smith examined the cut. “Not deep,” he pronounced, “but it could do to be cleaned up. Come on, I expect Reverend McCullen has a first-aid kit in the house as well as the brandy.” The family ended up seated in a big warm kitchen, enthusiastically invited in by McCullen and his housekeeper, Mrs. Owens, who fussed around like a mother hen. She made hot sweet tea for them all and brought out a plate of cakes and biscuits as well. “Emily was very brave,” Bronwen said as she told the housekeeper what had happened. “She was,” Jack agreed. He was seated near the window as Gordon cleaned the cut and dabbed iodine on it. Jack winced and said, “Braver than me….” Bronwen grinned. “Oh, you‟re a brave boy too,” she said, making everyone laugh. Uncle Jack grinned back at them. Ifan was sporting a bandage on his hand, his skinned knuckles and bruised fingers cleaned and dressed. He was sitting next to Jack, opposite Hugh the elder, a steaming cup of tea in front of him.
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“We‟re very, very grateful,” Hugh said to them both. “Lots of people are grateful to you two today.” “Nonsense!” Jack retorted. “What else could we do? Family comes first, Hugh.” “Yes, but we‟re not Ifan‟s kin—” “Hugh, that is the stupidest thing I‟ve ever heard you say,” Ifan retorted. “You are my family! Bronwen‟s mother gave me a home, you and Bronwen gave me a job, Jack‟s given me purpose. Your children… I‟ve always looked on them as I would my own.” Hugh paused and looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Jack reached out and squeezed Ifan‟s good hand, and Ifan saw Bronwen smiling at him in that way she had, part appreciation, part pride. “It‟s nothing,” he said, suddenly shy of all the attention. “I think you‟ll find it‟s not exactly nothing,” Gordon Smith said, finishing with Jack and washing his hands. Emily handed him a towel. “Damn right!” Hugh exclaimed. “You deserve a bloody medal. Both of you. And you, Jack, don‟t you ever say you can‟t physically protect someone again. You managed very well with Emily here.” “Well, if Pwl and Rhys hadn‟t come when they did, he‟d probably have beaten me,” Ifan protested. Jack remained silent, thoughtful. “From where I was standing, it looked like you were doing a pretty good job of beating him on your own.” Rhys Llewellyn had slipped into the kitchen, Alice on his arm. “There‟s a taxi waiting to take us home, sir,” he said to Ifan. “When you‟re ready, I think the police want statements from everybody who witnessed the attack as well, but Sergeant Bevan says tomorrow is fine, if that is convenient. He is refusing to miss Sunday dinner with you all.” Ifan drew himself up and assumed his butler‟s role again. “Thank you, Llewellyn. If you‟d like to go wait in the taxi, we won‟t keep you and Alice long.” Llewellyn looked for confirmation from Bronwen, but she nodded and gestured for him to obey. He hurried Alice out, and everybody made ready to leave.
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“Bronwen….” Ifan paused. “I wonder should we invite DI Meredith to lunch?” “Ifan, whatever for?” Bronwen was puzzled at Ifan‟s change of heart. Meredith had not endeared himself to either of them. “Oh, I don‟t know, live and let live I suppose. The man has a job to do, a distasteful job sometimes. He can‟t have many thoughtful invitations….” “There you go again,” Jack said gently. “Looking for the best in people. If it‟s all right with you, Bron, Hugh? I‟ll do the honors?” Hugh shrugged, and Bronwen nodded with a smile. “Michael,” Hugh said, “can we invite you to lunch as well?” “Oh, very kind of you, but no, I‟m expected here. My sister and her husband are coming with their children. But thank you, the offer is appreciated. Another time, maybe?” Hugh nodded and shook his hand. McCullen turned to Jack and shook his hand too. “Thank you, for everything. You and Mr. Griffith were heroes today in the truest sense of the word. We can try to rebuild lost trust again, thanks to you.” Jack and Ifan exchanged embarrassed glances and departed as soon as politely possible. “Detective Inspector,” Jack began, limping over toward where Meredith stood talking to Pwl and his wife. “Group Captain?” Meredith turned to Jack and thrust out a hand. “No hard feelings, I hope.” Jack paused, then took the man‟s hand and shook it firmly. “None at all. We came to ask if you‟d like to join the family for dinner? Unless you have other plans, of course.” “I should be getting back to the station. I have paperwork to finish before tomorrow.” “But today is Sunday,” Ifan said, surprised that the man should even suggest working on a Sunday.
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“I‟ll be returning to Cardiff tomorrow, now the case is solved. I‟ll be leaving Sergeant Bevan to tie loose ends up here. Mrs. Pritchard confessed to the letters, and a psychiatrist has confirmed that she‟s not in her right mind. She‟ll be unfit for trial, I suspect, but she‟ll be sent to the psychiatric hospital in Swansea for treatment.” “She‟ll receive the care she needs there, I assume, Detective Inspector?” Gordon Smith queried, and Meredith nodded. “I expect so, Dr. Smith. Anyway, gentlemen, I must be going. Give my respects to Mr. and Mrs. Powell, won‟t you? Thank them for the invitation.” He walked away down the lane.
WHEN they arrived back at Pren Redyn, despite the early hour, Gordon ordered both Jack and Ifan to bed to rest before dinner was served. He wouldn‟t be disobeyed and harried them both upstairs himself. Once in the privacy of their rooms, the three men surveyed each other. “It won‟t hurt either of you to get away for a while now,” Gordon said. “Now this nasty business is on the way to being resolved, I think you both need a break from here.” “Bronwen would never forgive you if you went before your birthday,” Ifan pointed out, divesting himself of his muddied clothes and reaching for his dressing gown. He helped Jack out of his suit and got him comfortable on the bed, pulling the eiderdown quilt over him. “Oh, I‟ll stay for that, don‟t fret. I wouldn‟t deny Bronwen the pleasure, not after she‟s done so much work. They‟d never forgive us if we weren‟t here for Christmas either, but after the New Year I think it‟s time I went back to America,” he said. Ifan just looked at him. “I ought to go see my cousins again.” “I see,” Ifan said softly, fearful that Jack would want to go alone. Gordon looked from one to the other and at that moment saw the depth of love between the two men. Somehow, far from repulsing him, it warmed him. The look that passed between them reminded him strongly of himself and his own wife, Emily. So many times the two men might
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have been parted; so many times they had won through. He couldn‟t find it in his heart to condemn that. “I need you with me too,” Jack said, holding out a hand, ignoring the fact that Gordon was still with them. Ifan twined his fingers in Jack‟s and smiled. “Can‟t trust you to fight your way out a paper bag,” he said with a smile. “Goodness knows what trouble you‟d get up to in America. Can we see New York? Always wanted to see New York.” “So have I,” Jack admitted, and then frowned at the other‟s reaction. “What? Just because I lived there doesn‟t mean I‟ve been everywhere. America is a big place!” “Well, I‟ll leave you to plan your trip,” Gordon said, satisfied they would stay there until called. “I‟ll tell Bronwen you‟ll join us later. I‟ll see somebody comes up to get you. Get some rest, though.” With that warning, he left them alone. Ifan locked their door and climbed into bed, snuggling down next to Jack‟s warmth. “Eventful day,” he said softly, resting his bandaged hand over Jack‟s waist. “Hmm. It‟s not over yet….” “My hero,” Ifan grinned, and Jack huffed a laugh as he was hugged from behind. Relief that the awful situation was almost over was nearly overwhelming. Jack was happy Gordon had insisted they get some rest. Right then he didn‟t want to face his family chattering about what would be the topic of conversation for months. “I was going to say the same about you. You‟re quite the tiger when you‟re riled,” Jack said suggestively, planting a kiss on Ifan‟s lips. “Feisty. I like that.” He took hold of the bandaged fingers and kissed them very gently. “Love you, my beautiful Welshman.” “Rwy’n dy garu di, cariad,” Ifan said gently. “Now get some sleep, Jack, before I‟m forced to use my right hook again!”
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MEMOIRS JACK was at a loose end. Since Remembrance Day, when the whole nasty business of the Port Tennant Poison Pen had more or less come to a head, he had finally been able to relax. DI Meredith had gone back to Cardiff, and the case was solved. Pwl Bevan had told him Meredith was not going to be pursuing his investigations any further. Trouble was, he now had nothing to do, and Jack with nothing to do was asking for trouble. Ifan pushed him to go back to their routine, the same routine they had possessed since the beginning. Even though Jack could walk now, Ifan had seen no reason to stop exercising in the old dairy and going for walks around the estate and drives into Swansea and up to the edge of the Brecons. Ifan had done his best to divert Jack with such physical activity as there was time for, but it wasn‟t quite enough. While on one of their walks, Jack had complained that he was going quietly nuts during the periods of enforced rest while Ifan was busy with other duties. With nothing to actually do except listen to the radio, read the paper, and do the crossword, Jack was feeling boxed in. Ifan had suddenly suggested he begin writing down his wartime experiences. Jack considered it for all of thirty seconds and dismissed it with a shrug and a “Who‟d want to read that?” However, after the best part of a week of going quietly nuts, he‟d gone to the bureau for pen and paper and started writing. Ifan noted that, after lunch, Jack had begun his own routine of pulling some paper out of the bureau and writing for an hour or more, depending on whether he was, as he put it, “on a roll.” Dredging up his memories about the war and about flying missions, he tried not to include anything covered by the Official Secrets Act, which proved a little difficult on occasion, but he persevered. Over the next few days, he produced so many notes he ran out of writing paper and had to ask Ifan to fetch some more from the stationer‟s when he was next in town. Instead of paper, Ifan brought back some notebooks, a new fountain pen, and plenty of ink. As a
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project, it began to take shape, subtly capturing Jack‟s attention and holding it. Reasoning that his memories might be of interest to someone sometime in the future, Jack continued to commit all he could remember to paper. He found he could recall most of the names and the faces of guys he had crewed with. He recalled their outrageous behavior as they tried to outdo each other as they endeavored to forget their concerns. He tried to explain what it felt like before a mission, when everyone was a bundle of nerves on the ground but as soon as they were in the air, those same nerves disappeared. He tried to explain how it felt not to know if you would be coming back from a mission, how it felt to be certain you were going to die. He also tried to describe how flying made him feel, how exhilarating it could be as well as how downright terrifying. He also had to face what he had lost, to finally realize what flying had really meant to him. More than once, Ifan had come upon him to find tears rolling down his cheeks and had stopped to proffer a handkerchief and a few carefully chosen words of comfort, maybe a hand on his shoulder, a gentle squeeze and a pat of reassurance. As long as there was someone to love him and care for him, someone to watch over him, Ifan reasoned that it was probably good for Jack to do this, good to expunge his grief and gain some release from the memories that haunted him at times. There were still times when he would wake from a nightmare, sweating and shaken, occasionally crying out in his sleep. Ifan would gather him close and soothe him with murmured words of comfort or a hand stroking his hair. Sometimes he would want to talk; others he would stay stubbornly silent, refusing to share what his mind had recoiled from. In either case, Ifan offered comfort that Jack never refused, even if he might stop short of revealing the cause of his needing it. When Jack had given the first notes to Ifan to read, his companion had been amazed and read through them all in one evening, learning more about what made Jack tick than he ever had before. Some of the memories were exuberant, full of life and loaded with meaning that few people on the ground would understand. The young airmen had raced their motorbikes along country lanes, got blind drunk in the pub, played tricks on each other, anything to let off steam and forget what they faced. They exasperated the people around them, but they were also treated kindly and
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compassionately. They were told off mercilessly by their commanders on the one hand, yet even they turned a blind eye to some of the antics. Some memories were downright harrowing. Jack had flown over entire cities in flames, burning so fiercely that firestorms were created, where no one and nothing survived. He had seen planes crash and burn, seen the surviving crewmen—victims of the fires—brought out of the wreckage, horribly disfigured. He thought that sometimes the dead were the lucky ones. A crippled plane with its bomb mechanism jammed had limped home only to explode, killing its entire crew when the undercarriage collapsed as they landed. The airstrip had been disabled for a scant twenty-four hours afterward as they removed the wreckage and filled in the crater. It had been all hands on deck to repair it, even the officers lending a hand. After that, all the remaining crews had been told that if it happened to them, they had to bail out over the sea and ditch. Jack had described running for cover as enemy fighters dived overhead on strafing runs, peppering the airfield with machine-gun fire and killing his comrades almost right next to him. And it was rare for every crew to return from a mission. He also described his amazement that he himself had survived, something he obviously felt guilty about considering so many others had not. Ifan learned a measure of what Jack had lost as well as the terrible things he wanted to leave behind. Jack described his desperation at losing his ability to walk and his realization of how easy it was to take the simple things for granted. He hated feeling like an invalid, reliant on others, although he touchingly described how lucky he felt that the others he was reliant on were loved ones, family, people who loved him in return and wanted the best for him. His words were bitter that fate had dealt the blow in the first place but thankful that his worst fears had not come to pass. He was regaining the ability he had been robbed of, although he knew he would never fully be back to how he had been before the crash. He knew he would probably never fly again, and he described how much he missed that lost opportunity, that being a passenger would never quite make up for it. As he read all this, an idea began to form in Ifan‟s mind. The next morning he was on the phone for the best part of an hour, calling the various people who might be able to help him. More than once he put the
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phone down and waited before dialing if he thought Jack might hear. This was his idea, and he wanted to surprise Jack with it. If he couldn‟t arrange it, then nothing was lost and Jack wouldn‟t be disappointed.
DR. SMITH seemed determined to keep a close eye on both Jack and Ifan, calling in now and again over the week after Remembrance Day, ostensibly on flimsy excuses—once to ask if Jack wanted to go fishing on Sunday, once to invite them to tea with himself and Emily, once to ask if he could borrow Hugh‟s book about rose growing—but Jack knew the real reason. Gordon wasn‟t convinced that Jack would not have a reaction to the stress and attempt suicide again. He had only tried the once, so nearly reaching breaking point when he had been sure he had scared Ifan away with his attentions. One kiss was all it had taken to disintegrate Ifan‟s normally composed façade, and Jack had suddenly realized he was facing a bleak future—paralyzed, alone, reliant on others. Back then, Ifan had saved him, showing his true feelings in the process and forming a bond with Jack that had weathered the test of time, but it had proved to the doctor that Jack was vulnerable. As such, he kept a weather eye for warning signs. Jack continued to prove him wrong, though, and eventually, by the middle of the second week, Gordon stopped coming every day. However, that was on the condition, suggested by Ifan as a compromise, that Jack make an appointment for a full medical, which he agreed to with minimal complaint. Bronwen had renewed her efforts on the organization of his party. She had flung herself into it with even more gusto now the immediate threat had passed. The invitations had been sent out less than a week before she began to receive acceptances. Twenty replies arrived by the end of the next week, more than three quarters proving to be acceptances. She intercepted them all, firmly refusing to tell Jack who was coming. She was determined it was all going to be a surprise. The party was to be held at the house, and outside caterers were being called in to be supervised by Llewellyn and their housekeeper, Mrs. Redfern. Ifan had been forbidden to act as butler but was instead to enjoy the party as Jack‟s helper and as his friend.
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“You can play the piano,” Jack had said with a grin, “and fetch me drinks.” Ifan had rolled his eyes and grinned in exasperation. It wasn‟t long, however, before Jack was getting seriously pissed off with everybody. Every time he came into a room, people would stop talking. He knew they had changed the subject, imperceptibly, just before he came through the door. Hugh did it with Bronwen; Bronwen did it with Ifan; Ifan did it with Llewellyn; even the children did it. “Goddamn!” he snapped after the sixth time that week. “Will you stop it already!” “What?” Bronwen and Ifan chorused together. They looked innocently at Jack as he stood in the doorway of the sitting room. “I know what you‟re doing. This party is a better-kept secret than our bombing missions! If the Secret Service could have had you two on the team, nothing would have gotten loose.” He glared at them. Ifan smiled. “Look, Jack, you know you‟re having a party, but we‟re planning things for it. Nothing bad, it‟s your birthday, after all. You should be excited, not grumpy. We don‟t want everything we‟ve arranged to be general knowledge, that‟s all. We want to surprise you.” “Yeah, right. As long as you haven‟t arranged anything embarrassing.” He wasn‟t reassured by the look Bronwen exchanged with Ifan.
“I‟LL be away this weekend,” Ifan said conversationally. “What? Where?” “Can‟t tell you. Official business, need-to-know only, and you, sir, do not need to know. It‟s a surprise.” “That‟s not fair—” “I survived several weeks without you once, when you were in Stoke Manderville hospital. I‟m sure you can survive a weekend,” Ifan retorted. “I‟ll miss you too, in case you‟re interested,” he added.
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“Why can‟t I come?” Jack asked plaintively. “I could keep out of your way. I‟ll stay in the hotel. I‟d be good, I promise.” “Jack, no.” It suddenly felt to Ifan like he was talking to a six-yearold. “Besides, I‟m not staying in a hotel. It‟ll give the game away if I tell you what I‟m doing and where I‟m going. I‟ll call you when I get there to let you know I‟m safe, but that‟s all.” No matter how hard Jack pleaded, Ifan would not back down. He wouldn‟t even let him see him off at the station because that way he‟d know which train he was getting. Ifan was adamant that his surprise was not going to be ruined. “Well….” Jack grabbed him round the waist. “If you‟re going to be away, then you have to give me something to keep me going while you‟re not here, otherwise I‟ll pine away.” Ifan grinned at him and leaned in for a kiss. “Well, we can‟t have that, cariad,” he said gently. “If you‟re not here when I get back, then I‟ll have wasted my trip. It‟s because of you I‟m going.” Jack struck his forehead melodramatically with the back of his hand and swooned onto the bed. “Oh, what have I done!” he moaned. “You‟re leaving me!” Ifan rolled his eyes at the ham acting and grinned. “With a performance like that, you‟d better not audition for The Royal Shakespeare Company any time soon,” he warned. “Gee, thanks!” Jack was grinning as he sat up and crooked his finger at Ifan. “Come on, then, what are you waiting for?” Ifan sighed and smiled. “What did sir have in mind?” “Oh, sir has plenty in mind. If you come here, you‟ll find out.” Jack reached for him and pulled him close, dragging him down to the bed. He proceeded to divest him of his clothes, planting gentle kisses on the exposed flesh he revealed. They were very soon lying naked beside one another, touching anywhere they could reach, fingers playing and exploring. As they leaned in toward each other, their lips met in a gentle caress, which deepened, grew more passionate, fueling their desire. Jack‟s hand slid behind Ifan‟s neck, pulling him closer. Ifan‟s fingers carded through Jack‟s hair, teasing the nape of his neck. Their eyes met for a long look, each man drowning in the other‟s gaze. Then their hands went back
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to teasing the feelings from each other‟s bodies and they lost themselves in each other for a while, enough to make sure Jack would definitely be able to last the weekend without his lover. Although, thought Ifan, knowing Jack, he‟d be able to last about an hour after Ifan had gone before starting to miss him, maybe even less. Better get things organized and get home quickly, then. He smiled. Homecoming would be sweet, though. Jack would probably not be able to keep his hands off him, and that was something to look forward to.
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FLIGHTS OF FANCY JACK‟S birthday dawned bright and clear: a blue sky, fluffy white clouds, weak winter sun shining, frost on the window. He was woken to breakfast in bed, courtesy of Ifan. He sat there, happily munching on a full English breakfast—or rather a Welsh breakfast, as Ifan liked to call it—washed down with coffee. Ifan sat on the bed and handed him a card. Jack put down his knife and fork and opened the envelope with barely suppressed excitement. Inside was a card with an idyllic rural scene, two horses under an oak tree. Inside Ifan had written To my best friend and my soul mate, Happy Fortieth Birthday with all my love, I.K.G. Jack smiled. “Thank you, Ifan,” he said with a grin, putting the card aside. “I hope you know I feel the same way about you.” Jack‟s smile broadened into a full-blown grin. “I guess you couldn‟t give me that downstairs.” Ifan grinned and shook his head, then checked his watch. “Oh, look at the time. I have to make a phone call. Did you want a bath… sir?” he added with a smile, watching Jack‟s answering nod. “Yes, I think I‟d better, don‟t you? A shave and a trim as well? Guess I should look my best….” Ifan smiled at the vanity. “Then look sharp with your breakfast. I‟ll be back in a moment.” When he returned, Ifan went straight to the bathroom and ran the bath, then fetched his barber‟s kit and laid it out ready. He hurried Jack into the bathroom, sat him down, and trimmed the soft dark hair to its usual neatness, the side parting precise and sideburns immaculate. “One or two gray ones there, sir,” Ifan remarked, tracing a gentle finger through the hairs at his temple. “Distinguished,” he said with a smile. “You‟ll go handsomely gray above your ears, I think.” “Don‟t rub it in,” Jack admonished. “I‟m getting old.”
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“Nonsense. Life begins at forty, so they say.” “Well, they can go to hell.” Jack grinned. Once Ifan had helped Jack downstairs to the sitting room, Bronwen marshaled everybody to sing “Happy Birthday” to him. Emily, Hugh— both the younger and the older—Mrs. Redfern, Llewellyn, Alice and her younger sister, Hannah, she had roped them all in. Jack sat there dutifully and weathered the dubious rendition with a grin. He applauded them when they finished and thanked them all sincerely. There was a rather large pile of cards that had come through the post waiting for him to open, but his family‟s cards always came first. In that pile was another one from Ifan. That would be the official version, Jack noted. With a wink at her, he picked Emily‟s card to open first, a bright picture of a bunch of flowers in a vase with I love you, Uncle Jack, Happy 40th Birthday inside. Her present was small but carefully wrapped and obviously well chosen, a pair of cufflinks with a monogram of his initials engraved on them. She blushed prettily when he hugged her and kissed her on the cheek. Ifan noted the reaction and sighed. She was growing up, and her uncle was still an attractive man. It would be no surprise to find she had a crush on him, especially after he had saved her at the church. According to Emily, most of the local girls did have a crush on Jack; he still had his film-star good looks and the manners to match. When everything was opened and the cards examined, Bronwen shooed them all out to their various tasks. Jack surveyed the pile of gifts and felt warm inside and not a little humbled. He picked up the box of fishing flies Young Hugh had given him, apparently tied by the lad himself. He was quite the fisherman, having taken to accompanying his uncle and Gordon Smith on their many trips over the last few years. He had invested both time and effort in his present, which spoke volumes about his regard for his uncle. He admired the a scarf and gloves in RAF blue that Mrs. Redfern had gone to the bother of knitting him, then thumbed through the book about Cardiff‟s history from Alice and Rhys Llewellyn. He gave the blueand-white-striped mug that Hannah had bought him over to Ifan for his coffee. The farmhands had given him a new walking stick, its head fashioned from ram‟s horn. Bent like a shepherd‟s crook, it was decorated with a small, artfully carved red dragon.
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“Your present hasn‟t arrived yet,” Bronwen said to Jack. “I‟ve not had time to go collect it. Pwl promised to fetch it with him this evening.” “Everyone‟s been so generous,” Jack said. “It‟s touching. Never knew I meant to much to them.” “You should by now, Jack.” Ifan gathered the cards and began placing them on the mantelpiece above the fire. There were cards from John Ashley, all of Jack‟s old crew from their bomber, affectionately known as the Shady Lady, four of whom were now married, and a single one signed by all the farm workers. Others had arrived from Clive Davidson, his old CO from Bomber Command; from Pwl Bevan and his wife; Emily and Gordon Smith, and even Graham Grant, Jack‟s doctor from Stoke Manderville, probably prompted by Bronwen. There was a card from Mrs. Davies and Trevor Evans at the post office, Jenkins the grocer, and Gareth and his wife from the pub. The latter had also sent a crate of brown ale. Jack was gratified and reassured to see how many friends he had. After the stress of the poison pen, such reassurances were valuable. Bronwen stubbornly refused to tell him who was coming to the party, though, preferring it to remain a surprise.
IT WAS quite a dance to get Jack out onto the terrace by one o‟clock, just after lunch. Ifan had been subtly checking the clock for the last half hour as they ate lunch, sipping his coffee and wondering when the right moment was going to present itself to encourage Jack to take some air with him. The first part of his birthday present was on its way, and Bronwen, who knew what he was planning, exchanged a glance with him and smiled. Jack was still munching through his sandwiches when Ifan got up a little before one and said, “I need a breath of air, do you mind?” Jack shook his head, gesturing with the remains of his lunch. “You okay?” he asked, talking round his sandwich, mouth still inelegantly full. Ifan nodded. “Yes, perfectly. Join me when you‟re finished, yes?” He opened the French window, and the crisp cold of the late November day struck him. He stepped out and walked into the garden. He surreptitiously
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looked at his watch and then looked up, scanning the skies, hoping the timing was going to be right. There were few sounds but for the wind in the trees, the distant bleating of sheep from the farm behind the house, and the tinselly singing of a robin somewhere off to the right. He took a deep breath and waited. Appearing to casually wander along the terrace, he wandered as far as the drawing room and then walked back, scanning the sky again before Jack could catch sight of him through the window. Suddenly, he heard the distant roar, a throaty hum against the familiar background noises. He walked as casually as he could and tapped the glass to get Jack‟s attention. Jack frowned, downed the dregs of his coffee, and got up, limping toward him, leaning on his stick and making slow progress. He turned to speak to Bronwen, and Ifan cursed under his breath in Welsh, willing him to hurry up. Then the window opened and Jack came out, shivering in the cold. “What‟s up? Are you mad? It‟s freezing out here.” “I wondered if you‟d like a drive into town?” Ifan said blandly, all the while registering the growing noise in his ears. Jack appeared not to have heard and looked blankly at him. “It‟s my birthday and it‟s freezing cold, why would I want to drive into town?” he asked, looking suspiciously at Ifan, his eyes narrowed a little. “I‟d rather spend the afternoon with you, snuggled in front of the fire with a double brandy and Glenn Miller.” “I‟m sure Glenn would be honored, but the fact is, I need to collect your birthday present,” Ifan said apologetically. “It‟s rather too large to fetch without the car….” Jack looked curious, but then he looked up, all at once registering the sound that was growing louder with every passing second. “Ifan? You hear that?” He turned to look up. “Hear what?” Ifan lied, trying to look innocent. “That noise. You hear it? It‟s getting louder….” He stepped closer to the parapet of the terrace, looking up into the sky, trying to work out where the sound was coming from. Ifan crossed to his side and put a hand beneath his elbow.
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“Look, there!” Jack stabbed the air with his hand, pointing above the roof. A black shape was getting closer, lower, its distinctive profile heading toward them out of the clear blue sky. “Oh my God, it is! It‟s a Lanc!” he said, excitement in his voice. “Oh wow! Look at her….” He grabbed Ifan‟s arm to steady himself and bring the man into the excitement with him at the same time. He wanted to share this moment. “Look at her, she‟s beautiful,” he shouted above the noise. The big plane dropped lower, every detail visible, black fuselage making her look even larger. Guns thrust from the turrets and nose; the four Rolls-Royce Merlin engines throbbed in the air; defiance and grace was written in every line and curve of her. The plane flew overhead, less than a hundred feet above them, seeming very low as she swept over. As they watched, the wingtips dipped first one way, then the other in a kind of salute. Ifan was breathtaken by the sight, grinning from ear to ear as Jack fairly fell over himself to take the sight in. Bronwen and Emily shrieked with excitement from one of the bedroom windows, and both Hugh and Young Hugh stood watching from the driveway as the heavy bomber soared overhead and banked round to the left, heading back for Cardiff. Jack turned to Ifan with shining eyes. “How the Hell did you arrange that? That was not a coincidence. No way, no bloody way, Ifan Griffith! What did you do?” Ifan grinned. “You up for that drive now?” he asked, ignoring the question. The drive took them to the RAF airfield near Cardiff. Hugh drove, Bronwen next to him, Jack and Ifan in the back. Young Hugh followed on Jack‟s old bike, with Emily riding in the sidecar. The lad had only recently passed his driving test and Jack was allowing him to use the bike until he could afford a car of his own. They pulled up at the main gate, and Ifan wound the window down and said, “Group Captain Ratigan to see Group Captain Davidson and Wing Commander Ashley. The bike following behind is with us.” He produced his own identity card and the guard saluted and grinned, waving them through. Jack‟s face was a picture. Ifan directed Hugh to park in front of the main building, and they got out, seeing a figure hurrying towards them.
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“Group Captain Ratigan‟s party?” The flight lieutenant saluted, and Ifan indicated Jack, who was standing there looking rather stunned. “If you‟d all care to follow me, Group Captain Davidson is waiting for you.” He turned smartly and walked off in the direction of one of the other buildings, occasionally glancing back to check they were following. They followed at a discreet distance, Ifan allowing Jack to lean on his arm. “Jack, this is the rest of your present. I figured you might want to use it soon.” He handed Jack a small package. It was a camera, already loaded with film. “I figure we‟ll have lots of moments to capture, and it‟s a bit more modern than that old thing of yours.” He grinned at Jack‟s puzzled frown. “Ifan, what have you done?” Jack asked, his voice uncharacteristically anxious. “Arranged something for you,” he said. “Remember I went off that weekend? This is what I was doing.” “Jack! It‟s good to see you.” Clive Davidson, his old CO from Downham, stood in front of the building, a familiar figure on his right, a stranger standing behind them. Davidson shook their hands warmly. “This is Group Captain Miller, he runs things here.” He indicated the smaller man beside him, who took his turn to shake hands with them. “He‟s the one helped me organize this shebang.” Davidson turned and grinned. “And this reprobate you already know!” Dressed in flying gear, John Ashley stood there, a broad grin in place. He dashed forward and hugged Jack to him enthusiastically. The two men stood together for a moment, then broke apart, grinning happily. “How are you, Jack?” John asked, and Jack shook his head. “I‟m fine, apart from feeling as if I‟ve been backed into a corner. What‟s going on?” “Happy fortieth birthday, old man,” Davidson said amiably and smiled at Ifan. “You have a persuasive tongue on you for a Welshman.” Ifan nodded in return. “I try my best, sir,” he said modestly. “Hmm, well, did more than try. Well, there she is, off you go. Don‟t keep them out too long, Johnny, you know the drill,” he said, and John Ashley laughed. “We don‟t want to miss the shenanigans tonight.” He
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clapped John on the back and turned to the rest of the family. “Refreshments have been laid on inside, in the warm, more civilized. You can see the flight from the tower.” He turned away and shepherded the others inside. Jack looked bewildered. John‟s eyes narrowed, and he exchanged a glance with Ifan. “You haven‟t told him, have you?” Ashley said. “Well, you sly son of a—” “Careful, you really don‟t want to insult my dear mother,” Ifan warned, and John grinned at him. “Told me what?” Jack demanded. “Come on.” Ashley started to walk off, ignoring him. “Hang on, told me what?” Jack limped after the man. “Come on and you‟ll see. You need your gear on first, though, both of you.” He led the way to a long low building near the runway. The big black bulk of the Lancaster sat there, ground crew busy refueling. Ashley showed them into a room and indicated the flight overalls, Mae Wests, parachutes, and helmets. “Regulations now, I‟m afraid,” he said. “Hurry up. Just put ʼem on over your clothes.” Jack looked at them both blankly. “Jack, you‟re going up in her,” Ashley said gently. “Ifan organized it for you. Hurry and get changed; we don‟t want to lose the light.” He left them to it. “Ifan?” Jack was holding his flying helmet to his chest as if it were precious. “Jack.” “You did this… for me?” “Seemed like a good birthday present at the time,” Ifan said gently. “You miss it. I understand what it feels like to miss something….” He was engulfed in a hard hug as strong arms wrapped around him. “Will you two old women come on! We have a schedule to keep!” Ashley said from the doorway, and Ifan led the way out. Jack, however, had no idea what awaited him.
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“SHE‟S a ton-up Lanc,” John said, giving the fuselage an affectionate pat as they prepared to board. “She‟s a what?” Ifan was confused. Jack smiled and allowed John to help him climb the ladder into the belly of the plane. “A ton-up Lanc is one that survived one hundred missions,” he explained. “There aren‟t many of those around. This baby has seen her share of action, then?” “And proud of it; she‟s still going strong,” John replied. His threeman crew—wireless operator, navigator, and flight engineer—saluted as Jack came on board, grinning good-naturedly at Ifan as he followed. “Jack, for this trip, I‟m deferring to you,” John said. “Would you take her up, sir?” He saluted. Jack looked horrified. “Johnny, I… you know I‟ve not flown since… since the Shady Lady….” “And you won‟t have forgotten,” he reassured. “This is a training crew. Meet James Harrison, my flight engineer; David Carmichael, our navigator; and Len Sullivan, wireless ops. They‟ve all had more hours in one of these than you or I got before we started raids, so you‟ve no need to worry.” “It‟s not that… I‟m still not as able as I was….” “Look, Jacky, I knew a lass was in the ATA, Molly her name was. She wore bottle-bottom glasses, had a hole in her heart, and one leg was shorter than the other because she caught polio when she was a child. Didn‟t stop her flying Lancasters on delivery runs. You‟ll be fine. I‟ll be your flight, if you‟ll have me.” He winked. “Trust me, you know you can‟t miss this chance, Jacky boy, and I know you can do this.” Jack looked longingly at the pilot‟s seat and back at Ifan. Then he seemed to make a decision and climbed carefully through the fuselage to the cockpit. John helped him as much as he could, then saw to it that he was strapped in before taking the seat next to him, hand hovering by the throttles. Carmichael saw to Ifan, strapping him in, in his turn, making sure he was secure for takeoff. For Jack, the intervening years fell away as he ran through pre-flight checks, flicked the switches, and started the ignition of the starboard
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engines. When all four Merlins were throbbing away beneath them, to Ifan it felt like the plane was shaking apart. “What‟s her call sign, Johnny?” Jack asked. “J for Jack, of course.” He grinned, and Jack called it in, asking for permission to take off. He nosed the plane into the headwind, and she began to roll forward. Ifan, who had never before set foot on a boat, never mind a plane, was terrified and elated by turns. He felt the lurch in his stomach as she lifted, the ground fell away, and the sky through the windows was huge and endless. For Jack, John was with him all the way, but he didn‟t need to remind him of a thing. Jack was back as if the intervening few years had never happened. He was back to being Group Captain Ratigan, bomber pilot, guiding the huge plane through her paces as if he had never been away. Ifan marveled to think that this lumbering black monster was such a graceful swan in the air. He briefly wondered how they stayed airborne, then relegated that to the back of his mind and refused to contemplate how heavy she was and how there was seemingly nothing between them and the ground bar for aluminum and canvas. Once they were airborne, Ifan was helped from his perch, and John offered him his seat next to Jack. He clambered up and sat there, alternately looking out over the wing and back at Jack, who was in his element. Ifan got an inkling then of how much he must have thought he had lost, how lost he must have felt when this joy, for it was a joy, had been taken away from him. He was the competent professional in the sky, just as Ifan was on the ground. Jack‟s eyes were more alive than Ifan had seen them since before the war. His trademark grin was so broad, his eyes shining. He was in control of something he had said goodbye to, and he was flying for the joy of it, not the necessity, not going to war to drop bombs and rain death. He looked at Ifan, and for a moment, Ifan wanted to weep. He had no idea when the thought first struck him exactly what this experience would mean to Jack. Yet here they both were, together, and Ifan was finally catching a glimpse of Jack in his element. This was his world. And what a world! High over the Welsh countryside, rising above the valleys, they flew through the cold sky. They flew over Newport then turned west, seeing the whole of Cardiff laid out below, Penarth and Barry
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and Sully and all the other villages too. As they flew down the coast, following the flight plan Ashley had prepared, Porthcawl and Bridgend slid by, then Port Talbot and Swansea. Tiny trees and pocket handkerchief fields littered this Lilliputian world below, small specks that might be animals peppering the fields. Above them the blue sky was endless, patched with fluffy white clouds. Remembering the camera, Ifan managed some photos of Jack in the pilot‟s seat, although the plane was vibrating so much he was sure they would be out of focus. He photographed the ground below, the sky, the crew, anything he thought might be a good reminder of the day. The plane banked right, and Ifan was aware they were descending. The clouds broke, and beneath them the whole of the Gower Peninsula was laid out below. They came in low from the northwest, and Ifan spotted the Afon Afan river and Afan Valley Road. Jack pointed, and Ifan saw a small collection of buildings clinging to the foothills of the mountains. With a shock, he realized it was Ty Pren Redyn, their home, sheltered by the woodland nearby. He took as many photos as he dared, remembering they still had the rest of the journey home. Another film nestled in his pocket, but he wouldn‟t find it easy to change it in midair. The flight didn‟t last nearly long enough. Compared to the hours that Jack and his crew had been in the air during the war, twenty minutes was a pitiful amount of time for something he loved so much. Yet as they banked into a turn that would bring them in for the approach run, Jack was at peace. He had managed something he had thought lost; he had flown again, and there was hope he might be able to continue to do so. As they came in to land, the Lancaster yawed to the side a little, but Jack compensated automatically, his hands sure on the controls, and they landed a little sloppily but still in one piece. Jack wasn‟t satisfied; as far as he was concerned, he didn‟t think it a good landing. But Ifan did, and John grinned. “Considering you‟ve not been in the air for nearly six years, that was pretty good,” he said reassuringly. None of the rest of the crew seemed at all bothered by it. “We‟re alive, aren‟t we?” Ifan said afterward with his usual dry humor. “That was a good landing, then.” On the ground, Jack was still wide-eyed, thanking the crew for their patience and John for his help. The man clapped him on the back and told
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him he‟d fly with Jack any time and he would see him at the party later. Jack invited the rest of the crew on the spot in grateful thanks. Then he and Ifan took off their flight gear—on Jack‟s part very reluctantly, and not before Ifan had taken a snap of him wearing it—and returned to the main building, where Davidson was waiting for them. He couldn‟t help smiling when he saw them. “If you could see your faces,” he said with a wry grin. “Here, give me that camera.” And he took a photo of them both right there and then. “Gentlemen, you look like you could both do with a drink.” He led them inside to the station commander‟s office. “I hope you appreciate how many strings I had to pull for that one,” Davidson said quietly as they stood together, brandy glasses in hand. “I was praying you didn‟t prang the old girl, or the powers that be would have had my head. I ignored so many regulations for you to do that.” Jack smiled “You did get me cleared to fly, though? I thought I wouldn‟t be medically fit….” “Thank your Mr. Griffith for that one. He asked your doctor to do a full medical assessment, and I got one of ours to sign you as fit. I haven‟t been in the service that long without knowing which strings to pull.” “Thank you, Clive.” Jack raised his glass. “I can‟t repay you….” “Nonsense. You don‟t owe me anything. With Ashley accompanying you, I knew you wouldn‟t go wrong really. Damn it, you could probably have flown her alone, Jack. How many hours did you rack up? Over one hundred missions, wasn‟t it? ” “A few dozen, not sure exactly. A lot,” he agreed. “Enough, maybe.” Davidson smiled and reached to shake his hand. “It was good to see you in the air again, Jack. But you‟d better get gone, or Mrs. Powell will never forgive you. She was fretting about getting back in time for the caterers.” He drained his glass and showed them out. “I don‟t want to get shot for ruining your party. Formidable woman, your cousin. I‟ll see you tonight.” “You‟re coming to the party?” “Of course, wouldn‟t miss it.” He escorted them to the waiting car. “I‟ve sent Hugh and Emily ahead of us to head the caterers off at the pass,” Bronwen was saying. “We‟ve not such a rush, then.” She looked at
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them both and grinned. “It was obviously worth it, to go by the looks on your faces,” she said, and Ifan just nodded. On the way back, Jack spent a long time staring out of the car window. His thoughts were obviously elsewhere. Ifan was smiling, relieved and content he had managed to pull that little stunt off. When he thought of what might have gone wrong, including the chance that he might have been airsick…. He put the thoughts out of his mind. It had gone perfectly. They got back with hours to spare, but Bronwen ran off to change and get things organized. Jack and Ifan retreated to their room, ostensibly so Jack could rest. Once inside, though, he pushed Ifan up against the door as soon as it was shut and locked behind them. Ifan found himself thoroughly kissed. When they broke for air, Jack was looking deeply into Ifan‟s eyes. “I can never, ever express how much you did for me today,” he said huskily. “I can never repay that. It was just… magical.” His eyes were wide and, as Ifan watched, brimmed with tears. Ifan grabbed him into a hug and rubbed his back. “Thank you, thank you so much, Ifan. So damn much… I don‟t deserve you….” Jack hung on as Ifan held him, burying his face in his lover‟s shoulder. When Jack pulled away, he saw the broad smile on Ifan‟s face. “I‟m only glad it worked,” Ifan admitted. “So much might have gone wrong. Davidson is a good man. He was really enthusiastic when I rang to ask him how we could do this, but it needed so many people to agree to it and then to plan it, I began to wonder what I‟d started. John Ashley agreed to help by scheduling a training flight down here for his new crew and combined it with coming to your party. Clearing you to be medically fit to fly was a little sticky, but I asked Gordon for his help. He asked you to come for a full medical and then sent the details to the RAF doctor Davidson knew, and he put it through quickly.” “You are a miracle worker, Ifan. I said so once, and you‟ve done it again.” He leaned in and kissed his lover again, one hand working his tie loose. He paused to carefully remove the pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket and then laid it on the bedside cabinet, mindful that it had belonged to Ifan‟s father and his son treasured it. Then he assaulted Ifan‟s waistcoat buttons. Eyes shining, Jack proceeded to slip the waistcoat off and went to
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work on the shirt buttons. Ifan stood quietly, his hands resting gently on Jack‟s waist, allowing him to savor the opportunity. After slipping Ifan‟s braces off his shoulders and popping open his trouser buttons, Jack peeled his shirt back and kissed the warm flesh of his neck. Ifan gasped and grabbed for Jack, gripping his shoulders. Jack kissed his collarbone, nipping and biting, reveling in the taste and texture of his skin. They shed the remainder of their clothes, both eager to make as much use of the next couple of hours as they could. They ended up on the bed, hands roaming, touching everywhere, lips exploring each other‟s bodies like it was the first time all over again. “You‟re a beautiful man,” Ifan said softly, his voice seductively husky. “Outrageous but beautiful, and what‟s more, you‟re mine.” He kissed Jack‟s chest, his nipples, his mouth, savoring every touch of his lips against the warm flesh. Jack moaned softly and pushed his hips against Ifan‟s. Their erections rubbed against each other, tantalizing. Ifan reached down and grasped them both together in one hand, rubbing gently. This elicited another moan from Jack, and his eyes closed. Ifan continued to rub gently, watching Jack‟s face. He would never ever get tired of watching those expressions. Ifan let him go and shifted his weight to sit between Jack‟s legs, moving his hand. Blue eyes locked together, gazes intense with need and love and…. Ifan smiled. Jack‟s darkblue eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, and his little gasps and moans as his lover‟s fingers played, rubbing and teasing, made Ifan tremble. Ifan bent forward, and his mouth sealed over the first inch of Jack‟s cock. His tongue swiped across the tender flesh, eliciting another moan. He sucked hard, feeling Jack‟s hips lift to meet him, hearing his ragged breathing. He opened his mouth, allowing more of Jack‟s length to slide into the warm wetness, and his cheeks hollowed as he sucked hard against him. Jack still preferred to be on the bottom, even after so much mobility had returned to his legs. He still had trouble with maneuverability and preferred Ifan to be the one on top, a position Ifan was happy to fill. They would spoon, Jack behind him, but more often than not, it would be this way, Ifan buried inside Jack‟s welcoming body, Jack‟s legs wrapped wantonly around his hips as Jack gasped and arched and moved.
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It was all Ifan could do to remain silent sometimes. The odd small cry or moan was not a problem—at least neither of them was particularly noisy—but sometimes it was hard to suppress a cry of joy or a moan of surprise or delight. Yet they had to maintain their secrecy. Bronwen and Hugh might know about them, but their children and the rest of the staff did not, and Ifan was all too aware that they could not relax their guard. Even with the immediate threat behind them, they still had to take care. Right then he was having difficulty. Jack‟s responsive body beneath him, his own spiraling desire, and the soft throaty moans escaping Jack‟s mouth only added to the whole experience. He growled low in his throat, feeling the powerful grip on his body begin to take him over the edge. Suddenly, Jack came hard, spilling his seed across his stomach, pooling in his navel. The sight was too much for Ifan, far too arousing to know it was his actions that caused Jack to do that. His climax was so intense he almost lost consciousness—so good, so exquisitely good. They slept for a couple of hours entwined in each other‟s arms, but Ifan had set the alarm clock, and they were getting ready long before Bronwen knocked on the door. “Jack? Are you awake?” she called. Ifan opened the door to her. He was fully dressed, for once not in his butler‟s clothes but looking very dapper in a gray three-piece suit that fitted him perfectly. It was offset with a dark red tie, and she caught herself staring. “Ifan, you look… very nice.” He looked more than nice, she thought, standing there confident and tall, smiling at her. He was very handsome, and she found herself thinking that her cousin was a very lucky man. “Thank you, madam. We‟ll both be down soon. Jack is in the bathroom.” “I came to tell you John Ashley has arrived with his crew. You might have told me Jack invited them too.” Ifan immediately looked contrite. “I‟m so sorry, Bronwen. I thought Jack had said something….” “No, he didn‟t.” She sighed and shrugged. “We‟ll work around it, we always do. It threw me a little, that‟s all. It‟s a good job we‟re not having a sit-down do, isn‟t it?” She smiled, a little exasperated but undaunted.
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“I really am sorry,” Ifan said sincerely. “He would have told you, but I think he was a little dazed.” “Not surprising, really. It looked fantastic from the ground. Just to think he used to take them up every day….” “He really, really enjoyed it. I‟m so glad it worked.” Bronwen grinned. “It worked, all right. I‟ll leave you two to finish dressing. Come down when you‟re ready.” She left to go back to being hostess. Jack limped into view, straightening his tie. “John Ashley and his crew are here,” Ifan told him, and Jack smiled. “Was Bronwen angry because I didn‟t tell her?” “Exasperated, not angry,” Ifan said. “She‟s all right about it. She knows you too well, Jack. I don‟t think she was that surprised.” “Would you play the piano for me later?” “Sure, if you really want me to, but I would ask Bronwen too. Don‟t leave her out.” “Okay, I hear ya,” Jack grinned. “She can play as well. Why don‟t you do a duet?” “What do you think this is? The concert hall?” Ifan stepped close and adjusted Jack‟s collar and tie. “Hmm, full Windsor, I‟m impressed,” he said, straightening the knot. “I learned from the best.” Jack leaned in and kissed him, lingering. When Ifan complained, Jack said, “What? This has to last me all evening….” Laughing, Ifan pushed him out of the door.
THE guests had already begun to arrive by the time they got downstairs. There were neighbors from the next farms and some folk from the village who were old family friends. John Ashley and his crew were already there, and they had brought Clive Davidson with them.
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John presented Jack with a bottle of whiskey. “Thought this was as good as anything. I‟m useless at picking presents for people,” he admitted, and Jack grinned and promised to share it with him later. Gordon and Emily Smith arrived soon after, closely followed by a taxi bearing five men who jostled each other to be the first to get out. “Oi! Watch your elbow!” “Mind your foot, Davie!” “Adam! Give it a rest—” “If you hadn‟t put weight on, Charlie—” “Watch it, sprout— Jack watched incredulously as Bernie Finch, Adam Grey, Davie Glover, Charlie Cayhill, and Tommy Malone all tumbled out onto the gravel drive and stood looking around them at the big house. “Guys?” Jack said from the door, then found himself engulfed by them as they dived at him, throwing their arms round him and mussing his hair and slapping him on the back in affectionate welcome. Ifan cleared his throat and intervened, receiving one or two back slaps himself as he took their coats and bags and ushered them all in as they chatted animatedly, trying to cover several years‟ news in the space of minutes. A half hour later, Ifan called Jack into the hall again as Dr. Graham Grant dropped his case on the floor and looked around him appreciatively. He grinned when Jack arrived to greet him. “Graham!” He grabbed the man into a hug and shook his hand. “Great to see you.” “Look at you.” The doctor gave him an appraising look. “You‟re come a long way. You‟re looking good, Jack.” “Not so bad yourself. How‟s things?” “Never better; we‟re doing great work. Look, Mrs. Powell invited me to stay the night—” “You stay as long as you want, Graham, you‟re very welcome. You‟ve a long way home otherwise. We‟ve plenty of room. It‟ll be good to have you stay for a few days.”
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JACK was singing his heart out again, twirling Bronwen round and crooning to her, making the audience laugh. She played up to it, making eyes at him, fluttering her eyelashes and pouting until her children—not to mention the rest of the audience—were in stitches. “„Whether near to me, or far … It‟s no matter, darling, Where you are, I think of you, Night and day….‟” He caught Ifan‟s gaze at the finish as he pulled Bronwen close for the finale. Jack conveyed with his eyes that the words in the last verse very much applied to how he thought of Ifan. Applause erupted, and when Jack acknowledged Ifan as his accompanist, he stood briefly and took a bow as well. Then Ifan struck up with something that made Jack laugh. He waited as Ifan played an introduction, and then launched into it. He leaned on the piano, miming actions to the lyrics, entertaining his audience just like he had in the old days before the war had done its damage. As he played, Ifan was vaguely aware that the telephone in the hall was ringing, but thought nothing of it. Presently, he saw Llewellyn appear at the door, locate Pwl Bevan, and make a beeline for the man. The butler whispered in the policeman‟s ear, and they both went out of the room. Ifan carried on playing, willing Bronwen to look up and see, but she didn‟t, so intent was she on Jack singing. “„The world has gone mad today, and good‟s bad today,‟” Jack sang as Ifan caught sight of Llewellyn coming back in again. This time he went straight to Hugh, who cast a look at Ifan and rolled his eyes towards the door. Ifan nodded subtly and carried on playing. Jack was on the final verse. “„If Mae West you like, or me undressed you like….‟” Jack caught Ifan‟s eye at that moment, and Ifan was hard-pressed not to blush. He
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played to the end and then weathered the clapping and leaned in to whisper that he needed a drink and asked Bronwen to take over the playing. He left as she struck up another Cole Porter number.
HUGH, Pwl, and Rhys were standing together in the hall, and they fell silent as he came through the door. “All right, gentlemen, what‟s wrong?” Ifan asked and received an uncomfortable look from Pwl. “Rhys here took a call from the station for me a few minutes ago. Billy Pritchard, the younger grandson, the one we think threw the stone at Bronwen, he‟s escaped.” Pwl sighed. “Seem to like throwing stones, that family. He was sighted by a constable running away from Port Talbot toward the Afon Valley Road, but when he followed, he lost the boy. He telephoned the station about twenty minutes ago. They‟ve had the cars out, but so far, they‟ve drawn a blank. They just called me in case he was heading here. The constable thought the lad was armed with some weapon. He was carrying something, but the officer couldn‟t see what it was.” “Do you think he could be headed here?” Ifan asked. “I don‟t know, but we can‟t rule it out. I‟ve asked the station to send a car up here, just in case.” “Surely he can‟t be much of a threat. He‟s only young,” Rhys Llewellyn commented. “He‟s thirteen years old,” Pwl replied. “More than old enough to know what he‟s doing. He was a troublemaker at school, in and out of Borstal since he was ten. He‟s never had a decent father. Grandmother took him under her wing last year.” “A lost cause?” Hugh was skeptical of Borstal prisons. “I‟ll go and get a few of the lads out and back into the farm. We‟ll patrol until your lot arrive,” he suggested and went back in to the party. Llewellyn went back downstairs to the kitchen to make sure Mrs. Redfern, Alice, and her sister, Hannah, knew. “I‟ll stay here,” Pwl said, heading for the front door. “I‟ll watch for our lads arriving.”
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“I‟ll go tell Jack—” He was interrupted by a loud bang and screams from the kitchen.
HUGH responded to the noises first, darting out of the drawing room to see what was wrong. He stopped dead on seeing Pwl and Ifan staring back at the door that led to the kitchen stairs. “That was a gunshot! Get everybody back inside the room!” Pwl ordered, and Hugh pushed those few who were trying to see what was happening back inside. “Evacuate the women and children to a safe place if you can,” Pwl added as the door to the stairs opened and first Hannah, then Mrs. Redfern stumbled out, both sobbing and whimpering. Mrs. Redfern almost collapsed as she came through the door, and Hannah grabbed onto her and helped her to a seat. They were followed by a ragged figure who had Alice in a choke hold, one arm round her neck, the other holding a gun to her head. Tears were streaming down her face. “Get away! Move!” Billy Pritchard screamed as they emerged into the hall. Ifan threw caution to the wind and went to help Hannah with Mrs. Redfern, who was swooning. “Oh God, Ifan…,” Hannah wailed. “He‟s shot Rhys.” Ifan looked horrified as Billy eyed them all in front of him, menacing them with the gun. “Where is he?” he demanded. “Where‟s Jack fucking Ratigan? Where are you, Captain bloody Jack!” he shouted, waving the gun at Ifan. “You, go get him. I know you, you‟re his little queer shit. Go get him before I kill her!” He pressed the gun to Alice‟s head, and she whimpered. Ifan squeezed Hannah‟s hand reassuringly and stood up, his eyes on Billy all the while. He walked slowly to the drawing room door, opened it, and went inside. All eyes turned toward him. “Jack,” he said. “He wants to speak to you.”
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A SHOT IN THE DARK “WE ARE not leaving you to the mercy of that little shit!” John Ashley said firmly. Ifan had quickly filled them in on what he knew, and then the women and children were led outside to safety through the terrace windows by some of the menfolk. The doctors went with Hugh and a couple of his farmhands in case there was anything to be done for Rhys. They could get into the kitchen by the back door. Jack and Ifan were left alone with Clive, John, and the rest of Jack‟s crewmen, all of whom were refusing to leave. Ifan looked at Jack. His heart sank, even as he knew what Jack‟s response would be. “Jack, you can‟t!” “Ifan, I must!” Their words collided in the silence. “He‟ll kill you.” Ifan was alarmed. “He means business, Jack, he‟s already shot Rhys.” “If I don‟t, there‟s a good chance he‟ll shoot Alice as well and possibly Hannah and Mrs. Redfern. I can‟t take that chance.” “He‟s a killer—” “He‟s a scared kid.” Jack paused. “Trouble is, they‟re the worst.” “Jack.” John Ashley stepped forward. “Jack, you must do what you feel is right.” Jack sighed. “I know, John, but I‟m damned if I know what that is right now.” “Then we both go.” The words were out of Ifan‟s mouth before he could stop them. “Ifan, no! It‟s me he wants. There‟s no sense in putting us both in danger.” “Jack, you know my feelings on that one.”
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“Ifan….” Suddenly there was nothing more to say. Jack grabbed Ifan into his arms and planted a desperate kiss on his lips. Ifan froze, and then for the second time in ten minutes he threw caution to the wind, his own arms coming up to hold Jack to him. Melodramatic as it might be, Ifan knew that if things went wrong, if this was to be their last contact, he wanted Jack to know how much he was loved, despite what others might say. Jack broke the contact and focused on the men standing behind them. John had a smile on his face, Clive was watching impassively, and of the rest of Jack‟s former crew, only Adam and Charlie wore expressions that were anywhere near surprised, and even they shrugged when Jack‟s eyes fell on them. Bernie met Jack‟s gaze with his own frank one. “You knew?” It was Jack‟s turn to be surprised. “Guessed as much.” “And it doesn‟t bother you?” “What, that you‟re queer?” Bernie was dismissive. “It never got in the way of you doing the job, Jack, and you never tried anything on with any of us. You‟re a ton-up yourself. You survived over one hundred missions and more than three tours. You could have taken a desk job after each one, stayed safe, but instead you signed on again.” Bernie sighed. “If you hadn‟t signed up for a new tour each time, we might not be around now. Your flying brought us home that night, our last mission together, remember? We went through hell and back together and we still would, wouldn‟t we, boys?” A chorus of agreement met Jack‟s ears. He felt both humbled and honored by it.
“WHAT‟S keeping them?” Billy was getting more and more agitated. “You!” he waved the gun at Mrs. Redfern, who uttered a little cry of fright. “Get in there and tell ʼem to hurry.” “I‟ll go…,” Hannah began bravely, but Billy shook his head. “She goes!” he ordered. Shaking and flustered, Mrs. Redfern did as she was told, helped to her feet by Hannah, and she staggered to the door
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under Billy‟s watchful gaze. She almost fell through it into Jack‟s waiting arms. She turned a tear-stained face to his as he guided her to a chair. “He wants to know where you are,” she said shakily. “It‟s all right, I‟m going to go talk to him—” “Oh no. No. Oh dear….” She was distraught. “You can‟t….” She couldn‟t bring herself to say it. “He has a gun, he‟ll—” “I have to.” Jack‟s voice was calm but insistent. “For the sake of Alice and Hannah. Don‟t worry. We‟ll rescue them.”
IN THE hall, Pwl faced Billy down and tried to reason with him. “Billy, if you harm Alice or Hannah, the consequences will be dire. It‟s not worth it. Now, what is it you want?” “He did this to me!” Billy cried, waving the gun around again. “I did what I was told, I was a good boy, my gran said so! Now she‟s banged up and so is my brother and I‟m in for it too! I won‟t go back to Borstal, you hear me?” “Billy, if you kill Alice, there‟ll be no Borstal, you hear me? You‟ll hang. Come on, lad, don‟t do it. Don‟t let it get that far….” Pwl held out his hand for the gun. “Give me the gun, Billy, before the police arrive, then it‟ll go better for you—” “Too bloody late!” the boy swore. “I shot the other one, and he‟s dead already, so in for a penny, in for a pound!” The door opened and a group of men emerged, forming a knot in front of Jack, who was the last to come out, hobbling awkwardly, leaning on Ifan as much as he was leaning on his stick. “What‟s this?” Billy demanded. “What the hell is this?” Bernie folded his arms across his chest and fixed the boy with a defiant glare. “If you want Jack,” he said, “then you‟ll have to go through us, but by my calculations, you‟ve only got five bullets left, and there are eight of us. You‟ll not be able to get all of us, so you have a choice. You
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can give up the gun now, and no one gets hurt. Or you can choose to shoot and we will still get you. Now, what‟s it to be?” “I‟ll kill her first.” He menaced Alice with the gun again. “Which leaves you four bullets. Are you good at maths, boy?” Bernie demanded. “Jack is our friend,” Charlie added. “He saved our lives, and if you think we‟d abandon him to a little snot like you, you‟ve another thing coming—” “Where are you, Ratigan, you coward!” Billy shouted. “Hiding behind your mates! Why don‟t you come out and face me?” A hand appeared on Bernie‟s arm. “It‟s okay, guys. I‟ll take it from here.” Jack‟s voice was quiet, calm. He turned to Ifan. A fleeting look of panic crossed Ifan‟s features, swiftly replaced by a sorrowful acceptance. But Ifan would not let him face his accuser alone. Together, they stepped out from behind the protective wall of men. During the war, between missions, there was an air that men sometimes had about them when they knew their time was up. John Ashley recalled it only too well. It happened to the best and the worst, the extroverts and the reticent ones. A man would be fine one night and then the very next he would change, and it would go one of two ways. Some would be ghost-like and gray, nervous and clumsy, almost lacking the vitality that normally invigorated them. Some would be serene, calm, accepting the inevitable and ready to do their duty. The former would withdraw into themselves and refuse to join conversations. Conversely, the latter would laugh and joke with their friends, share a pint, write to their loved ones and tell them how much they loved them. However it took them, that look meant one thing. They would not return from their next mission. All through the war, Jack had avoided either look, but now he was serene, calm and accepting, ready to do his duty and John was suddenly very, very afraid for his friend. “I‟m here, Billy. Let Alice go and we can talk….”
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TIME seemed to stand still. All Jack could see was the dark mouth of the gun pointing at him. He was aware of Ifan behind him, of Alice, helpless in Billy‟s grasp, of Hannah on a nearby chair. He was mindful of the men standing near him, so willing to put their lives on the line to protect him. He was also conscious of the fact that there was no way he could move fast enough to stop the boy from pulling the trigger. The last time he had faced a gun like this, he had been holding it himself. That fateful night on the terrace when Ifan had returned early from a family outing and found him ready to take his own life, he hadn‟t been able to face living with his disability and the loneliness it engendered. Ifan had saved him then, declared his love for the man he had volunteered to care for. At least, Jack thought, I can save him in return. I can put myself between him and the bullet. Billy blanched but lifted his chin. “Go on, lie to me, Ratigan, lie to me, tell me my gran had it wrong!” Billy goaded. Jack said nothing, simply carried on gazing at Billy. “You can‟t, can you? You bleeding can’t!” Billy screamed, sobbing as he did so. He stepped forward, menacing them again. “She told me to tell you she hopes you burn in Hell!” he shouted, red in the face with fury. He stepped forward again, coming closer, dragging Alice with him and forcing Pwl back as he advanced. “I hope you rot!” “Billy, this is between you and me. Let Alice go,” Jack urged, looking into the lad‟s eyes. “It won‟t do you any good to hold her hostage. We can talk—” “I‟m not talking to you, you sodding queer! I want you dead!” he snarled, bringing the gun up. “And it‟d be more than you deserve!” “Billy.” It was Pwl, calm and quiet. “Billy, this is no good, lad. Your grandma was a good lady, but she was wrong about the people she sent those letters to.” “My gran was never wrong!” he yelled angrily. “She said people would say that about her and I shouldn‟t listen! I won‟t listen! You don‟t know anything, you stupid copper!” He went back to menacing Jack and Ifan. “She wanted you all dead, all of you queers!” He waved the gun
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around again, then steadied it, aiming it at Jack. “I‟m going to kill you, Ratigan, you and that pretty boy you call your butler….” The door behind Billy swung open noiselessly. Ifan silently praised his father for teaching him to oil it regularly. The elder Griffith wouldn‟t have any door make a noise to annoy the Master and Mistress. Ifan had scoffed at this quirk to begin with, but he had eventually come to realize it was all part of the attention to detail his father possessed. Ifan had continued to perform the service after his death as part of his cleaning duties. Now he had good reason to bless the attention to detail that had marked Emlyn Griffith as an excellent butler as Hugh appeared silently through the door and crept forward. A door to Hugh‟s left opened, and one of the farmhands padded in from the library. “Drop it!” Hugh ordered, shoving his shotgun into the small of Billy‟s back. At the same time, Bryn Jones—Hugh‟s right-hand man—stepped to the side and leveled his gun at Billy‟s head. The boy‟s eyes, fearful and wild, rolled to look at him. “Drop it, son,” Jones said gently. “This is a mortal sin, Billy, lad. The Good Lord wouldn‟t want you to break one of his commandments, would he? Thou shalt not kill, remember?” Billy froze. “I‟m justified! My mamgu said… Leviticus 20:13: „and if a man shall lie with a man as he does with a woman, they shall both be put to death.‟ My mamgu said…,” he repeated, struggling to reconcile his grandmother‟s doctrines with the commandments. “I‟m dead already,” he whispered despairingly. “I already killed that man downstairs….” “No, you didn‟t.” The gentle voice belonged to Gordon Smith, who had come up the stairs from the kitchen. “You‟re lucky, Billy. Rhys Llewellyn is still alive—” “You‟re lying!” “You shot him in the shoulder. A lot of blood, but it wasn‟t fatal. Look, Billy, it‟s me, Dr. Smith. I saw you born, lad. I treated you for all sorts of things as you were growing up. Remember when you broke your arm? You climbed up a tree to save that cat, remember? Brave thing to do, you were only six. Come now, have you ever known me to lie?” “No….”
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“Come on then, Billy.” Smith approached carefully, reaching out as he did so. Very carefully, he moved closer, inch by inch, talking quietly all the time. “This is no good, Billy. Bryn is right, it‟s a mortal sin to kill, but you haven‟t done that yet.” He closed his hand over the gun barrel and said, “Give it to me, Billy. You won‟t be hurt. On my word, come on now.” Billy sobbed and released the gun, letting Alice go and falling to his knees. Immediately Pwl was on him, dragging his arms behind his back, producing handcuffs from his pocket and shackling the boy. Alice collapsed, sobbing, into Mrs. Redfern‟s arms. Gordon handed the gun over to Pwl and met the policeman‟s gaze with his own for a moment, silently appealing for moderation. Pwl stepped back a little, and Smith‟s fingers ruffled the boy‟s hair gently. Then he came back to the present, nodded, and disappeared back down the kitchen stairs.
A COUPLE of hours later after all the guests had returned they were all sitting round the drawing room in various states of collapse. The police had arrived and removed Billy into custody again. An ambulance had taken Llewellyn and Alice and Mrs. Redfern to hospital, accompanied by Gordon Smith. Pwl Bevan had gone back to the police station. Jack was sitting staring out the window, looking gloomy. Bronwen was sitting with Hugh and Young Hugh and Carys, Pwl‟s wife. The two Emilys, elder and younger, were huddled together near the fire playing draughts. John Ashley and Clive Davidson were playing chess on the far side of the room, surrounded by the crewmen, both ex- and current, most of them downing beers and trying to remain cheerful. Suddenly, the door opened. Into the gloom strode Ifan carrying an ice bucket, followed dutifully by Hannah bearing a large silver tray laden with glasses. “Before you say it,” Ifan said gently, setting the bucket and its contents down on the table, “I know I wasn‟t supposed to assume any duties tonight, but I am afraid I need to step into the breach. With your permission, madam,” he addressed Bronwen, “I‟ll assume Llewellyn‟s duties until further notice.” Bronwen glanced at Jack but got no response, so she nodded weakly. “My first duty is to inform you of a phone call. Dr.
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Smith called from the hospital. Llewellyn is out of theater, he‟s awake and he‟s doing well. The injury wasn‟t life threatening. Alice is fine, and apparently the good news is that they‟ve set their wedding date.” He grinned and continued, “We haven‟t toasted you yet, Jack. As it‟s still your fortieth birthday”—he checked his watch—“even if only just, I am not allowing these events to completely mar it for you.” Jack turned and tried to smile, but it got lost somewhere. “Now, we can sit around and mope, or we can raise our glasses,” Ifan encouraged and peeled off the foil on the top of the bottle. He untwisted the wire holding the cork in place. With a satisfying “pop,” Ifan eased the cork out, and the vapor escaped from the champagne like smoke. “With respect to everyone here tonight, if I may take the liberty, I would like to propose the toast,” Ifan said firmly as he poured a measure into each glass while Hannah held the tray. When he had finished, everybody got to their feet, taking a glass from the tray as Hannah moved through them. Then they stood waiting, small smiles warring with little frowns. When she finished, Hannah moved dutifully to stand next to Ifan, who glanced at her with a smile and said, “You too, Hannah.” She looked at him with wide eyes, then hastened to take a glass for herself. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Ifan began, “I know I, for one, am saddened by tonight‟s events, and I wish it hadn‟t happened, but the fact of the matter is that it did. We cannot ignore it. We have to hope it will be the very last we hear of this matter. Let nobody say the Welsh cannot weather adversity.” Several people said, “Hear, hear” to that. Ifan paused to acknowledge them and then continued, “We have old friends and new ones here tonight, gathered for one reason. Jack has made it, against the odds I might add, to his fortieth birthday. I know more than a few of you here had just cause to think that might not happen, more so after this evening‟s events, but it has. The man really has reached forty.” Ifan paused. “This recent business has cast a slur on us all, but in the midst of adversity, I think Jack has found out who his friends really are, and most of them are right here in this room with us tonight. With respect to the present company, the RAF motto is „Per Ardua Ad Astra‟, through adversity to the stars. Jack has come through plenty of adversity to get to his stars. Jack”—Ifan raised his glass—“I hope everyone will join me in
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wishing you all the best, and here‟s hoping that you achieve your dreams. Happy fortieth, Jack.” Everybody drank to him, and Jack smiled a little grimly. “Ifan, thank you,” he said tentatively. “In reply, I want you all to know, without this man standing here I doubt I would have reached this point at all. He has selflessly dedicated his last six years to caring for me and bringing me through the adversity he talked about, while dividing his time between caring for me and running this place for the family. If I‟d had a brother, I would wish he had been like Ifan, because Ifan has been a brother to me in every way.” He smiled warmly, with none of the usual bravado. “I want to thank him for that and to toast absent friends as well. Thank you, Ifan.” He raised his glass and drank to Ifan, then raised it again and intoned, “Absent friends.” “Absent friends,” everyone recited, and then drained their glasses. “I have water on the boil, if anyone wants cocoa before they go,” Ifan said, “and then I respectfully suggest we all retire either to our homes or to our beds. It‟s been an eventful day.”
IFAN walked around the house later, locking up and tidying the place before retiring to bed, much as he had done all those years ago. He found Jack on the terrace and was put in mind of the last time he had found him there, Christmas 1942, raising a silent toast to the sky. As Ifan watched, he did the same now, and Ifan cleared his throat gently. Jack turned, smiling, and said, “Yes, Griffith, what can I do for you?” Ifan brandished the keys. “I‟m sorry, sir, I need to lock up. Everybody else has retired to bed….” Jack smiled. “I remember that night,” he said thoughtfully. “It was the Christmas after I lost James….” “I believe I offered you something to warm you up.” Ifan grinned. “And you flirted with me, even then.”
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“Can‟t help myself, it‟s a hobby.” Jack turned and followed him inside. “So, you going to offer me cocoa again?” He grinned. “Or something even better?” “Jack, you are incorrigible.” Ifan locked the door behind them, and they went silently down to the kitchen, where Ifan put the kettle to boil and made up the cocoa. “Eventful day,” Jack said, accepting the cup gratefully and sipping it. Ifan sat across the table from him and sipped his own drink. Their eyes met. “So much water under the bridge since then, eh?” Jack added. Ifan smiled. “A lot. We‟ve come through it, though, not easily, but we‟ve come through it.” He tapped the side of his cup thoughtfully. “I love you, Jack,” he said firmly. Jack looked at him and smiled. “I love you too, Ifan.” Ifan took a deep breath and said, “It‟s pie in the sky, I know, just fanciful really, but do you think people will ever accept us for what we are? Wonder if being queer will ever become commonplace, accepted, normal?” “Don‟t know, but I cannot believe that loving someone is wrong, no matter who it is.” “Neither can I. I‟m glad we found each other, Jack. It‟s such a shame about young Billy. In his way, he‟s as much of a victim as we were.” Jack sighed. “There you go again, seeing the best in folks. I wonder how you manage it sometimes. Still, he‟s young, maybe he has a chance to change. Gordon Smith is going to testify in his defense, did you know?” “No, I didn‟t. I‟m glad of that, actually. I hope they give him a chance.” They sat in companionable silence for a while, listening to the wind blowing outside. It wouldn‟t be long before Christmas, and then they could travel. “Do you really want to go back to America?” Ifan asked. “Not really, but I feel I ought to. Should maybe see my cousins again. Might not get back there again….”
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“Why don‟t you want to go? I thought you couldn‟t wait to get away.” “Because this is my home now, Ifan,” Jack said. “You and Bronwen and Hugh, the kids, you‟ve made it my home. I don‟t want to look back over my shoulder. I don‟t want to stay there….” “You might, when you get there.” Jack met Ifan‟s eyes and shook his head. “Ifan, my place is with you. You are Welsh through and through, you‟ll want to return here. When you come back, so will I.” He smiled. “Don‟t you worry about that.”
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EPILOGUE: THE TRIP OF A LIFETIME “AMAZING!” Ifan said, holding his hat on his head in the face of the wind. The whole of New York lay below, and they were impossibly high up, looking out from the top of the Empire State Building. A few wispy clouds floated below them. Below us, for goodness’ sake, Ifan thought. Ifan wished his father could have seen it. Emlyn Griffith would have reveled in this. “It‟s fantastic, isn‟t it?” Jack was busy with his camera, taking photo after photo. “Come on, we have to send them a postcard back home.” He dragged Ifan back toward the lift. The clamor on the streets below was incredible. Taxis blared their horns and cars jostled for space in the packed streets. Ifan had never seen so many motor vehicles. A lot of streets were not even given a name, just a number, there were so many: 42nd Street, 8th Avenue, East 33rd Street, West 21st Street. There were simple names based on location: Broadway, Park Avenue, Central Park Street. There were a few with actual names— Madison Avenue, Lexington Avenue—but on the whole, not many. To Ifan it was frightening and amazing and wonderful. He and Jack went into shops on 5th Avenue, Brentano‟s Bookshop, Saks, Macy‟s, and Lord & Taylor. They visited the museums and the art galleries and marveled at the sights on show. New York was a whirlwind of sound and color, so madly different from the quiet of Pren Redyn. Their adjoining rooms and shared bathroom on the eighth floor of their hotel allowed them to maintain a discreet distance, even though the distance disappeared behind closed doors. Ifan found it too noisy, though, as the sounds of voices and car horns, sirens and engines wafted to the room into the early hours of the morning. Five days in New York was more than enough for Ifan‟s sensibilities, and then they went the long haul by train to Chicago to see Jack‟s cousins.
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That was better, quieter, although sleeping on the train was a novel sensation. Jack was the center of attention as soon as the other passengers found out he was a flier. He never had a shortage of conversation, and the journey passed uneventfully and quite quickly.
THE cousins were so happy to see him; they were all very welcoming, and everything was fine. They welcomed Ifan into their hearts as well, but as Ifan watched Jack so happy to be there, he began to have doubts about his not wanting to stay. They visited old friends, went to parties, and generally enjoyed themselves. Everybody adored Ifan‟s English accent, although repeated attempts to educate them that it was a Welsh accent failed. “They‟ll all think everybody on the whole bloody island speaks like me, then,” Ifan said exasperatedly, and Jack had patted him on the back and told him not to worry about it. On the night before they were due to leave, Ifan found Jack on the veranda looking out at the stars. “Hello, Jack.” Jack turned on hearing Ifan approach. “Hey there.” “You okay?” Ifan asked gently. Jack spared him a glance that said a lot, and Ifan frowned. “Talk to me. You‟re not happy?” “Yes, I am. It‟s been so good to see them again. They‟re family.” He paused and then laid a hand on Ifan‟s back, comfortingly. “If you‟re worried I might want to stay, don‟t be,” he reassured. “You just seem very… comfortable here….” “Ifan, I grew up here. I went to school down the road. I bought lemonade at the diner. I worked for old Mr. Newlander at the general store; I was his errand boy on Saturdays. Can‟t forget all that overnight. I have history here… but it‟s not home anymore. I left it long ago.” He took Ifan‟s hand and squeezed gently. “You didn‟t want to go see old man Parry, then?” Ifan asked, but Jack shook his head.
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“No, no sense looking back. Their son, Ike, didn‟t make it through the war. He joined the Navy after Pearl Harbor, died in the Battle of Midway in the Pacific.” “That‟s sad. I‟m sorry,” Ifan offered, but Jack shook his head. “Past and gone,” he said gently. “Anyway, we‟re going home tomorrow. I‟ve had the best time, and I‟m glad it was with you. But we are going home. We‟ve been gone nearly a month, and I don‟t know about you, but I want to see Bronwen again. Thought I might try to write that book, you know? What say you help me?” “I wouldn‟t stand in your way you know, if you wanted to stay….” Ifan turned to face him. Jack grinned and hugged him. “I know, but you don‟t belong here. You belong in Wales, and I belong with you.” “Y Ddraig Goch ddyry gychwyn,” Ifan said, “The Red Dragon will show the way. Jack….” “Yeah?” Ifan checked they were not being overheard, then lowered his voice and said, “If there ever comes a time, in the future, when people like you and me can marry….” He chuckled at the foolishness of it. “I‟d say yes to you in an instant.” Jack smiled and wrapped an arm round him. “And I‟d ask you, believe me.” He yawned. “Come to bed. We‟ve a long journey tomorrow.” He led the way inside.
PREN REDYN HOUSE had never looked so welcoming. They took a taxi from the station and arrived to find the place quiet in the March afternoon, their breath pluming in the cold air as they waited for the taxi driver to unload their bags. “Peace and quiet,” Ifan said happily. “Listen to it, Jack. Bloody wonderful, that‟s what it is.”
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“Uncle Jack, Uncle Ifan!” Emily dashed round the corner of the house and ran full tilt into Jack‟s arms. “Oh, it‟s so good you‟re back. Mam will be pleased!” “Where is she?” “In the greenhouse. I heard the taxi, and I came. I‟ll go tell her….” Breathless, off she ran, and Ifan exchanged a glance with Jack. “She called me Uncle Ifan,” he said, his surprise evident. “Where did that come from?” Jack smiled at his consternation. “She loves you,” he said simply. “They all do. It‟s deserved, Ifan.” Suddenly Bronwen was there, hugging them both, tears in her eyes, so happy that they were back. “Did you have a good trip? Come inside, come into the warm.” She led them into the sitting room, poking the fire into life behind its guard. Then she rang the bell for Llewellyn. He was pleased to see them too and shook them warmly by the hand, then went off to make, at Jack‟s request, cocoa for them all. “Look at you,” Bronwen said. “You both look so well. Was it a good trip, then? Everything you wanted?” “Yes, it was great to see the family again,” Jack admitted. “We‟ve got so many presents for you all….” “Well, I‟ve some news for you too, about Billy Pritchard. Gordon testified, and the judge has given him another chance. He‟s going to a remand home in Cardiff for a few months, but Gordon tells me he‟s going to visit him every week. When Billy is released, Gordon and Emily are applying to foster him.” “Well, here‟s hoping it‟ll work out for them,” Ifan said. “At least something positive has come out of all of this.” “So.” Bronwen‟s gaze flicked from one man to the other. “What did you see?” “We saw the whole of New York from the top of the Empire State Building,” Ifan said. “There were clouds, they were below us. We were so high!”
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“We walked through Central Park!” They both spoke at once and the words tumbled over each other. The two men paused, grinning at each other‟s exuberance. “I have never been on such a long train journey. It took nearly a whole day, nineteen hours—” “The food was great. I forgot how good hot dogs taste.” “We saw Lake Michigan. It was like looking at the sea. I swear it, a lake and we couldn‟t see the other side of it.” “Great to be home, though,” Jack said. “No place like home….” Ifan smiled, content. He had his captain, he had his family, and he was home. His tad, he reflected, would have been proud.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JESSIE BLACKWOOD is the pen name for a girl who began writing thirty years ago, but who realized there is no substitute for life experience, of which she had little back then. Since those days, she has never been quite sure if she has experienced life or if life has experienced her. In 2009, after years battling against low self-confidence, Jessie screwed up her courage and attempted fan fiction. Plenty of encouraging reviews later, she finally turned her dream of becoming a writer into reality by creating something of her own. An inveterate role-player, historical re-enactor and incurable romantic, Jessie is an avid supporter of LGBT rights and is passionate about her writing, her extended family, history, and happy endings. She firmly believes that whatever form love takes, well, it always beats the dark. Jessie‟s favorite time of the day is just before waking, when most of her best ideas come to her, or any time she is juggling five tasks at once. If, in the process of creating a story, her characters suddenly decide to take matters into their own hands and make their own decisions, she considers her work as a writer is done. You can contact her at
[email protected]. Jessie tweets at http://twitter.com/Jessieblackwood, and you can visit her at Facebook or her blog: http://jessieblackwood.wordpress.com/.
COPYRIGHT
Life Begins at Forty ©Copyright Jessie Blackwood, 2011 Published by Dreamspinner Press 382 NE 191st Street #88329 Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors‟ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover Art by Paul Richmond http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the Publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 382 NE 191st Street #88329, Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ Released in the United States of America October 2011 eBook Edition eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-121-6
