This one alludes to events from both Lewis and Inspector Morse as well as one or two I've used from stories I've written previously. Typically, I write after having a nice, long viewing jag and have a bit better hold of the distinction between what I've built up in my mind and what the shows gave us, but this piece just came of its own accord, and I'm not sure it's truly in character for the 'real' Lewis…apologies if that's the case. It's over angsty, I know, but not much else seems to grow in the dead of winter…
Disclaimer: Purely for fan purposes. No copyright infringement intended.
Things Not Spoken
There were things Robbie Lewis didn't talk about. Full stop.
She'd thought, in earlier years, that his silences weren't because of him but her…that she'd just not been the one he could open up to, the one he wanted to tell his innermost thoughts and feelings to, that she wasn't Val. Only now did she understand that in so many ways she'd been wrong. That, in fact, he'd been openly sharing almost everything he was willing—or able—to share with her for years now if she'd only known.
Because there were things he just didn't talk about. Not in the soft, quiet hours of the night bathed in moonlight or cloaked in darkness. Not in the bright morning light that revealed the years in his face but also his grin and his enthusiasm for life because naturally she who loved a quiet lie-in found herself with an exuberant morning person. Not in long afternoons they found themselves kicking about the house with nothing much to do but enjoy each other's company.
Not ever.
And that was saying a lot for a man who liked to natter on a bit, who liked a good story as much as any, a man who had filled the empty quiet of her life and house with his voice and his laughter and his very presence.
And if she who was used to the quiet of the morgue and an empty house found his silence on certain things almost unbearable…how had Val who'd always lived with his chatty exuberance survived his stony silences?
And to think she'd counseled this man to tell people how he felt about them…only emotions weren't really that hard for Robbie Lewis. Not when he felt ready in revealing them. No, he could tell her frequently and totally unambiguously that he loved her, and he certainly never left his children in doubt of his love for them. Even Hathaway, when it had come down to it—he'd made it clear enough that he valued James' presence in his life. No, she'd miscalled that one.
But there were gaps in the story she had of his life that she'd slowly come to understand she'd never know from his viewpoint.
Things Lyn told her as they chatted while Robbie laughed and played with a grandchild that Laura had suddenly realized was hers to share if she wished—now that had taken some getting used to and for all the man kept things close to his chest, he'd been more than willing to listen to her wrestle with that life change among others. There were times Lyn remembered her dad coming home silent and shut down; times she and her brother had been hustled off to her grandmother's and her dad hadn't even seemed to know they were there when they snuck in for a kiss good bye; and there was the day he'd come home covered in blood—Whytham Woods Laura knew remembering working that crime scene with Chief Superintendent Strange's glower not managing to cover his alarm and concern; Morse white and obviously in shock sitting out by the road, looking very small; and Lewis standing beside him with that blood on his shirt and a haunted look on his face. Her earliest days with the Thames Valley CID…
Things hinted at—over pints, telly, and the lads making a run for the championship—by men Robbie had worked with long before she'd come on the scene…
Things not spoken but there nonetheless between Robbie and James that for all Robbie had involved her in so many worries about his sergeant through the years he'd failed to share then and wasn't about to now…there'd been a lot more surrounding that mess in Crevecoeur than she'd managed to discover; and that case where the young man had scattered his brains all over the church altar and James had clearly been deeply affected. There'd been talk going around then that Robbie and James had rowed, loudly and heatedly, very loudly and very heatedly, in the streets, but then there'd been the fire and whatever had happened between the two of them had burned away with it—or been locked away behind their sealed lips for not talking about things was one thing James shared with Robbie.
Things discussed around loud, crowded Lewis family tables on the rare occasion they'd packed up for the weekend and made the drive to Newcastle. He'd sat there beside her when the talk had turned to his father's death and let the accounts and remembrances flow from his siblings and aunts, but he'd kept his mouth shut and his eyes distanced from them all. She'd squeezed his hand and bit back her questions, and she couldn't tell if he'd appreciated either one of those gestures. He'd sat and nodded quietly when she'd told him of her dad's losing battle with the cancer, and when in the end she'd cried, he'd held her gently and let her sniffle into his shoulder. But he hadn't given her the opportunity to return the favour.
And then there were things she knew because their work lives had tended to overlap and those she knew because she'd shared in them. He'd walked with her and held her when she'd cried over almost being buried alive, bought her pints and plied her with fish and chips when the horror of that night had haunted her and left her sorely in need of someone to take care of her, listened to her retell the nightmare of her capture and about James jumping into the grave to save her and…the whole horrifying thing. But he'd never offered his own comments on what he'd thought or felt or done that night. She'd learned what she knew of that from the trial transcripts and the carefully guarded tidbits she'd managed to pry out of James.
He'd lost his wife, but even though he'd now talk about Val and the times they'd shared, he never breathed a word about the time surrounding her death. She wondered, if she hadn't known how it had happened or when, and she'd asked him…would he even be able to answer her that? But, she had known. She'd been there to see his sorrow and his grief eat through him, to watch him fall apart, and to fear he'd never find the strength to take up his life again. She'd been there and still he wouldn't—couldn't—talk about it with her (or, she suspected, anyone).
He'd lost Morse, and though she'd stood beside him as he worried over the possibility…the details of that loss were also tucked up tight inside him and they weren't coming out.
It was Morse, who one day had gotten around to buying her that pint and downed enough himself to grow maudlin and talk of his regrets, who'd told her of Boynton and Marriot and a shootout in Australia. And she'd wondered even then what Morse's regrets had cost his sergeant…she hadn't known though that one day it would be her business to know, and she'd missed the opportunity to ask Morse. But he wouldn't have had a clue even if she had.
And Val herself, one day years before at one of the annual station fetes, while they'd both watched from afar as Robbie had taken his turn at one of the stalls—laughing, pulling people in, and even tweaking Morse a bit—talking here and there as they stood more or less together, not friends, not even acquaintances really, but not strangers either.
"He's good," Laura had said to Robbie's wife.
"Oh, aye," Val had agreed. "In his element, is Robbie…though to hear him beforetime you'd think it was the worst part of the job." And Laura, who'd only that morning been out at a particularly sad and violent murder scene with Robbie and half the detectives now milling about the hall with their wives' arm tucked securely in theirs and their children running about underfoot, had laughed along with her. Not hardly. But easy to imagine Robbie's good-natured complaints and annoyed reluctance at being coerced into an afternoon of hawking when he could have been out detecting.
And then there'd been something still and quiet in Robbie's wife standing beside her, and Val had turned to Laura and said, "Can I ask you something? I mean…" she shook her head then and threw Laura an apologetic smile and almost Laura had let the moment slip away.
Instead she'd said, "It's no problem…what is it?"
"You're out with him, aren't you? Out…at the crime scenes?"
"Yes."
"Is he happy, you think? With the job?"
Laura had almost laughed and quickly assured her that yes, she thought Robbie was very happy with his job. Her surprise at the question must have reached Val.
She fumbled about for words and then said, "It's just…sometimes, I…Grayling, you know? Dr. Russell? The pathologist before you? She'd spent time in Newcastle…and we used to have her over for supper and she and Robbie would go on about it and it made me wonder."
And Laura tried to keep the frown from reaching her face. If Val Lewis was asking her if she thought there'd been something between her husband and Dr. Russell...but that wasn't it.
"I don't think he'd tell me, see? If he wasn't happy here—he never meant to leave Newcastle, never meant to leave the beat…it was me, see? After—well, the rioting in Newcastle and…the lads," she swallowed hard and searched Laura's face as if in permission to go on, "There were lads from Robbie's station killed. Right there with him. Mates he'd gone through training with…" Val blew out a long breath as though she'd just confessed something that had weighed on her a long time. From one of the booths there was the loud sound of popping balloons and children's squeals, and Laura, who had only meant to stick her head in to show her support because she had work waiting for her back at the morgue, nodded her head encouragingly and Val went on.
"I couldn't…I just kept thinking about it—that it could have been him…and I just couldn't take the thought of one day opening the door to the chief super standing there with his hat in his hands…so it was me agitating that brought us here; took him off the beat and into the CID."
"Well," Laura assured her, "I don't think you have anything to apologize for…I mean right now I know he's chafing after his promotion, but he loves the job; I dare say he loves Oxford…I know he loves you and the kids—talks about you all the time. But if you're worried about it, can't you just ask him?" she'd asked, looking once again over at Robbie wiggling his eyebrows at a little girl and making her laugh. She'd thought at that moment that surely Robbie Lewis was one of the most open men she'd ever met.
Val had smiled her relief at Laura's assurance and some friends had appeared at her elbow drawing her away, but she'd thrown a look over her shoulder and said, "Thank you…really, I mean it. And no…there are things, like the riots and…the dead lads and…all, Robbie just doesn't talk about."
And Laura wished now that they would have had a moment longer to talk, and Val would have told her how she lived with those things Robbie didn't talk about…but it was far too late now.
And so she did something rather stupid. She asked him.
"What am I supposed to do with these black holes of yours?"
They'd been walking side by side, enjoying the quiet evening and the view along the river, but that brought him to a stop. Blinking at her in what might have been incomprehension. But she had the feeling it was a delaying tactic, that he'd known sooner or later she was bound to call him on his silences. And that frightened her and made her worry that his understanding she wouldn't find it an easy thing to let his skeletons lie undisturbed had kept him from being with her for so long. And that she could send him packing if she wasn't careful.
He rubbed his nose and scratched his head and she bit her lip and wished she'd been smart enough to keep her own mouth closed.
Then he moved closer to her, laid his forehead against hers, and when he spoke it was more than apparent he knew what she was asking, "Some things you just live with. They don't get better for the talking, they don't go away…you just live with them."
"They might, you know…go away at least a bit, if you did," she suggested cautiously.
He shook his head against hers and said with a heavy certainty, "No. They don't." He was quiet a moment letting that 'no' fill the air around them, and then he asked, "Does this…have to be a problem?" And the way he said it…she knew even if it did, he wouldn't pack up and walk away. Somehow, he'd do what she demanded, he'd find a way to fill in those black holes for her—just like he'd become a detective and moved to Oxford for Val.
And suddenly a few holes in his background didn't seem that important…it wasn't like they were things that she ran into all that often and they didn't seem to be festering deep down inside of him. He loved her, he loved their life together, and he made sure she knew it…did she really need to know anything more than that?
"As long as you know I'm here…if you ever do need to talk about…anything."
"I know," he said all seriousness and frowns as he pulled back to look her in the eye. "I know."
"Well, then…tell me something you will talk about," she said, taking his hand and pulling him along behind her.
"Hmmm, " he said, catching up to her and putting his arm around her waist. "Did I ever tell you about the Old Boys Eleven and…"
Author's Notes:
Lyn's childhood memories are from my Morse story What the Sergeant Saw: The St. Oswald's Murders which in turned is based on Service of All the Dead. The day her dad came home covered in blood is in reference to the Morse episode The Way Through the Woods.
The Crevecoeur episode is The Dead of Winter; the heated row in the street Life Born of Fire.
Lewis mentions his dad died relatively young in the episode where he finds out he's going to be a grandfather. (Which can I just say as a first time grandma…that kind of news is life-alteringly amazing. Something I didn't know when that episode first aired and couldn't really believe until it happened to me but true nonetheless.)
Hobson was almost buried alive in Lewis Falling Darkness; we lost Morse in the Remorseful Day. Somewhere between The Way Through the Woods and that sad day, Hobson asked him to buy her a pint—or drink or something, he was forced to bow out at the time, but this story presupposes that eventually she cashed in the rain check. Boynton comes from Driven to Distraction; Marriot from Dead on Time; and the shootout wasn't at the OK Corral but in The Promised Land.
We get to see Lewis as a barker in Inspector Morse Happy Families (though Laura's talk with Val is obviously at a later fete as she didn't come on the scene for another six episodes). Lewis was delighted to discover Dr. Russell knew Newcastle in Ghost in the Machine. The Newcastle Riots and the lads tragically lost in them come straight from my imagination (and my crossover story On Courage and Matters of Conscience). I can't say for sure but I believe my imagination drew on something in one of the Morse novels mentioning Lewis and most of the station being pressed into riot duty—but my memory is so vague that I could be wrong and my imagination really just pulled it from thin air...any Dexter fans able to help me out here?
Oh, and the Old Boys Eleven was the cricket team in Deceived By Flight, another Morse episode.