A/N: This is a short one shot to honour all those with April birthdays, in particular NatesDate, theoofoof, and Sparky75 .
St James Park – Friday afternoon:
Ruth again checks her watch before turning her attention to the pigeons, oblivious to her presence as they wander aimlessly on the grass beside her bench. Compared with her own life, theirs is a doddle, uncomplicated by guilt, or things left unsaid or not done. Needing to entrap some warmth, she draws her knees closer together, while clasping her fingers, one thumb rubbing rhythmically over the nail of the other. The autumn air snaps at her skin, so that she regrets not having brought her gloves. With one hand she dives into the pocket of her coat, drawing out her phone before waking it up. It's unlike him to be late.
A pale shadow falls across her as a figure approaches her bench.
"Who'd have thought I'd catch you skiving off of a Friday afternoon," Ros Myers says, one eyebrow raised in an unspoken question, as her glance embraces the empty bench beside Ruth.
Shifting her body to allow Ros room to sit beside her, Ruth mumbles, "be my guest," in a not altogether welcoming tone. While she no longer harbours resentment towards Ros, nor are the two women close, and in her opinion they are never likely to be. They are complete opposites. While Ros is sharp, she is soft; the other woman blunt and direct, while Ruth prefers to approach others in a careful, meandering way, a way least likely to offend or upset.
"Harry's late," Ros says at last, glancing along the path in both directions. "On a warm day this place reminds me of Buenos Aires."
Ruth had only heard the one word. "Harry?" she says, turning to face Ros. "You're expecting Harry?"
"He arranged to meet me here. Apparently we need to discuss the Iranians."
Bloody Harry. "We?"
Ros draws her eyebrows together, her gaze unblinking. "That's what he said. Harry and Ros .. and the Iranians."
"I'm supposed to be meeting him here … also to discuss the Iranians."
"Well," Ros says, stretching her legs in front of her as she leans back on the bench, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket, "sounds like he's experiencing early signs of dementia … or," she adds, turning her head to eyeball Ruth, "he's arranged a play date for the three of us."
From the back of her throat Ruth utters a scoffing sound. "Harry has the memory of an elephant. Clearly he's been held up by something more important than the Iranians."
"Or he planned this as a meeting between you and me." Ros stares at Ruth, forcing her comprehension, before she breaks eye contact, gazing along the path to some point in the distance, beyond where the path disappears, meandering into the bosom of thick foliage. "The up-side is we'll not have to book him into aged care." For a long moment Ros waits, chewing her bottom lip. "You have to admire his style, though," she announces at last. "Devious sod."
Ruth's having none of it. "Perhaps he forgot to tell us about this being a meeting of the three of us."
"So why have it here? Why not choose somewhere indoors … like a pub … or the meeting room?"
Ruth has to concede that Ros has a point.
"Maybe he expects you and me to discuss the Iranians," she says at last. Truth is, the longer she thinks about it, the more she's convinced that Ros is right, and that Harry has set them up. Devious sod indeed!
Ros, still with her hands in the pockets of her jacket, sits up and turns to face Ruth. "So … what's the story on the Iranians?"
"There is no story, and despite reports to the contrary, they haven't `taken over' the estate in Islington. There are women and children and babies, as well as the men. Another of my sources has reported that they're peaceful, family-oriented people. It's only two of the men who have made threats to long-term residents – Turks, as it turns out. It was little more than a storm in a teacup."
"And the weapons?"
"There are no weapons. My source inside the estate says that the early reports of threatened violence were exaggerated, exacerbated by old racial tensions .."
"... and considerable levels of PTSD," Ros adds quietly.
Ruth is aware that Ros has had her own experiences in the field, experiences which have left her with patterns of disturbed sleep, and a penchant for medicating herself with alcohol. She should know. In the quiet of the early hours, her memory of George's execution still haunts her, the fatal gunshot echoing in the dark, her final memory of him being his body crumpling as he'd fallen to the ground. It is in these moments of wearying solitude that she wishes she could open herself to Harry, allowing him to share some of her personal pain … and her occasional moments of joy. They could each comfort the other. They need to comfort each other.
"So … the Iranians are not the problem," Ros says quietly, jolting Ruth from her reverie.
"No," Ruth replies, "but perhaps we should be keeping tabs on Harry."
Beside her on the bench, Ros chuckles quietly, so Ruth decides she'll not say anything more until the other woman speaks. Ruth glances towards where the pigeons had been gathered on the grass, but they have moved on. Maybe she should also. She is already at least two days behind with her translating.
"You still love him, don't you?" Ros's words, spoken gently, and with no trace of malice, hover in the air between them – an aural mist seeking the sun's warmth.
Ruth can't speak. Ros has just exposed the very secret from which she has been hiding, and now the words have been uttered, there is no denying them. The truth can be very dangerous indeed, especially when spoken aloud.
"It's OK, Ruth. I understand. After all, I still love Adam."
"But Adam's ..."
"Yes he is, and against all odds Harry's still alive and well."
Suppressing a wave of outrage which threatens to erupt from deep in her belly, Ruth takes a deep breath before speaking. "Did Harry send you?" she asks quietly.
"Indirectly I suppose he did, but can't you see, Ruth? You're the lucky one."
"Lucky! My partner was murdered. My whole life has been shattered. I'd hardly call that lucky."
"But the man you love still lives and breathes. From where I am I'd call that lucky."
Ruth breathes out heavily. Bloody Ros and her laser-like insight. Nothing escapes Ros Myers. Ruth longs to shout at her, to declare her never-ending love for her dead partner, but she can't. To do so would be to sustain the most blatant of lies.
"Sorry," Ros says in a tone which suggests she is anything but. "I have a habit of speaking my mind."
Ruth nods. She is not about to agree with Ros, or to argue with her. She is temporarily without words.
"It's just that someone has to say something." Ros's voice seems to drift to her from far away. Ruth can't answer her, much less acknowledge her presence. It seems to her that the truth is so much more confronting than the lies with which for months she has been comforting herself. "And on that jarring note I'll make my way back to the coalface."
Ruth feels a subtle movement in the bench beneath her as Ros stands. Not looking the other woman's way, she nods, trusting that Ros can detect a note of thanks in that nod. "I guess I'll see you … when you return to the Grid," and with those words Ros quickly leaves.
Ruth turns to watch as Ros marches along the path in the direction from which she'd arrived, her back straight, her fly-away blond hair bobbing in time with her stride. The pigeons have moved on, and for a brief moment Ros is the only person on the path. Ruth feels very alone in a vast and dangerous, unpredictable world.
While Ruth has been sitting alone on the bench in St James Park the passage of time has contracted. She has attempted to put all thoughts of Harry aside, and to focus on what she can control – her flat, some aspects of her job, which includes the pile of translating waiting for her back on the Grid. Perhaps an hour has passed since Ros had left so abruptly, or maybe it has only been a few minutes. Time has warped so that she is left with nothing but a solid sense of her place on this bench, within this park in central London.
"Ruth?" She lifts her eyes to his, in that moment knowing that she has been sitting alone on this bench, waiting for him to come in search of her. "Do you mind …?" His eyes drop to the space on the bench beside her, and she nods.
"I was planning to return to work," she says by way of explanation. "It's just that -"
"I know," he says quickly. "Time flies when you're having fun."
Ruth drops her eyes as she smiles. Sometimes Harry says the oddest things, but he is never ever dull. She is glad of his warm, solid presence beside her.
"I'm sorry I'm so late," he continues quickly, "but I was held up."
Likely story!
"I hadn't expected you to still be here," he adds gently.
"You sent Ros to me."
"Yes. I thought … I don't know what I thought. Did you discuss the Iranians?"
"For about thirty seconds. There's no issue with the Iranians."
"Ros was rather chipper when she returned to the Grid, so I suspected as much."
"I found her to be … illuminating," Ruth replies.
"Good … good."
For a long moment they sit in silence - close, but not touching. Ruth wants to touch him, but since they are officially still at work, touching him is out of the question. "Perhaps we should go," she says quietly, watching him as he turns towards her and nods.
Harry stands, closing the buttons of his coat as he waits for her to join him. Ruth is overcome by a sense that this is her moment – their moment – so that as they begin to slowly walk along the path together, she slips one hand into the crook of his elbow. Feeling him pull his elbow closer to his side, effectively trapping her fingers between his arm and his body, Ruth senses another moment she must not allow to pass them by.
"Ros shared with me some home truths," she says quietly, her words for his ears alone.
A very long silence ensues, during which they walk together between the overhanging foliage, with barely a breeze to disturb it, the dappled light creating jagged patterns on the pathway ahead. "She said a word or two to me also," he says at last. "I suspect she sees much more than she lets on."
"Ros is a wise woman," Ruth says, suddenly overcome by a deep unspoken emotion. She stops, drawing Harry to a halt beside her. When she feels his fingers, warm and comforting, wind around the hand still curved around his elbow, she looks up to see something in his eyes she'd seen before, but never quite understood. Harry loves her like no-one before him has loved her. What surprises her more is the depth of her love for him. "Better late than never," she whispers, holding his eyes with her own, trusting he will grasp her deeper meaning.
"I couldn't agree more," he says, and he squeezes her fingers between his own before turning to continue along the pathway.
As they walk towards the park's entrance Ruth allows her arm to press against his side. After all, something powerful is emerging between them, and working hours or not, that something should not be denied. One day soon – not today, and not next week, but soon - Ruth will need to thank Ros for the nudge she had given her.
Who knew that Cupid's arrow would be shot from the bow of Ros Myers?