Apologies for being such a ridiculously slow updater, but this story honestly isn't abandoned!
Also I swear that it's actually going to start making sense in the next chapter.
Enjoy!
All That Glitters... Chapter 4
August 1899
Thomas Barrow was choking. Thick smoke filled his lungs and stung his eyes. He leant forward, hands on knees, and tried desperately to cough it all up.
As the pain began to lessen, Thomas heard a whoop of laughter close by. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision before he looked up to meet the gaze of the boy standing opposite him, on whose freckled face was plastered a wide grin.
"You're doing it all wrong, you know", said the boy. "You've gotta breath it in slow like."
Fighting the urge to start coughing again Thomas straightened up, crossed his arms and scowled at the boy. He jutted his chin out petulantly. "Well, I don't see you doin' it. Why don't you show me 'ow it's done, if you're such an expert?"
The boy shrugged, grin still in place as he strutted cockily over to Thomas and plucked the still lit cigarette from between Thomas' fingers.
The boy raised it to his lips and breathed in deeply, cheeks hollowed. Thomas felt an odd little tugging sensation in the pit of his stomach at the sight.
The boy removed the cigarette from his mouth and blew out the smoke. He dropped the cigarette to the floor and ground it into the gravel with the toe of his shoe, before looking smugly up at Thomas.
"See? It's not 'ard at all, don't know what you got yourself in such a state about."
Thomas tried to glower at the other boy, but his eyes still stung too much from the smoke to put any real force behind it. He rubbed at them, but only succeeded in making them worse by rubbing in some of the cigarette ash that still clung to his fingertips. He began blinking furiously again, and rubbed even harder at his eyes to try and clear them, this time with the back of his (mostly) clean hand. He felt a wetness on his lips and realised that his nose had started to run. He sniffed pitifully, suddenly feeling much younger than he was, and ducked his head so that the boy wouldn't see this bottom lip wobbling.
Thomas felt the boy move closer to him.
"You're a right mess", said the boy, not unkindly. "Best you don't let your father see you like that. Here."
He lent forward and brushed a stray lock of hair out of Thomas' eyes, before reaching into one of his trouser pockets and pulling out a handkerchief.
Thomas took it, feeling that odd pulling sensation again, and blew his nose.
"Better?", asked the boy. Thomas nodded curtly. The boy smiled. "Good." He gestured to the snotty handkerchief and pulled a face. "You can keep that."
Thomas felt a smile beginning to tug at the corners of his own lips as a faint flush, which had nothing to do with the effects of the smoke, started to rise up his cheeks.
The bang of a door being thrown open shattered the quiet. Thomas and the boy whirled around to face the small work shed at the far end of the yard, from which an angry red face was poking out.
"Thomas, Oliver! Stop mucking about and get in here."
The door slammed shut and Oliver pulled another face. "You're father's not in a good mood today, is he?"
"He's never in a good mood", Thomas muttered, folding up Oliver's handkerchief and placing it carefully in his coat pocket.
"Aye, well, if we have to face 'im I suppose its better that we do it together", said Oliver. "Come on."
He linked his arm through Thomas' as they began to walk towards the shed; and Thomas, despite knowing that they were in for an afternoon of hard work and harsh words, found himself smiling.
May 1913
Jimmy Kent had just arrived at his new place of work. The letter from Mr Parsons, Butler to the Dowager Lady Anstruther, offering him a position as a hall boy had arrived only the day before. It was the opportunity that both Jimmy and his parents had been waiting for. Jimmy had immediately packed his bags while his mother had fussed about the kitchen and prepared a special 'goodbye' meal.
The Dowager Anstruther's country estate, Denby Hall, was not far from the village in which the Kent family lived, so as soon as they received the letter Jimmy's father had started knocking on doors to see if there were any local traders who were heading that way the next day and wouldn't mind giving his son a lift. He soon chanced upon a friendly milkman who was happy to oblige, and so it happened that early the next morning Jimmy found himself nestled between two large milk crates in the back of a small cart, being jostled around as the horses made their way down the narrow road. As the cart turned a corner Jimmy got his first glance of the sheer magnificence of Denby. He smiled smugly to himself; at the age of fifteen, Jimmy possessed a sense of ambition far beyond his years. He didn't plan on being a lowly hall boy for long.
The milkman dropped him off on the outskirts of the estate. Jimmy trudged down to the servant's entrance, dragging his heavy suitcase behind him. His knock on the door was answered by an elderly man with a thin mouth.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm Jimmy Kent, the new hall boy. I'm to report to Mr Parsons."
"I am Mr Parsons. Well, we'd better get you settled in, and then you can start your duties this afternoon. Follow me."
Jimmy followed the old man along a dim corridor. As they turned a corner Mr Parsons almost collided with a tall, sandy haired boy who had been barrelling towards them from the opposite direction.
"No running in the corridors George! How many times do I have to tell you?"
"Sorry Mr Parsons", said George, not looking very sorry at all. Mr Parsons looked at him disdainfully.
"Yes, well, while you are here you might as well make yourself useful. This is the new hall boy. Make sure he knows where everything is kept and show him to his room. He starts this afternoon."
With a small nod to Jimmy, Mr Parsons departed. George turned to Jimmy with a grin.
"What was your name?"
"Jimmy."
"Right. Well you can leave your bag down 'ere while I give you the grand tour, then I'll help you carry it up to your room.
"I can carry it myself", Jimmy huffed.
George's eyes flicked between Jimmy and the large case. "'Course you can", he replied with another grin, voice laced with amusement as if Jimmy had just said something particularly funny. "Come on then, we'll start with the boot room."
After the boot room came the post room, the servants hall and the cleaning supplies cupboard. There was a lot to remember, and George didn't make it any easier; he talked very fast and moved so quickly from room to room that Jimmy barely had a chance to ask any questions. He also had a habit of standing very close, even in the larger rooms; this unnerved Jimmy slightly and made it hard for him to concentrate on what George was saying. As they continued to move between rooms, Jimmy began to felt an odd squirming sensation in the pit of his stomach whenever George was near, which he named 'dislike' for want of a better word.
When the tour was apparently over, George led Jimmy back out into the corridor where Jimmy's case still stood.
"Right, I think that's everythin', now we just need to – no, wait!" George suddenly clapped his hands loudly, startling Jimmy. "The kitchen!", George exclaimed. "I nearly forgot it. We're not really meant to go in there as Mrs Jones doesn't like it, but she's out today so we might as well. Come on!"
He barrelled off down the corridor again. Jimmy followed, glowering.
Jimmy's entrance into the kitchen was greeted by series of shrill giggles. Huddled around a long table were a group of scullery maids; when Jimmy walked in they turned to look, most of them staring at him in delight as if Christmas had come early.
Jimmy, who was already well aware of the effect his looks had on the opposite sex, puffed up his chest in response and tipped the girls a quick wink, prompting more blushes and giggles.
"All right ladies, nothin' to see 'ere, back to your work", George said playfully, prompting scowls and a few boos.
George led Jimmy to the far end of the room away from the women, still grinning. "Right little ladies man, ain't ya?", he whispered.
It was the type of remark that Jimmy would have normally taken as a compliment, but there was something in George's tone - that little inflection of humour – that suggested the taller boy was not entirely sincere in his compliments. A sense of indignation, coupled with that feeling of not-quite-dislike, rose within Jimmy; he scowled fiercely up at the taller boy.
George shrugged. "Just sayin'. Didn't mean owt by it. Come on, best get your bag upstairs before Parsons comes back this way and finds it still in the corridor."
But despite his casual tone, Jimmy noticed that, as they made their way back to Jimmy's belongings, George kept casting him odd, furtive little glances when he thought Jimmy wasn't looking.
Between them, they managed to carry Jimmy's case up the steep flight of stairs. George had watched Jimmy struggle by himself for while before he picked up the other end of the trunk with a grin. Jimmy had scowled and pursed his lips, but nevertheless had begrudgingly accepted George's assistance.
When they reached the end of another long corridor, George had let go of his side of the case. He gestured towards a door. "This is you. You're in with Robert, so you won't be sharin' with me I'm afraid, James."
George winked, and Jimmy felt that sensation of not-quite-dislike rise up again in his tummy. George started to walk away.
"It's Jimmy", called Jimmy to George's retreating back.
"See you at dinner, James!", was all George said in reply.
It was a very long afternoon. After a hurried lunch Mr Parsons set Jimmy and a small cluster of other hall boys to work, polishing the entire contents of Lady Anstruther's expansive silverware collection. By dinner time, Jimmy had painful cramp in both hands, and was grateful for the hot stew that Mrs Jones served up. George sat across from him, chattering idly with another boy. Jimmy kept his gaze focused on the plate.
After the meal, the staff dispersed. A few of the housemaids scurried off for a spot of late night sewing, while a group of hall boys and footmen began a game of cards. George was not one of them; Jimmy had seen him slip quietly outside while the game was being set up.
Elsie, one of the few scullery maids who had not seemed remotely interested in Jimmy during his earlier appearance in the kitchen, sidled up next to him.
"'E's gone for a smoke."
Jimmy looked at her blankly.
"George. Thought you might be lookin' for 'im. 'E's supposed to be showin' you around or summat, ain't 'e?"
Jimmy bristled. "I weren't lookin' for anyone. Anyway, George has already shown me where everythin' is, so I don't need 'im any more."
Else raised an eyebrow. Jimmy walked away, intent of joining the card game. Within a minute he was outside. The air was cool and Jimmy breathed it in deeply; he felt very warm, all of a sudden.
Gravel crunched behind him. "You all sorted now then?", George asked, blowing out a long stream of smoke.
Jimmy nodded mutely. George proffered his cigarette pack. "Want one?"
Jimmy hesitated, just for a second, before he took one and placed it between his lips. George passed him the matches, and Jimmy lit up. He had never smoked before, but the thought of refusing George's offer and admitting that he didn't know how caused him stomach to flip in embarrassment.
The smoke burned his throat. His first instinct was to cough it up, but, aware that George was watching, Jimmy kept it down, eyes stinging, before blowing out the smoke as casually as he could.
"All right there?", asked George. He had that amused tone in his voice again.
"Yes", Jimmy answered horsely. Knowing that it was unlikely he would be able to contort his face into any expression more complex than a mild frown without setting off a coughing fit, Jimmy settled for an internal scowl.
They smoked in silence for a few minutes. Once the initial burning feeling had subsided, Jimmy started to quite like it.
"You got a girl then?"
Jimmy nearly dropped the cigarette. With an air of fake indifference he looked over at George. "What?"
"'Ave you got a girl?", George repeated. "A sweetheart at home, mebbe? Or do you think you might take out one of the scullery maids?"
"I dunno", Jimmy replied.
George raised an eyebrow.
"You don't know if you've got a girl?"
Jimmy bristled. "I meant that I don't 'ave one at the moment, but I might ask out one of the maids if I feel like it. I don't see why not."
"Don't you?"
The hint of amusement was still present in George's voice, but it was softer than before. His head was titled to the side, as if he was looking at something that he found either particularly interesting or particularly perplexing.
Jimmy remained silent, although his heart suddenly seemed to be beating unusually fast. He wasn't sure why.
After a moment, George righted his head and began to step away.
"I'll be off to bed, then. Mind you're not too slow followin'. Wouldn't do to stay up all night on your first day, James."
"It's Jimmy".
George just shrugged and flashed Jimmy a grin before he dropped his cigarette to the ground and disappeared back inside.
Jimmy watched the glowing end of the George's cigarette until it went out, then stayed in the dark, shivering, with unfamiliar thoughts whirling through his head until the hoot of an owl brought him to his senses and sent him scurrying back to the house.
July 1903
It was Thomas Barrow's sixteenth birthday. The weather was unusually grim for summer; the sky was grey and it had been raining heavily since dawn. The air was warm, but it was a sticky, uncomfortable type of warmth. Thomas' father was away on business, so Thomas had spent most of the day alone in the work shed, striped to his shirt sleeves and tinkering with the clocks.
It was nearing late afternoon when there was a knock on the door; Thomas was halfway to his feet when it was opened without invitation and a grinning freckled face peered into the room.
"Knew I'd find you 'ere! Mad you are, workin' while your father's away, though I suppose it's better than being out there." Oliver jabbed a finger in the direction of the doorway. "Bloody 'orrible weather - I'm boilin! You've got the right idea there." He nodded towards Thomas' state of undress and slowly peeled off his jacket with a grimace.
Thomas put down his tools and tried not to stare too hard at Oliver, who was now unbuttoning his waistcoat. After countless nights of waking up sticky and panting from dreams of freckle faced men with fair hair and long, dexterous fingers, Thomas knew exactly what that pulling sensation in his stomach was. Lust. He looked fixedly down at the cogs and screws that littered his work bench and tried to keep voice level.
"Thought you were goin' with your father today to see that woman?"
Oliver wrinkled his nose. "Nah, I left them to it. They're gettin' married you know, for proper this time. Got a date set and everythin'. Don't know what 'e sees in her - she's got awful teeth and can't cook to save her life. She made us a roast the other day and the chicken was so burnt I could've sold it for a lump of coal and no-one would've known the difference. Should've done really, could use the money right now." As he spoke, he took off his waistcoat and tossed it down to meet his jacket on the floor. "Anyway, couldn't leave you alone on your birthday, could I?" Clad in only his shirt, Oliver sauntered over to Thomas and sat himself down on a rickety stool.
"That walk of yours is ridiculous.", muttered Thomas. Oliver was sat very close to him; Thomas could feel a flush begin to rise up his neck. He pushed the clock parts around with a file, pretending to work. As Oliver chuckled and leaned in closer, Thomas was hit with the smell of perspiration mixed with a heady, musky cologne.
"Oi! Don't knock it - always useful to 'ave a good walk, shows you know what you're about. What's this you're workin' on then?" Oliver gestured to the clock parts laid out before Thomas.
"Birthday present. Me father was given this old pocket watch by an Earl he did a job for a couple of months back. It's knackered, but he said that if I can fix it, I can keep it."
"Charmin'. What a gift to give your son on 'is sixteenth birthday."
"Better than nothin'. Only present I got, anyway."
Oliver smiled. "That's where you're wrong, Thomas Barrow." He hopped off the stool and went back over to his jacket, rummaging in the pockets before he pulled out a small brown paper bag with a triumphant grin. He swaggered back over to the workbench and placed the bag in front of Thomas. "Ere you are!"
Thomas opened it. Inside were two thick brown cigars. Thomas rolled one between his fingers. "These must've cost a bit."
Oliver shrugged. "I did a bit of repair work on the sly when me father was away last. Anyway, it's your birthday; thought you deserved summat special for once."
Thomas felt that familiar tug of lust in his lower belly at Oliver's words, accompanied this time by a rare, happy warmth which seemed to spread throughout his whole body and made the small room suddenly feel even hotter than it already was. The flush that had started on Thomas' neck began to creep up his face. Again, he ducked his head to try and hide his blush from Oliver, and stared down at the cigars. "Are both of 'em for me?"
"Wellll", Oliver said, rocking forward a little on his stool to bring him closer to Thomas. "They are your present of course, but I were sorta hopin' you might let me just, you know, try one."
Oliver was very near now, and Thomas could feel the other man's breath tickling his hair. He fought to keep his tone cool. "And why should I do that?"
Oliver smirked. "Because I'm the one with the matches."
They smoked in silence for a while. The cigars tasted better than anything Thomas could remember; the smoke was somehow rich and smooth and satisfying, a world away from the cheap, rough cigarettes that Oliver had taught him to smoke. The cigar seemed to sooth Thomas' nerves, and relax muscles he didn't know were tensed. For just a moment, everything seemed right with the world. The small work shed wasn't stickily humid, but rather pleasantly warm. The pieces of pocket watch scattered before him weren't an impossible puzzle or a cruel birthday present, but rather an interesting challenge.
And Oliver... Oliver was suddenly even more appealing that he usually was. He was still sat very close, and Thomas could feel his body heat radiating through his thin shirt. Thomas turned his head to get a better look at the other man.
He was certainly handsome. Slim face with a strong chin, a light scattering of freckles and cheekbones that rivalled even Thomas' own. A sheen of sweat coated his forehead; as Thomas watched, Oliver shifted forward slightly and a lock of fair hair fell across his eyes. He blew out a long stream of smoke from between his lips - full, red lips that Thomas found himself staring at. There was no hiding the blush on his face now; he just hoped that Oliver would put it down to the heat of the shed.
Oliver turned to meet Thomas' gaze and raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Nothin'." Thomas quickly turned his head away, and then, for a loss of anything else to say, blurted out "When's the weddin'?"
"Weddin'?"
"Between your father and that woman."
"Oh – twenty fourth of August. They want me to be the ring bearer. 'Might just lose them on purpose."
Thomas took a long pull on his cigar. "Will they be stayin' down here, once they're hitched?"
"Mebbe. Although the old man's always sayin' there's no work around here these days, so he might move up there with 'er."
Thomas tapped his cigar, and a little ash fell onto the cogs and screws in front of him. "Would you go with them?"
"Mebbe. Or I might travel around a bit, take my chances some place else."
Thomas felt his sense of contentment start to fade. He gave his cigar another, more forceful, tap.
"Orrr...", Oliver said slowly, "I might just stay right where I am. Not that bad around 'ere. Well, not really bad anyway, and I reckon you could do with a bit of help – you know, in the business – from time to time."
The bubble of happiness began to rise again in Thomas' stomach, but he kept his voice cool. "And then what, if you do stay 'ere? Find yourself a girl and settle down?"
Oliver replied with a humourless laugh. "Bloody hope not – I can't think of anythin' worse than endin' up wed to some scullery maid or butcher's daughter with half a dozen little un's in some grotty house. That's not for me." He took a long drag on the cigar and blew the smoke out through his nose. "You should live your life, not endure it."
"That's a bit deep for a Friday afternoon", said Thomas.
"Aye, well, I read it in a book, so it must be true. And anyway, don't think I'm the marrying kind." Oliver took one last puff from his cigar before he put it down on the table and leaned into Thomas. "And by the way you've been lookin' at me lately, I reckon that you ain't, either."
Halfway through an inhale of his cigar, Thomas spluttered; the smoke stung his throat and his started to cough violently. Oliver laughed gently and slapped him on the back. "Still haven't got the hang of it, eh?"
Thomas took a few quick gulps of air and felt the urge to cough begin to subside. "You, you knew? I- you- you know – about me." It came out as a statement rather than a question.
Oliver just nodded, grin still in place. "Course I bloody know, Thomas." He reached out to brush back a stray strand of hair that had fallen across Thomas' eyes. He took Thomas' face in his hands. "You aren't half obvious." With that, Oliver closed the gap between him and Thomas, and placed a brief soft kiss on Thomas' mouth. After a moment, he pulled back and ran a finger slowly along Thomas' bottom lip. "Your father's not back for a bit, is he?"
Thomas just shook his head; producing coherent speech suddenly seemed like a very difficult task. He heart was beating loudly, and that warm, tugging feeling was rapidly spreading from his stomach to every other conceivable part of his body.
"Good." Oliver pressed his mouth to Thomas' ear. "Happy birthday, Thomas Barrow", he murmured, before leaning back in for another kiss.
March 1916
"It's a simply beastly war; I had rather hoped that it wouldn't last more than a year. You know Taylor met his maker last week. Terrible shame, he was an awfully good valet, such attention to detail and quite excellent at folding pocket squares. And Simpson bought it back in 'fourteen; such a good butler, my silverware was always pristine when he was running the household. This new chap I've got leaves smudges everywhere. If it doesn't end soon all of the decent servants will be gone."
Lord Cecil Anstruther was a thin, unattractive man with a rapidly receding hairline and a long, equine face. He had never married, instead choosing to divide his time between frittering away the family fortune in gambling houses and taking advantage of his aunt's hospitality. He often showed up unannounced at her Yorkshire residence, steadily diminishing her supply of brandy while voicing unpopular opinions to anyone who would listen. Jimmy deeply disliked him.
As he spoke, Cecil lit up a cigar and held out his glass at arm's length, which Jimmy took as the signal to top it up.
"I do hope you won't be leaving us, Jimmy?"
"No, my Lord. I don't think I will be."
"Oh?"
From across the room, Lady Anstruther cleared her throat a and shot a meaningful look in her nephew's direction.
"Oh! But of course, we have an invalid in our mist", Cecil slurred, whiskey sloshing in his tumbler as he raised it to point at Jimmy. "I rather hope your affliction doesn't impede your ability to perform your job?"
"No, my Lord. It does not."
"How terribly convenient! If only all good servants could be blessed with such an ailment I would never have to worry about ill-folded handkerchiefs and badly pressed trousers. You're losing another one soon, aren't you Auntie?"
"Yes, George, my second footman. He'll be gone by tomorrow. And Parsons has informed me that a few of the older hall boys have already started receiving their letters. I fear that soon Jimmy will be the only young man left in this household."
"Well", said Cecil, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. "Good job he's not going anywhere then, isn't it?"
By the time Jimmy had finished with the tea service it was late afternoon. He trooped downstairs, hoping to find a scullery maid who he could charm into fetching him some food, when the sound of raised female voices reached his ears. Jimmy followed the noise into the kitchen, where he was met by a particularly curious sight; nearly all of the women in Lady Anstruther's household staff were huddled together in the centre of the room, their loud chatter punctuated by giggles and the occasional wolf whistle. Jimmy was just about to ask what all the fuss was about when the crowd parted, and Jimmy saw for himself exactly what it was.
In the centre of the group of women stood George, decked out in the stiff green uniform of a British solider.
Elise bounded over to Jimmy. "'E got it this morning. Good, ain't it? 'E looks proper smart and 'andsome for once, don't you think, Jimmy?"
Jimmy didn't respond – he just stared mutely at George, suited and booted and ready for war. He suddenly felt quite sick.
From the doorway there came the sound of a throat being cleared with unnecessary volume. "Come along ladies", Mr Parsons said sternly, "We all have work to do and you know that George won't be leaving us until tomorrow, so you can all say your goodbyes then. And George; you may be dressed as a solider but for tonight at least you are still a footman, so could you kindly help Jimmy prepare the silverware for the dinner service, unless you want to personally explain to Lady Anstruther that her evening meal was delayed because you were too busy preening down in the kitchen?"
"Yes Mr Parsons, no Mr Parsons", George intoned cheerily.
Mr Parsons shot George his usual disdainful scowl before leaving the room, signalling for the two footmen to follow him. George and Jimmy trailed behind him down the corridor and into Parson's office, where the Butler unlocked the door of the silver cabinet and pointed out which items would be required for the evening meal. George and Jimmy gathered them into their arms.
"Now, due to the arrival of her Ladyship's unexpected guest", said Parsons, emphasising 'unexpected' as if it were a dirty word, "I have some changes to make to the dining table upstairs. I trust that the pair of you are able to prepare the silverware without further supervision?"
George and Jimmy nodded mutely. Mr Parsons cleared his throat. "Good. And do please be careful – if I find even most minute of scratches or blemishes on any of those items" - he waved a hand towards Jimmy and George's laden arms - "the I shall know who to blame." He raised his eyebrows meaningfully at George as he concluded his speech, before turning smartly on his heel and striding away.
George pulled a face at the Butler's retreating back. "Bloody Parson's. 'E's never liked me, you know? I swear 'e's been lookin' for a reason to give me the boot for years now. Bet it was like Christmas for 'im when me letter came. Maybe I will put a dent in some of this soddin' silverware just to spite 'im."
"Don't you dare", said Jimmy. "I'm the one who'll get the blame when you're not 'ere. Anyway, you should be tryin' to stay on his good side in case you can't find any other work when you come back from the war."
"If I come back from the war", replied George darkly. Jimmy felt the nausea begin to rise in his throat again.
"Come on", he said thickly. "Best get this silver sorted."
Dinner was a tedious affair. Cecil, by then completely plastered on brandy, spend the meal chain smoking his potent cigars and slurring loudly about the war and politics and society in general while Lady Anstruther sat silently at the other end of the table, sipping wine through pursed lips and occasionally nodding in her nephew's direction.
Mr Parsons oscillated between the two diners, bearing a jug of wine. Jimmy and George stood facing each other on opposite sides of the table; Jimmy knew that George was looking at him, but he didn't make eye contact. Instead he kept his gaze fixed on a spot on the wall above and behind George's right ear.
Halfway through the main course Cecil, who had been loudly voicing his views on conscription with erratic hand gestures, knocked his cigar case off the table. George and Jimmy had immediately sunk to their knees and gathered up the escaped cigars before passing them and the case to Mr Parsons, who had replaced it neatly next to Cecil, who hadn't even seemed to notice its absence.
George's imminent departure was the main topic of discussion at the servant's evening meal. The younger hall boys questioned him in hushed tones about where it was exactly he'd be fighting and how long the war would last - as if becoming a solider suddenly made George an expert on all aspects of warfare – while the maids continued to coo over how smart he had looked in his uniform. Jimmy, who had spent the meal miserably failing to block out all such conversations, was immensely relived when Parsons eventually silenced everyone with a glower.
By the time Jimmy crawled into bed that night, a full moon was shining in the cloudless sky. A sliver of silver light shone through the thin curtains and into the room, illuminating the floorboards. Jimmy stared at it, wide awake with ugly and unwelcome thoughts tumbling through his mind.
At some point during the night, there was a knock on the door. Jimmy didn't make any move to open it, and after a few seconds the door swung open to reveal George on the other side.
"Can I come in?"
"I was sleepin''", replied Jimmy, quickly feigning a yawn.
That familiar flicker of amusement passed over George's features as he let himself into the room and closed the door behind him. His lips twitched into a smile. "'Course you were."
George sat down at the foot of the bed. Jimmy huffed in exaggerated agitation, but still drew up his legs to give George more room. The older boy had changed out of his footman's uniform and into his night clothes. A thin beam of moonlight shone over him and Jimmy's eyes were drawn to the way the pale light seemed to make the thin material of George's top almost transparent. He could just pick out the scattering of dark hair that had started to grow across George's chest.
"'Mazing the difference a change of 'clothin' can 'ave on the way people look at you, in'it?" said George.
Jimmy started. "What?"
"The women downstairs. Normally it's you they're fawnin' over while they don't even bother to give me the time of day, but as soon as I put that bloody uniform on this afternoon it were like the soddin' Prince of Wales had just turned up."
"Same with me mum", said Jimmy with a small smile. "She was proper chuffed when me Dad showed up in his, said it was typical of him that the only time he bothered to dress so smartly was when he was about to leave her."
George chuckled softly, but then his faced creased into a frown.
"Any word on how he's doin' out there?"
Jimmy fiddled with the edge of his blanket. "No. We haven't had any letters for a while now."
"Oh."
There was a moment of silence, in which Jimmy continued to stare down at his duvet. Then, there was a slight rustling noise and Jimmy looked up to see George pull something wrapped in a handkerchief out of his pyjama pocket.
"What's that?"
"Come 'ere and I'll show you."
Jimmy tossed aside his blankets and moved down the bed until he was sitting next to George. Slowly, George unfurled the handkerchief; inside were two slim brown cigars. Jimmy looked at him quizzically.
"I pocketed them when that drunken sod dropped 'is case at dinner. Thought it'd make a nice send off to 'ave summat decent to smoke for once." He passed Jimmy one of the cigars before reaching into his other pocket and producing a matchbox, which he handed to Jimmy. "'Ere you are. Light us up."
Jimmy turned the matchbox over in his hands. "If Parsons catches up smokin' in our rooms-"
"Sod Parsons. If 'e smells the smoke you can just say that you knocked over your candle and it caught your blanket. I'll even burn a hole in it meself so you can show 'im. Come on."
Jimmy hesitated for a second longer, then lit the cigars. They certainly were much better than the cheap cigarettes sold by the tobacconist in the village. They smoked in silence for a while.
"I'll probably be dead by the end of the week."
Jimmy dropped his cigar in shock. It landed lit end down in his lap and he hissed in pain before he snatched it up again. He felt the sickness begin to rise again. "Don't. Don't say that. Please."
George let out a short, humourless laugh. "Why not? It's probably true. I'm a right clumsy dolt, you know that, and I'm useless at almost everythin'. Old Parsons only made me footman because all the other half-decent men in the village 'ad already signed up. I should've taken a leaf out 'a your book and charmed old Anstruther into tellin' the war office that I had a nasty rash or summat that meant I couldn't fight."
"You'll be fine", Jimmy said thickly, trying to inject the statement with a confidence he didn't feel. He felt as if he was definitely going to be sick.
"No, I won't. I won't, I won't, I- I-". George dropped his cigar to the floor and took a series of short shuddering breaths. Jimmy saw that he had tears in his eyes.
"I won't be fine, and I'm scared. I'm so fucking scared James."
Jimmy could hear the fear in George's voice, could almost feel it in the way that George shook beside him. He didn't know what to say to make it better, so instead he just said, "It's Jimmy."
"What?"
"My name. It's not James. It's Jimmy. Nobody apart from you calls me James."
George flashed him a small, watery smile and shrugged. "Alright, alright. I'll call you Jimmy if it means that much to you – but just for tonight, mind."
Jimmy nodded begrudgingly in agreement. George looked down at the floor where the stub of his cigar had extinguished and pulled a face.
"Have mine", said Jimmy. He passed George the remains of his cigar.
"Thanks."
George smoked for while longer, seemingly calm again, before he cleared his throat.
"There are so many things I've never done. I've never seen the sea-"
"You'll see it when you get on the boat to France.", Jimmy interjected.
"Oh. Right. I've never even been out of Yorkshire, and here I am goin' to France. I always wanted to see London..."
"You will. When the war's over you could get a job there. Or if you can't find owt else and you end up back 'ere we'll probably both have to go with Anstruther for the season, anyway."
"I've never even kissed anyone. If I die in France I'll never know what all the fuss is about."
Jimmy was suddenly acutely aware of how close he and George were on the bed. He moved back slightly.
"I'm sure one of the maids would be happy to sort you out if you put your uniform on."
George gave another snort of humourless laughter and shifted nearer to Jimmy. There was a voice in the back of Jimmy's mind, one which sounded uncannily like his father's, which told him to move away. He didn't.
"I'm not interested in kissin' girls", said George, "and I don't think you are either."
George was very close now; Jimmy felt another wave of nausea, mixed with that feeling of not-quite-dislike. He had known for a while now that the feeling wasn't really dislike at all, but something else entirely - a warm, heady sensation that began in the pit of his stomach and then spread south. Jimmy tried very hard not to think about what that feeling meant.
"Would you let me go to my death, Jimmy, without ever bein' kissed? I don't think you would."
By now, their lips were so close that even the slightest forward movement from either man would bring them together. George brought his hand up to cup Jimmy's cheek and leant forward to close the gap.
The kiss barely lasted a second before Jimmy found himself planting two hands on George's chest and forcibly pushing the other man away. The queasy nausea had won out over that other feeling, and Jimmy was suddenly seized by a sense of overwhelming panic.
"Get out", he said in a strangled voice; he could feel the bile start to rise up his throat.
George looked bewildered and opened his mouth, but Jimmy didn't give him the chance to speak.
"Get out", He repeated, louder this time. "I c-can't, I c-c-can't – GET OUT!", he screamed, and then clamped a hand over his mouth.
George didn't need telling again; he was up and out of the room by the time Jimmy had pulled the chamber pot from under his bed and had been violently sick in it several times.
There was the sound of footsteps in the corridor and Mr Parsons had burst in, demanding to know what all the commotion was about. The smell of vomit had apparently masked the smoke, because the only thing the Butler said upon seeing Jimmy hunched over the pot was that Jimmy was to stay in bed for at least the next day to avoid passing on whatever illness he clearly had to the other servants, or, God forbid, Lady Anstruther.
By the time he had finished throwing up, Jimmy felt too weak to take the chamber pot outside to be emptied. Instead he put a towel over it and pushed it back under the bed, before he crawled back under his blankets, shaking. Even though the smell soon became unbearable, it was still the least of his problems.
On 3rd July 1903, Thomas Barrow was having a very happy birthday.
On 17th March 1916, Jimmy Kent was huddled beneath his bed covers, feeling confused and alone and very, very worried.
e