DISCLAIMER: I don't own All Creatures Great and Small. Just borrowing the characters for a little while.
A/n: Hey all. I couldn't leave this idea alone after watching the latest episode (3x04- if you haven't seen it there will be spoilers ahead!) With so many unresolved matters and one particular conversation missing, I ended up writing a scene in which Mrs Hall reveals some of her thoughts to Mr Farnon after not attending the recital with Mr Hammond. This, once again, ended up being far longer than I intended! Please do read and review if you have the time. I would love to know your thoughts on this little fic - and on the episode! As always, enjoy x
TENDER RETICENCE
Moonlight glints through the opaque curtains, beckoning the arrival of midnight. There is peace to be found at this late hour, a cherished stillness that comes but rarely in a house that almost never sleeps. Quietude reigns in the kitchen. The last few dishes wait upon the drying rack and in the air there lingers the soothing concoction of fresh linens, parsley and sage.
There is no rainfall. No wind whistling over the chimney tops. No earthly sound save for the swish of Jess' tail, Tricki's soft grunts, and her own inaudible breathing. She has long since finished folding the day's laundry, has cleaned and swept and tidied away the numerous items the boys have invariably forgotten about. But the letter she had intended to pen remains discarded on her writing desk. A wishful fancy she hasn't quite the heart to pursue.
Her pinny hangs upon the back door, demanding she tie it about her waist and flick through her grandmother's recipes to take her mind off all that has occurred. But she has neither the conviction nor resolution to do so, and she can ill afford to wake those in much need of sleep. It would not do to start kneading bread at one in the morning.
Here, at least, in the safe confines of her domain, she may allow herself a moment to dwell and reflect. For the weight of the day lingers heavily, and dawn is yet far away.
"Mrs Hall?"
A soft clatter of footsteps echoes over the passageway tiles, revealing a shadowed figure in the doorway. Jess wags her tail in happy greeting; Tricki Woo merely snuffles from his bed in the corner. With some consternation she eyes the empty whiskey glass in the veterinarian's hand.
"You're up late."
"I might say the same of you, Mrs Hall," he replies nimbly. "You're not usually one for burning the candle at both ends."
"Was there something you wanted?"
"Yes." He steps forward into the light, tired eyes creased with hesitation. "No. That is, I was about to retire but I thought perhaps..." His brow lilts, carrying his proposition into the space between them, "you might care for some company?"
Whilst the quietness had provided some respite, it has done little to ease the growing ache at her temple. She cannot deny that his presence now is not entirely unwelcome, and so she sets the kettle on the stove to boil.
"I were just making a cup of tea."
He nods toward the sink.
"Anything I can do to help?"
"No." The answer comes too quickly, too easily. "No. There're only a few plates left."
"Ah." Something akin to disappointment threads through his reply. "Right. Very good then."
Still he stands motionless at the edge of the table, churning some irresistible thought over in his mind as he rolls back on his heels.
"If you're wondering where the last slice of Battenburg is, it's on the shelf in the pantry."
A chortle of surprise bounces off the ceiling, a glimmer of baffled awe in his expression.
"How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Know what it is I'm going to ask before I have the opportunity to?"
Because she's lived under his roof long enough to interpret his every mood: the manner of his comings and goings, the tightening of his voice, the unpredictability of his temper, and his varying degrees of impossibly vexing rascality.
"I've a sixth sense," Mrs Hall replies with a shrewd smile. "And you've got that look on your face that says you want something sweet. I do hope you don't intend to tease poor Tricki with it again."
"Only if he insists on hiding under the furniture. Speaking of darling Tricki, where exactly..."
Turning about, she expects to find the Pekingese settled quietly in the bed next to Jess. But Mrs Pumphrey's companion, having not quite been ready to succumb to sleep, was not where she had left him. Indeed, he had determinedly waddled his way under the kitchen table during the course of their conversation and was, once again, in search of food.
"Oh, for goodness sake!" Mr Farnon mutters. "That's Jess' food. Yours..." He plucks the protesting dog from the floor, carries him around the table and deposits him by the cabinet, "is over here. There now."
She watches with some amusement as he kneels next to the small creature. As he fusses and coos and attempts, several dry biscuits later, to lure the dog back into his bed. Murmuring sweet goodnights as he might to a child.
"Mrs Hall?"
"Mm?"
He nods toward the stove, to the kettle whistling away to itself - a gentle noise that threatens to crescend into an impending screech. With swift momentum she turns off the heat, removes the kettle from the burner. Prays that the noise had not reached the slumbering ears of those upstairs.
"You seem..." Carefully he reaches for the appropriate term, leaving Tricki with one last biscuit before rising to his feet. "Distracted."
"Do I?"
"If you'll permit me, I might go as far as to say you seem unhappy."
He's standing almost too close for her liking, looking at her with an expression brimming with unbearable compassion. She's never quite been able to master the art of hiding her worries from him - or perhaps he has merely gained the capacity to glimpse through her ever-necessary mask of stoicism.
"I'm not... unhappy."
"But you're not happy either," he presses, voice softening in the way it does whenever he's tackling a difficult subject. "I may feign ignorance on many matters, but I am not blind, Mrs Hall. I... I know what it is to be in pain and to feel that nobody sees you."
"It's been a long day is all," comes her unsteady reply, half-retreating to the sink when he catches her arm lightly. Meets her there, in that solitary place between half-hearted pretense and piercing truths.
"You don't always have to be so brave, you know."
Her breath catches.
"Yes," she replies sternly, though little does she consider herself worthy of such a word. "I do, Mr Farnon."
For bravery was bound to the legends of old, bequeathed on kings and queens and those valiant of heart. It belonged to those who sought greatness for the world and faced unprecedented trials in the name of change. To those young souls bidding their families farewell, bundling into the backs of trucks and buses, and heading for the training camps.
Bravery was for those who fought on the battlefield.
Again, he steps closer, forcing her eyes to meet his.
"It's just that I hate to see you distressed."
She throws him a severe look, counters his burgeoning concern with outright denial.
"I am not."
"Aren't you?"
Spoken in haste, the question should have caught her off guard, but she is too well accustomed to concealing her feelings. Even with him standing so attentively near. And so she swallows, drops her trembling gaze, refuses to voice an answer. He is not, however, so willing to let her pull away, and his gentle line of inquiry takes another turn.
"How was the recital?"
The tea towel is soon seized in hand, one plate after the next dried and placed back in the cupboard, a rehearsed rhythm reduced to that of guarded deliberation. Only two remain by the time her reply finally forms.
"We didn't quite get there, in the end. I thought it best we talk about..."
His eyes crinkle with generous discernment.
"Will we be seeing Mr Hammond again?"
"I don't know. His friendship had, does, mean a great deal to me, but... Well, I- I told him..."
She had told him the truth. Had allowed the words to form as openly and as sincerely as she could, knowing already how his shoulders would droop, his face crumple, and his hope for the afternoon, and perhaps beyond, drift away as certainly as a leaf upon the ripples of a steady stream.
"Forgive me, Mrs Hall," the veterinarian starts suddenly, briskly pulling her back to the present moment. "I'm being intolerably inquisitive. You needn't answer."
He moves to leave, and she would have let him, had not the urge to confide in him become so emphatically compelling.
"I... I told him that I were happy with how things are. Between us. And with my place here. It hurt to see him hurt, but I..." A deep inhale, gaze transfixed on the moon-lit windowsill. "I couldn't let our friendship develop into anything more than what it is."
She is not altogether sure he ascertains her meaning at first, will not allow her attentions to be drawn in by him and his breathless stare. Silvery rays ignite the pane, cascading over the bundle of fragile forget me nots tucked against its corner. The plate she holds between her hands is strangely weightless, liable to escape her grip, yet steadfastly is she held by the memory of that afternoon. By the consequence of all that she had uttered.
Only when he reaches to take the dinnerware from her does she kneel and slide it in with the others, the clatter of porcelain resoundingly harsh in the pervasive silence. A prelude to a conversation she cannot quite bear to continue.
"Will you still be walking Jess tomorrow?"
"I don't know," Mrs Hall sighs. "I suppose that depends on what Gerald wants."
"What about what you want?"
She draws in a deeper breath, wishes it did not wrap around her lungs so. A sharp and discomforting pressure.
"I never wanted to hurt him."
Yet perhaps it had only ever been inevitable. For she had blinded herself to it, to the spark in his gaze and the familiarity of his tone, trusting that their friendship would never change. Whilst knowing, in truth, that she could never reciprocate any feeling more than that of companiable fondness.
"I am sorry," Mr Farnon murmurs. "That you missed the recital. And for... everything else." He moves to take the tea towel from her grasp, means to finish the task left undone, but her grip only tightens further around the damp fabric. "There's something else worrying you, isn't there?"
His observation startles her, but she will not relinquish the tea towel. Even as he tugs at it lightly.
"I don't want to talk about it. Not now."
"I'm not asking you to." He nods towards the kettle. "Why don't you let me pour the tea? And please don't argue or make some stoic excuse, because we both know you haven't one to offer."
Beneath his insistent, exacting stare, Mrs Hall soon finds herself seated at the kitchen table. He slides the cake tin toward her, taps a short rhythm on the top. Determined to find some means of keeping the melancholy at bay.
"I believe Tristan may have left you a generous slice of Mrs Turner's lemon sponge."
"Oh aye?" Her brow arches in wondering skepticism. "Are you sure James hasn't gotten there first?"
"No, no." He swiftly opens a drawer, then another, heeding none of the care she had taken in being as quiet as possible. As if time were not striding headlong into the early hours. He fishes out a fork and dives back into the cupboard for a side plate. "Tristan did insist."
Quietly she lifts the lid, unfurls the wrappings of baking paper. Syrupy citrus spirals into the air in homely greeting, tempting a smile.
"He's a good lad."
"I'll defer to your good judgement on that matter," Mr Farnon smirks, but there is little to no sarcasm in his tone. He is proud of his younger brother today, still cheerful after their afternoon's spin about the countryside. "He's..." Exuberance gives way to hesitancy. "He's worried about you. As a matter of fact, we all are."
Alarm comes as she slides the cake onto the dish. Guilt, too, that she should have been so outwardly affected. That she might burden anyone under this roof with her own troubles. Absently, her fork pierces the last slice, remains there for some time before she proceeds to take a bite. He must interpret her deepening frown as some sort of judgement on the cake.
"Come along now, Mrs Hall. Don't be coy." His eyes twinkle in anticipation. "What's the verdict?"
It is as lemony as any lemon cake should be. Light and soft, though perhaps a little too sweet for her own taste.
"It is a good cake."
"Not as good as yours though, of course," Mr Farnon huffs curiously at the revelation.
She returns his daring stare with a formidable one of her own.
"I'll not comment on that."
Taking up the discarded tea towel, the veterinarian's expression morphs yet again into respectful understanding, though his propensity for teasing seeps through.
"As ever, Mrs Hall, you are far too modest for your own good."
It is strange sitting there at the table, watching her employer move about the kitchen. Choosing which tea cups to use, cursing whenever he cannot find what he is looking for. Tipping four heaped teaspoons into the pot and thence pouring the boiling water with extraordinary care. Instinct demands she do something to help, to insist that it's no bother at all. But although her fleeting sense of guilt weighs heavily, it is the unshakable burden of sorrow that weighs heaviest.
"Really, Mr Farnon, you don't have to-"
"I want to, Mrs Hall," he cuts her off with dogged inflexibility. "I know it's not much but, all things considered, this really is the least I can do. When you came back earlier, I... If Helen hadn't interrupted us-"
"I'll fetch you that Battenberg."
He catches her as she springs from her chair, cuts off her line of escape and prevents her from retreating to the pantry.
"No. No, I'll get it, Mrs Hall. I am quite capable of fetching it myself, contrary to popular belief."
Grudgingly she watches him go, waits for the inevitable question. For the retracing of footsteps and the lifting of numerous objects whilst he mutters irritably.
"Where did you say it was again?"
"On the shelf," she replies, sinking back into her seat. "Right-hand side."
Her thoughts have carried far away by the time he returns to take up his customary seat opposite. At the arrival of his favourite treat, Tricki Woo lifts his head and emits a loud grumble, staring down the veterinarian and beseeches he share some of the tantalising slice. But Mr Farnon is not Mrs Pumphrey, and he is not so easily swayed.
"Hush, Tricki!" He wags a finger at the offended Pekingese, and takes an unnecessarily enormous bite.
Mrs Hall shakes her head at the pair; Jess snorts in apparent exasperation.
"Thank you," she begins, "for asking me to join you and Tristan for a drive today. Well, yesterday. It were nice to see a bit more of the dales."
"I thought you might enjoy the fresh air," he shrugs, as if they had done it a thousand times before. "And the views, of course."
"I did."
He chuckles lightly.
"Even if it was in an old rust bucket."
She smiles at that, remembers admiring the green of the fields and the haze of the afternoon sun, and the relentless racketing of the car. Tristan rambling and laughing, pointing out the names of fells and hills she has never looked on before. With fond recollection, she remembers how she had glanced at the wing view mirror every so often and caught the reflection of the elder veterinarian's euphoric expression. And then, upon returning her gaze: the softening of his brows and the strangest sense of comfort that had lifted some of the weight from her shoulders.
He must catch some transient flicker of her thoughts, for he pulls the teapot back in reconsideration.
"Perhaps I should fetch you something stronger?"
"Tea will be just fine."
Tendrils of steam dance above the cup he slides toward her, allowing his fingers to briefly rest over hers. It is a fleetingly rare gesture that warms her heart, strengthening the cocoon of safety she has found within these old stone walls.
Little by little the moonlight begins to fade. Distant clouds roll in from the east, covering the star-lit night in hues of deepening grey. Soft snores resonate from beneath the bundles of knitted blankets in the far corner, the clock chimes quarter to and a light chill seeps into the air.
His hand lies close to hers, open and inviting, fingers almost touching. But he will not reach out to hold her; he will leave it there for her to choose. Will smile endearingly over the rim of his teacup, take a bite of Battenburg and allow the night to stray into the tender reticence they have so often shared.
"Mrs Hall," he begins after some time, "I understand you don't want to talk about whatever it is that's bothering you, but I do want you to know that although listening to others may not be my strongest attribute..." He catches her pointed look, reassesses his evaluation. "Alright, it's one of my worst, but... well, I meant what I said. If ever you should wish to talk - about anything, really, day or night - I am wholly at your disposal. I know I've not been particularly temperate of late, but..."
She reaches out to squeeze his hand, allows her palm to rest there a while.
"Thank you."
"You have always been here to listen," he admits, perhaps with some undeserving regret. "It's far past time I return the favour."
"It's not a question of favour, Mr Farnon."
"But you..." He drops his gaze, face half-shadowed by soft lamplight and the sliver of a ghostly moon seeping through the clouds. "You deserve..."
His exhale rumbles with rueful discontent, and she has not the wherewithal to interpret the medley of emotion rising warmly in his cheeks.
"Whatever happened today, Mrs Hall, I do hope you know that we are all here for you." He sighs faintly, amends his admission. '"That I am here for you. And that we care for you very much."
She is not accustomed to hearing him speak so openly, so earnestly, with neither restraint nor restriction impeding his words. His kindness strikes deep, preventing any rational reply.
"If we have been remiss in our appreciation or support, I can only apologise," Mr Farnon continues quietly, unearthing the recent memory of his unexpected outburst, his snapped retort volleying like thunder about the room. "If you should ever need anything, all you need do is ask. I owe you that much. And more."
Gently, he enfolds her hand with his own, brushes over her knuckles with something akin to reverent fear, as if any sudden pressure might cause her to disappear from his grasp. As if he might shatter this midnight illusion and erase every hushed confession.
She offers a delicate smile, coaxes him away from the shadows.
"I have everything I need right here."
Haltingly, anxiously, he lifts his questioning gaze to meet hers. Searches with barely suppressed hope, profound in its intensity.
"Do you?"
Breathing, at last, becomes a little easier. Here, in this room. This house. This safe haven that has brought her so much joy. Where she is free to speak as she finds and live as she chooses. Where she might forever be surrounded by hope and laughter, and the inexhaustible antics of the people she has come to call family.
For this, she has come to realise, is where she belongs.
"Yes," she whispers. "I do."
