Notes:
Cathy— On the most part, I don't enjoy love stories…but, when they're done well, I don't mind them. Just look at Romeo and Juliet, how could anyone not love such a classic? But—I disagree love is the most powerful emotion that we have, personally. Hate and pride are equally powerful emotions, in my opinion. Bill and Charlotte might have something planned for them, you never know, but I can tell you definitely that there will be no romance for our beloved JM Barrie. Actually, JM Barrie will find another kind of love, in upcoming chapters, but that shall be for me to know and you to find out.
Dawnie-7— Yes, poor boys. They can't seem to escape the wrath of their nanny…Church and the graveyards everyday is simply cruel and unusual torture, my dear!
Chef13— Yep, my first drafts of chapters can be extremely hard to understand. So bad, sometimes I even re-do them, like I did with Chapter 2. Thank you for saying I kept Mr. Barrie in character…and I am marvelously thrilled that you also identify with him, as a writer. I must admit I took some of myself, and put that into JM Barrie's writing style. I go bonkers about what to name a character—no, seriously, it really does take me hours on end to find a good name. And I also have the memory of a fruit fly, so if I have an idea for a story, I have to write it down quickly before it slips out and I can't remember it. I suppose great minds think alike :)
PirateWench5309—Many thanks for your encouraging words!
Starlit Niphredil—James is a darling, isn't he? Thank you for calling that moment in the story hilarious…I thought that was just the kind of thing Mr. Barrie might do. Poor Miss Leary, having to see a grown man in such a position :) And, yes, matters have not ended between Peter and Mrs. Reid, I am sorry to say. The power struggle between the two continues.
Tweetypie987—Thank you for your lovely review! It cheered me up quite a bit. Oh, and I believe chapter two and three (and now, four) are up now, if you wish to continue reading my story.
"Amen…" said the Priest, lifting his hand up towards the high ceiling of the church, "Go with the Lord…"
"Amen," Responded the congregation.
Little Peter stared up to the stained glass windows, the ones with the ice-white angels and the shimmering gold cross, which was entwined with glassy razor thorns and bloody roses. The pretty morning light burst through of the rainbow glass, and it poured a glorious dye over all the orchids, furniture, ladies, gentlemen, and children in the church. The lady with the puffy, feathery hat turned purple; the old gentleman with the cherry cane turned green; the lovely little girl with the china doll turned dark blue; and the whole congregation turned different and vibrantly amazing shades of colors.
Little Peter moved his tiny toes around in his stiff leathery boots, and he scratched his arms and neck—How he loathed Sunday clothes. So tight, so itchy…they were, in young Mr. Davies mind, the worst set of attire he possessed. His cotton collar was hard like lead against his throat, the big buttons that traveled from his waist to his neck were an ugly shade of bluebird, the boot's laces wouldn't tie when he tied them, the jacket and vest were made out of scratchy knitting which sent an uncomfortable tickle up his boyish spine, and his pearly tie was always adjusted too firmly, so he would feel himself being choked, much like a hang-man. He dreamt of, on some great and fantastic day, when he was quite the Man, to burn them in the nursery fireplace.
Now, the boy felt his conscience get the better of him. Am I, he thought, so selfish as to think of my stupid, stupid clothes instead of Mother? He felt a million pin-pricks dip into him, almost like ravenous birds pecking at his flesh, and that the feeling boys generally get when their conscience is instructing them to be ashamed and depressed with themselves.
"Peter," George tenderly said, whilst tapping Peter's shoulder, "Peter, come along, Peter…We'd better get up and stop daydreaming, now…"
"Right... Sorry, George." Peter said, while thrusting himself off the cushioned seat.
George had a heavy thing in his eyes, a timeless pity, something only brothers can have, when they feel their hearts dry up like prunes out of concern for siblings. George wanted ever so much to be like his father—a man who was only a wispy, echoing ghost in the corridors of his memory—George would have fast bursts of remembrances of him, scenes in his head that zoomed by so quickly that he'd hardly grasped what they were about. Notwithstanding, George always knew in his heart that his father had been a brave, respectable, noble, and kind-spirited Englishman, who'd never failed to encourage his sons or his wife. So, his dead Father was his role model in all things.
"You seem sad." George whispered, resting his hand on his brother's shoulder.
"That's because I am." Peter shot George a black look.
George retreated his hand away, and breathed out an uneven sigh, "I know you miss Mother dearly. And, so do I, Peter. But—but, she isn't alone, because she has Father to nurture her now…So we mustn't feel solemn. Mother never meant to leave us here by ourselves…"
"I know that." Peter grumbled, walking faster to get away. "Don't talk to me like I don't understand, George."
George stopped walking and stood still for a moment, as it dawned upon him that he'd just insulted Peter by talking to him like a child. George hissed angrily, internally scolding himself for being careless in not remembering that his younger brother hated that.
He then sped up next to his brother again, "Peter," said he, "I know you understand. I know you're not a stupid boy, but I only want you to know that you can talk to me, any time…"
Peter turned slightly, and looked rather pale, "I'm fine, George."
"I don't think you are." George persisted, "You have every reason not to be, I understand... But you shouldn't bottle your thoughts up, before they become too much for you to handle, Peter." The elder brother paused, as they both walked out of the Church together, "We don't have Mother or Father anymore…and we're lucky to have Uncle Jim and Grandmama for us, but we mustn't rely on them all the time. We brothers have to keep our heads up together."
Peter looked up at his brother and gave him a sincere nod. It frightened Peter to think that a mere going back should even be possible. For such fate would seem to be the worst of all, to reach a time when all his love and loyalty to his mother should become a charming episode—like a nice picnic, that fleetingly sweetened his life and then returned him to be normal, unaltered.
But…Something secret passed between them, a few glitters from their eyes, a few sniffs, a few gentle nods of the head—these were all secret understandings between the two.
"We should go and see Mother, now, I suppose." Peter said, glancing down the crowded stone steps of the Church, down to where Mr. Barrie, Grandmama Emma, Mrs. Reid, Jack, and Micheal were.
George Llewelyn-Davies smiled slightly, nodded his head, and began to trot down the stone stairs, tunneling his way around the wilderness of churchgoers. Peter soon trailed behind him…And he lagged behind the group, as they walked towards his mother's gravesite.
Peter closed his eyes, letting the air caress his face and brush against his Sunday suit. It was almost like the Wind was dusting it out—like his mother had done once. Perhaps the wind was his mother's ghost swiping off the grains of fluff off his slim shoulders…Perhaps, perhaps, oh…How Peter wished that was true. But the wind was dead and gone, just like the ghosts; it was something you could feel come against you and pet you, but you could never return the favor.
Peter, with his eyes still gently shut, stretched out his hand and imagined that he grabbed the Wind's tail, like he would the tail of a kite. For a moment, he pretended that the wind picked him up, cradled him in its wings, flew him high up to the clouds, and then slipped him into the open arms of his mother, who lived up there now... He had almost forgotten how much she smelled of lavender—how soft and comfy it was to hold onto her, and how secure he began to feel when he saw the patient reassurance of her smile. Then, Peter realized something important, and it was this…Not only did Mothers brush the dust off Little Boys' shoulders, but they also brushed the dust out of Little Boys' hearts.
"Young man…" Said a voice—which was not his mother's—"Young Mr. Davies! Do conclude whatever it is that you are doing. Young man! Young man! Young man!"
Peter's eyes shot open, and he immediately had to wipe them with his small tie. The sunlight stung his eyes, and he felt as if he had just fallen asleep to a nightmare. The churchyard, the graveyard, the people, the brothers, the girls, the boys, the carriages, the buildings; these were the things that weren't real. These things were the stuff of nightmares, the stuff of pirates, the stuff of devils and ghouls. The Never-Never Lands were real. They were they only real things left.
I must keep believing so, Peter thought, a war raging inside his little spirit. Please, Peter! Please, please, keep believing like Uncle Jim says; otherwise you'll never see Mother. You don't want to lose her even more, and you know that. Believe. Believe. Believe. Believe. Just believe, like Uncle Jim said. Just believe. Just believe. Just believe.
"Please, don't waste time, Mr. Davies!" Said Mrs. Reid, who was, today, more fierce than usual, "Quicken your step!"
Peter did quicken, caught up to his brothers, and said to George, "Oh, how I hate our nanny…"
"I know." George said, "I'm starting to wish school would begin, just so I can escape her…"
"Why doesn't Uncle Jim stop it?"
"It won't be long before he fires her." George mumbled, not too sure of what he said himself.
"I don't think he ever will. He is too frightened of her, I think."
"I don't know," George said, "but I don't think so. He's not afraid; Uncle Jim's too good for that, in my opinion. He's just patient with her."
A hush fell upon the boys as they approached the tombstone that read the chiseled engraving: 'Sylvia Llewelyn-Davies'.
Peter switched his gaze down to the grave, and stared until the jelly of his eyes began to dry. He blinked, once, but quickly opened them again. He could've stared at his Mother's grave for all his life; growing up from a little boy to a youth to a gentleman to an old man and then dissolving into a mere skeleton, just staring down to her.
Why does she have to die? She was supposed to live forever, just like he had planned.
A hand rested, daintily, on Peter's shoulder. He expected it to be Uncle Jim— but, really, it was Mrs. Reid's gloved hand. Instantly, Peter had a mind to pull away from her—but the boy thought better of it, since he wasn't keen on getting in trouble with her again. At least, not now. At least, not in front of Mother.
Mrs. Reid proclaimed, in a godly type of voice, "May God grant you the serenity to accept the things you cannot change, courage to change those things you can—and wisdom to know the difference."
The boys' heads hung sadly towards their mother's sunken grave. Mrs. Emma du Maurier dabbed her wet eyes with her lacy handkerchief, but, besides that, she kept her general mien quite even, as was her usual standard of behavior. Inside herself, Mrs. du Maurier could feel something ripping apart, like cobwebs or thin paper—she had always expected her little Sylvia to see her die first. Mothers shouldn't see their own children die before them, and children shouldn't see their own mothers die before them—why, wouldn't it be proper just for no one to die at all?
James Barrie offered Mrs. du Maurier his dry handkerchief, as hers, he had noticed, had gone rather wet and soggy now. Mr. Barrie had a concerned pout on his lips, as he disliked how painful these visits were for his boys, and for Sylvia's mother. He himself, felt a great loss over Sylvia's death—but nothing could compare to the suffering of this family. A mother (and a daughter) had been cut out of their lives, and a mother (or a daughter) is never completely replaced.
James had only lost a dear friend, a close and understanding friend—his pain for the loss of a friend, was nothing compared to theirs
Micheal had forget-me-nots for his mother. The little lad placed them at the tombstone's head, and quickly backed away.
There was a sad and lonely moment. But this lasted only for a split second. There was a cheery laugh, and the boys spun around, as they recognized it instantly—It was like wedding bells, you could never miss them, and you could never not be cheered by them. That was Mr. Lawley's laugh, unmistakably. Big, bubbly, and as blasting as a war cannon, it echoed throughout the shadowy glens and lonely, forgotten tombs of the graveyard.
"Good evening, gentlemen!"
The boys replied, a little weakly, as their dead mother had sobered them, "Hello, Bill! Hello!"
Mrs. du Maurier glared at the dirty newcomer, and she sneered out, "Have you no respect for the dead? Please, young man! How dare you… shout at mourners like cattle?"
Bill looked surprised, yet he bowed respectfully, nonetheless, "Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am—I were jus' paying a friendly 'hello'."
Mrs. du Maurier felt greatly insulted by this young man's presence. He was unfamiliar. He was dirty and low-bred. He seemed poorly educated, perhaps even, a complete neglect education all together. With these first impressions, the Grandmother immediately concluded that this vulgar person was not a fit role model for her grandchildren.
"Who is this young man, Mr. Barrie?" Mrs. du Maurier asked, sharply.
"I don' know in the slightest." Barrie replied.
Mrs. du Maurier gracefully, yet with a tint of snobbery, inquired, "Who are you, Mr.—?"
"Mr. Lawley, but ta more aquatinted persons, I'm Bill." Her stretched out his grimy, leather-stiff hands, naively expecting her to shake with them—but she'd never soil her gentle, delicate white gloves, and never shake someone's hand, especially not a man's hand. Especially not that man's hand, for goodness sakes! It was neither natural nor proper for a lady!
This young man was more idiotic than he looked.
She winced away, as if his hand was a venomous spider. "And what is your business here, with my children?"
Mr. Lawley smiled, wiping some of the sweaty dirt off his arms, "Only ta say 'hello'. No more than that, ta be very 'onest. Well… since I've said 'ello an' all such business… then I'll go." He grinned, once more, "Bye, then, gentlemen!"
James Barrie suddenly realized something that made him almost jump out of his skin with delight. He walked towards the young man, implored him to stay a moment, and said: "Are you tha gravedigger I've been hearing of?"
"Mos' probably, sir." Bill Lawley answered, glancing at the boys, and looking nervously at Mr. Barrie.
"Wha' a complete privilege, Mr. Lawley!" Eagerly, Mr. Barrie shook his hand, "Do let me introduce myself an' my company, I am James Barrie—this fine lady is Mrs. Emma du Maurier—an' that's Catherine Reid…An' I see you've already met my boys."
"Hello, sir." Mr. Lawley said, pleasantly, "I've already met them, yeah."
"You've really inspired my Micheal—he's tha' wee little lad over there—I've heard so, so many fantastical things about ye, my young Mr. Lawley. My boys hold ye in great honor, ya know…"
"Really, sir?"
"Yes, really." Mr. Barrie said, "They've told me much abou' you, since their last trip visitin' their mother."
Bill Lawley frowned, a little confused, but then he saw the tombstone—then he understood.
The gravedigger whispered something and leaned down to the earth, fondly admired the lady's neatly cut tombstone, and petted the soil, as if he were petting an animal, "This is yer Ma, then?"
The boys nodded their heads.
Mr. Lawley shook his head, as he observed the boys—they were only children, and yet they had lost their Mother. Mothers were always supposed to die old, sitting by the fire or having a peaceful dream in their quilted bed. Not young; never young…And not with little children being left behind without her. Yet, Bill had known other boys who had dead mothers. The Angel of Death was blind, and she took mercy on no one, and that is the way things are.
Although Bill pitied them, he couldn't quite relate to their plight, for he never had dead parents. Both of his were filled to the absolute brim with life and, seemingly, immortal energy—sturdy as rocks, they never seemed to go down with fever. Now, he saw them rarely, as he was, by their standards, a man, and a man who needed to work hard for whatever he could earn—and, as a man, he was not supposed to be given any encouragement. It was cruel to him, to be so tenderly loved and wooed, and then kicked out, told to be manly, and earn bread for the worthy family table. Bill put up with it, with a painful smile…
He had known well the fresh smell of dirt, grave's wrinkled roses, smooth tombstones, and the ivory taint of a corpse's skin... since he took up the job of gravedigging. Such eerie wonders had cultivated a beautiful imagination. Never-Never Land— Mr. Lawley had been there, many a time, in the freeze of a black night, or in the middle of a misty morning among the Graveyard Gates.
"I'm sorry, boys." Mr. Lawley concluded, looking up at them.
"It's not your fault, Bill." Said little Micheal. That was the first thing he said all evening.
"Oh, no…I meant I were sorry for 'er dyin', Micheal." The gravedigger explained, soberly. "It's awful."
The boys all bobbed their heads up and down, agreeing.
James Barrie watched this, and was touched. He came up to the crouching gravedigger, "Will you come over ta our house for lunch, Mr. Lawley? I would enjoy it very much…only, that is, if you can make it. I do realize you work on a schedule."
Mrs. du Maurier and Mrs. Reid both had terrifying scowls on their faces, as the watched the interaction between these two. In contrast, all the boys, except Peter, had glowingly cheerful faces. They all, except the ever-sullen Peter, would love having Bill join them for lunch.
"—Really, we must be on our way, don't you agree with me, Mr. Barrie?" Said the Nanny, adjusting her navy blue hat with the cardinal feather laced into the ribbon.
"Alright," Agreed Mr. Barrie, "Jus' let me see if Mr. Lawley'll come with us, my dear woman."
"Are you quite serious, Mr. Barrie?" The nanny hissed.
"Of course."
Mrs. Reid looked scandalized—Notwithstanding, the boys and Mr. Barrie persisted.
"Miss Leary will be there, Bill," Jack put in, saucily, with a nudge to George.
Mr. Lawley cleared his throat, "Well, it seems I 'ave no choice, do I? Right, then, gentlemen. I'll come for lunch. I 'ave to put away a few bits o' equipment, but, besides tha'—In 'alf an hour, I've got me lunch."
"Half an hour till your lunch?" Stated Micheal, "That's a long time!"
"No, it's not." Peter corrected. He had a much clearer idea on time. "Not really."
"Bill wouldn't know which flat we live in, so, I suppose, we'll just have to wait for him to finish his shift." Explained George.
Now, Mrs. du Maurier and the Nanny would have none of this. They both insisted that the whole arrangement be called off, and that Mr. Lawley come another time.
This dampened the boys' spirits considerably, but Mr. Barrie then offered to remain at the graveyard, while the rest went back home. So, when Mr. Lawley's shift was finished, he and James would continue down to the house to join them for lunch. All was right with the world, once again…
Mr. Barrie smiled, contentedly, "Well, there we go, then! All problems solved."
"I do not think you should—" Began Mrs. du Maurier, but was cut off.
"Don't worry yerself, Mrs. du Maurier. I feel rather strongly tha' I'll get some golden material for my writing, when I wait fer Mr. Lawley." He breathed in the air, smoothly, "This graveyard's thriving with inspiration, don't ye think so? It must be all tha primeval architecture, I don't know for sure, but I'm definitely feeling rather… creative."
"Very well," Emma sighed, tiredly. The grandmother gave a sharp eye to her boys, "We shall be waiting for you back at home…Children, come along with me! We mustn't leave the lunch Mrs. Bailey made us become too cold."