To all the others, I love you and appreciate you very, very much
James glanced at the pocket watch, snapped it shut, and sighed for what seemed to be the hundredth time that morning. Tick-Tick…Tick-Tick…The tick-tocking of the grandfather clock could be heard all over the office, like a slow heartbeat. Time never flies when you're at the desk of Charles Frohman; no, rather, Time becomes as snail-slow and just about as capable of flying as a rock.
And, worst of all for Mr. Barrie, that tree still hadn't been climbed.
James felt his brows dripping into a thoughtful frown. 'I really should get 'round to climbing that tree', he mused to himself. In fact—according to the eminently practical Charles Frohman—Mr. Barrie should've gotten around to doing many things by now. Mr. Frohman was pestering for a script, a manuscript, a circus act…well, no, not really a circus act, but Charles certainly was of an impatient temper, and he wanted something and he wanted something fast.
But all James thought of were the tree branches rustling outside the office window, happily swinging to and fro with the wind, mocking all the somber working men inside. James Barrie wished that he could be a branch, rather than listen to his friend jabber on about grim finances. Ah, to sway back and forth with the wind, and not to know the first thing about production budgets…!
"Hang in here, James, I know this is boring—"
"'Cuse me?"
Charles looked at James, a little blankly, and then said, "At least try to listen, James. It helps quicken the whole nightmare."
Nightmare, indeed! All this… paper, James thought, giving an evil eye to the mountains of paper in his lap, on the dark wood desk, and the few squares littered on the crimson carpet. I'll be mummified. Absolutely mummified with it. I won't be surprised if my very blood turns to ink an' skin turns to scratchpaper! Charles, you've—
"James? James." Charles was pacing back and forth, pulling at his hair, "You're just not listening to me…"
Mr. Barrie looked up to his contemporary and, with a affable tone of voice, said, "Guilty as charged…"
"James…" Mr. Frohman's eyes flashed wildly.
James shut his eyelids and pushed back against the leather office chair. He tiredly breathed out a "Hmm?"
No reply came but, instead, there was an ice-cold silence.
Mr. Frohman tightly folded his arms, growled slightly, and then continued racing to and fro across the office. Both of his bushy eyebrows were high up in his forehead, and his ebony eyes scanned JM Barrie from head to toe—with glitters of bitter frustration.
James sighed again, his throat becoming dry from sighing so often, and he focused his mind on the tree he was going to climb— a sturdy brown trunk with heavy, warm branches and glossy green leaves. The imagined air rippling his gray coat, the birds chirping busily in their nests, kites floating on the wind, and below him was an endless field of green and dewy grass…
… Just faintly, he could feel the hot springtime sun upon his face…
"Look, James," Said Mr. Frohman, his voice as rough as sandpaper, "You know quite well this is a business of pace. Say if a play of yours fails, money is lost…"
James grimaced. Oh, fry money! That's all that ever was discussed here, in this office—losing money, gaining money—not even the written word was sacred. The more books, greater the chance of the general populace liking the silly bit of prose, then profits, banks, maybe a loss of profits—but, all dreaded profits! James had comfortable circumstances, and was content with his social standing, but somehow Mr. Frohman had gotten it in his head that James would be happier with more attention. Thus, the endless pestering.
Really, sometimes it bled the pleasure right out of writing
"…the actors in the play get discredited, and everything falls apart. And that's bad." Charles' voice lightened to a whisper, "But, what's worse, James—what's worseis not producing anything. Things dry up quickly, and next thing you know nobody cares, or knows, about your work anymore. You've got to snatch it—right now, you have their attention. You got to fight to keep it. You've got plenty of stories stuffed in that head of yours, James, and I've seen good ideas from you—honestly good ideas—and all you have to do is sit down, get a pen and paper, and write. Just write, for Christ's sake."
At length James shook his head, "Charles, I've the boys, I've nanny an' their grandmother. Time's not my friend, Charles, but you are. Have a bit of patience with me; I'm tryin' my best."
These words seemed to have reached Mr. Frohman's deft ear.
"It's the cost of it, isn't it? You know I'll pay for it, James…" Charles said, as he paused and stared at his friend. "I'll tackle the budget."
James felt like he would explode like a firecracker. Money again. Was it a plague? A curse? A witch's hex? He surely thought it was; because if the horrific words 'budget', 'cost' or 'payment' were said one more time, James resolved that he would storm out, crawl up the nearest tree, and not come down until the firemen came and plied him down like a pussycat.
To calm himself, he quickly got out a pen from his satchel, and took a bit of stray paper. He ripped a small piece off, and feverishly scribbled down, in inky letters— rather than brains, bank notes stuffed in his skull! Insufferable, yet completely pathetic—much like a puffed thrush, worrying about the amount of sticks and leaves and mud in his nest—
Mr. Barrie relaxed his wrists. He calmly folded the torn paper, and tucked it into his tweed pocket.
Charles looked immensely happy.
"Good man," Mr. Frohman said, grinning like a madman. "Brilliant, James, you keep that up and we'll have a play in no time!"
"Oh. That's—a piece of paper, it's just a tiny thought. Nothing. An' the chances of it growin' into a play are slim."
"You," Charles' grin had vanished by now, "are the most stubborn man when it comes down to plain business, James! Do you know that?"
Mr. Barrie stared back at the man, and then the author peacefully closed his eyes. He was far too tired and uninterested to worry about all this now. He thought it best just to shut his friend Charles out of his thoughts right at the moment.
… Come on, James. Think of the trees, think of the birds…
"I'm sorry, but God's sake" Mr. Frohman grumbled, "Aren't you wondering about the pace of your writing? Don't you—"
James smiled, "Heads rolling is better than eyes rolling."
Frohman sighed, "What's that supposed to mean? My head can only take so much cryptic stuff, James."
"It means, Charles," James explained, "It never bodes well ta be bullied into doing whatnot. Never works, Charles, you of all people should know. I'd rather you havin' a fit, than disappointing the audience an' myself."
Mr. Frohman rubbed one large hand over his forehead, and he melted down into his leather chair. Why did James have to be so plain pig-headed when it came down to writing of the play, or going over budgets? It wasn't exactly Charles' idea of a grand time to be discussing this, to be battling for a few rough drafts out of James. Really, he knew that when Barrie had true inspiration, the man became a living play factory…all he needed was the proper push, a few jabs in the ribs to get the work started…
"So, what do you want me to do? Hmm, James?" Charles was grumbling softly, "You're slowing down, and that isn't good. Keep the pace, it's just like running a marathon, you've got keep the pace...What will make you write? I don't really have to put a gun to your head, do I?"
James Barrie's lips curled at the edges and his eyes twinkled a little as he opened them a slit. "You know, Charles, threatening me isn't going to quicken the pace of my writing."
Charles desperately put his head in his hands, "Then what will, James? What will? I don't have that much—"
"Really," James gazed up at the molding of the ceiling, "I jus' need time."
"I can't afford time, James. It's hard enough trying to get the—"
"Well, alrigh'," James said, "What do ya want me to do? Do you want me to write well, or to write fast?"
"Can't you do both?"
"No."
The visit between Mr. Lawley (or the Dreaded Solomon Caw, as he was now dubbed), the boys (alias, the furious crew of Nibs, Curly, Slightly and Peter), and Barrie (alias, Sir Jaz Swarthy) had been truly enjoyable.
Although none of them actually had the stomach to eat or drink…the cause being Bill's stories of ghosts and prison escapes by bloodthirsty crooks. You see, Bill was quite the authority on the mysterious and the criminal. And James found the young man interesting; the lad had small glimmers of intelligence. A very mischievous intelligence, like a wild tomcat. James liked to think the young man looked a lot like a dirty and drunken Spanish smuggler, but, of course, with suspenders.
Now, Bill preferred to be the orator of the stories, rather than act them out. I suppose he thought that such romping might be beneath him now, since he was too far big to play games without looking eccentric. This was where Bill and Peter found familiar ground, and they both conversed together about who should be cast for what part. Mr. James Barrie seemed all too eager to be cast for the villain—and, unlike Bill and Peter, he didn't mind the least if he was a grown man romping.
They had had a grand and thoroughly bloody game of Prison Escape and an equally gory adventure of Pirate. Bill and Peter had been the narrators, Mr. Barrie had been Detective William Pinkerton, Jack had been Grand Thief Adam Worth, George was the accomplice Charley "Piano" Bullard, and—reluctantly—Micheal was cast as the beauteous ladylove Kitty Flynn.
All had gone rather well, according to the story, but then 'Adam Worth' had decided to run into the kitchen, with his gang of 'Bullard' and 'Flynn' to capture one of the kitchen maids. Unwisely he had chosen to drag out poor Charlotte, who was perplexed as it was, and Mrs. Finch had come swiftly to Charlotte's rescue—shouting, spitting, and pulling a dazed Charlotte back into the kitchen.
Not too soon after that Mrs. Reid came down, brow furrowed. Everyone sobered, but they did not stop playing. And then the Nanny skulked away to sip her tea on the patio table, her eagle-eyes surveying every single move they made with disapproval.
In the end, they all killed each other in a police raid, but soon they found it in their hearts to forgive and forget the little tiff.
Mr. Barrie enjoyed it a great deal more than anyone, and he heartily gave out invitations to Bill Lawley for more visits in the future.
But…The black looks from Mrs. Reid and Emma du Maurier said plainly that this was Bill's last visit.
Dinner had been a meal consumed in silence, for everyone was too busy wondering what James was doing up in his room.
Mr. Barrie, who was accompanied by his dog, had come down only momentarily to steal a plate of food from Mrs. Finch before he scurried up the stairs again, locked his door, and had not made a noise since. Mrs. du Maurier and the Nanny seemed to find this new behavior rather pleasing, because they could now had full surveillance of the boys' decorum. James usually turned a blind eye to the boys' mischief, or, worse still, even helped them sneak an unwanted potato or spinach sprig to the eager Porthos under the table.
Probably the most offending thing James did at the table was when he fashioned games from the food. Once he made a rather convincing Mount Olympus out of mashed potatoes. And, another time, he'd stuck carrots in his gums, which made him look vaguely like a walrus—but James insisted that he was really a vampire. Yet tonight, there were no such games; only a curious silence that made everyone want to put their ears to Mr. Barrie's door and listen.
The boys thought that if they were very quiet they could hear a soft scratching come from upstairs. Peter instantly recognized it as pen on paper. The sound of writing.
Scritch-scratch…scratch-scratch-scratch…scritch