Chapter 6
A Wee Bit Of A Change
Inside: A story, an entry, and some memories...good and bad.
A/N: Hello lads and lasses. If you don't like the title for this chapter (I don't know why you wouldn't) it's because I didn't put a whole lot of thought into it because I needed to get this finished. This is because I'll be gone on vacation from Thursday March 24th up until Saturday April 2nd. As always, I'll be writing on the plane and in Florida, so hopefully about a week (probably less) after I return I'll have a chapter 7 up. Please, please don't lose patience with me. As you can see I've been writing faster. I wrote over half of this Sunday morning! I just couldn't stop! lol! I'm sure Chapter 7 will be the same. It'll be happier, too - the whole thing will be happy, in fact. SO...read! (dances around my Finding Neverland DVD and hugs and kisses it)
No Barriefact...sorry (cries)
December 1904
The last look is always the most difficult part. Walking around the house for the last time. I do hope she croaks soon, I'll miss that home ever so much. But for Sylvia's sake - I'll miss Emma too if she ends up doing the action of said croaking. Well, she didn't have to come by this morning to tell us to get up or anything, we did it all by ourselves. I hope that's promising for her. We arose from bed, got washed up and put together, and loaded our bags into the coach that was waiting outside...
James looked out the window of the strange house. He was, like usual, lying on his stomach on the couch in the parlor. But Emma had told him he couldn't light the fire because she was too scared that the house would burn down. She of course didn't specify how it would burn down, though he knew that she meant that he would leave the fire going at full blast before going up to bed and somehow a log would slip and knock the screen down and then collide with a can of oil...
So silly, James thought. He wrote this notion down, moved his journal away from his cheek to prevent more ink from getting on him, then looked into the dark hearth of the fireplace and imagined there was a fire there. As soon as he did, it sprang up in there, warming up and lighting the room instantly. Yes, there was candlelight, but firelight was much better. Much cozier. Better to think about the days events to.
OoOoO
James and the boys helped the coachman load the coach, strapping things in funny places with belts and rope. There wasn't a whole lot, but enough. Most of the bags were James's collection of old journals, which he absolutely refused to let go of. Not because they would be worth lots of money years on to someone he'd never know by face, oh no. He liked to look back on them and read them. See what his thoughts were back then, his style, read old journal entries. He especially liked the books that were completely filled with Peter Pan. He read those most often.
"Alright, everybody in. I'll be back in a few minutes, I think I left something behind," James said, as the boys and Porthos all jumped into the vehicle. He smiled at Porthos, imagining the exact look on Emma duMaurier's face when she saw that Porthos had decided to come. How could James give him to someone else? He'd raised him from a little puppy. And in that house. That house that they were about to leave. It was those kinds of memories that pulled him back in, yanked him back to the past. And in that way, he had left something behind.
He opened the familiar door and looked inside. It wasn't completely empty, but not full either. He'd brought along everything that made the house a home, so there really was nothing left. He looked into the dining room, where he remembered the day Emma had brought him the news...
"If you don't mind my saying, you haven't said anything, Mrs. du Maurier." James got up off the ground, taking his arm off of his dog. He patted Porthos's backside, sending him out of the room.
"Yes, but - " Emma sighed. "James, I've been thinking about the prospect of you and the children moving in with me." He knew this had been coming. It had really only been a matter of time. He immediately thought of the blue paint splatter on the floor, and the walls covered with pictures and ink splotches, and the puffy white clouds James had painted to make it feel like every time you went to sleep, you were flying off to Neverland. He wanted the boys to feel this way, so they would fly off to Neverland in their dreams, and get away from the sick reality they had to go back to when they woke up. James's heart sank.
"But...this is...this is their home now, you can't just take away a boy's home."
"Moving in here is completely out of the question. If you move in with me, you won't have to pay maids, or...worry about...anything." Emma paused. "The boys could do the work. We could just relax and maybe get to the point where we could actually talk to each other without getting in each other's hair. Sylvia would've wanted it to be that way." She gave a smile, that wasn't forced, for she almost always smiled at the mention of her daughter, her daughter that had gone off to Neverland. James had supposed that Mrs. du Maurier would become a pirate when she went off to Neverland...if she went there at all.
His thoughts hadn't changed about that. He could see her blowing Captain Hook away, and she'd be the one with the hook on her hand and the eyepatch over her eye. He smiled at the thought, and stopped at the bottom of the staircase.
"You missed supper." James looked up at his wife on the staircase, a bit curious at her sullen expression.
"Perhaps I'll have something later, I had a bit of writing I wanted to do," he said.
"You sure? It was a lovely meal. Duck. Sarah let Emma cook this evening." James turned around, as if amazed that something like that had occurred while he was out, then back to Mary. "Is that right? Listen, what would you think of loaning Emma out to the Davieses for the occasional evening? They don't actually have a cook," he responded lightly, shrugging off his coat. Mary raised her eyebrows, not much surprised that her husband would say something like that, but was still a bit unnerved besides.
"I take it Mrs. Davies enjoyed the meal she had here," she said shortly. James shrugged a bit, trying to keep himself from saying something stupid.
"I imagine she could use an extra hand now and again, that's all." But Mary wasn't being so careful. She began making her way down the stairs, like a lioness creeping up on her prey. "Oh. That's very charitable of you. Perhaps we could send over some of the silver as well. And what about the linen? I wouldn't be surprised if some of hers was looking a bit shabby." James looked away. He couldn't stand to hear his own wife speak of the person he'd cared about, and frankly grown closer to than he had, she. "Please, Mary, stop," he finally said. She didn't though, and continued to affront him. "Maybe she can send over some of the things we've run short on. My husband for example. We rarely see him in this house." She stroked his lapel half-lovingly, but still a smile refused to come to her face. "That hasn't seemed to bother you for some time now," James said off-handedly, and began heading upstairs to his room.
An uglier thought. One of those memories that could stay there along with Mrs. duMaurier's news. James could only take with him the good memories, the ones that he found when entering the boys' room. He stopped there, looking at the empty beds, which were bare now because of the linens being washed. He took out a tiny black drawstring bag and opened it. He closed his eyes, and let them all fly in there, one by one...
"He's not Peter Pan! How many times do I have to tell you?" Jack said, sitting up in bed late at night. Uncle JIm hadn't yet come to tuck them in.
"He is too! I saw him! He flew!" Michael shouted back defensively from his own bed. James, listening from the door, chuckled at this. Michael must have seen him slip on the ice that morning.
"When did he fly?" Jack said, crossing his arms.
"He did! The other day! I was looking out the window, and there he was - airborne! He must not have brought extra pixie dust because as soon as he got off the ground, he was on it again." James could barely contain himself, and laughed into his sleeve.
"Maybe if you put it on his nose," Jack said, picking the ball up from the floor.
"No, he'll do it if you put it on his head," George said. The four of them were crouched around Porthos, who was sitting there still, as bored as anything. James stood behind Peter, bent over with his hands on his knees. Jack gave the ball to Peter, who set it on Porthos's head. He removed his hand after a moment while it balanced.
"Come on, Porthos, throw it!" Michael shouted. Porthos turned his eyes toward James, who twisted his face into the ugliest thing you ever saw. That did it. The dog stood up, barking. The forward motion caused the technicolor thing to launch forward, and hit James right in the nose. Everyone began laughing, even James, who had actually started to bleed. It wasn't long before the boys had noticed this and rushed him straight to the bathroom.
"And the people of Thrums were so excited, they ordered sixty of the best trout, fifty of the best chickens, and feasted until the sun went down. The end." James closed his journal, and set it on the nightstand. The boys were huddled around him, almost asleep.
"Where's Thrums, Uncle Jim?" Michael asked.
"It's in Scotland," James replied, smiling a bit.
"Scotland?"
"Aye." He nodded. "It's a magical place. Not as magical as Neverland, of course, but it's magical. That's where I was born."
"You were born in a magical place?" Michael's eyes alighted. "So that explains that little twinkle in your eye!"
"And Michael. I wish for you...longer legs to carry you faster." James kissed Michael's forehead, and the boy got himself comfortable in bed.
"You too, Uncle Jim," he said, his eyes closing, and a smile coming to his face. The rest of the boys, whom James had thought had been asleep, all began to snicker to themselves. James smiled.
"That was terrible, Michael."
"I know, Uncle Jim."
James closed the bag, satisfied, and began to turn around, when he spotted the blue paint on the floor. After opening the bag once more, and letting that memory in, he ventured out of the house, and stepped into the coach, having his last look at his old house.
OoOoO
"Come now, quickly, quickly," Mrs. duMaurier said, getting the boys to bring all of the bags in, while James stood there next to the grandmother on the front step, watching them struggle.
"Now, I assure you that you won't regret this, James," she said. James looked at her, then back to the boys.
"I'm beginning to regret it already," he said openly.
"Oh, don't say that. It'll all be fine."
"Of course, Mrs. duMaurier. You know best." He turned on his heel and went into the house. He didn't know what for, there wasn't anywhere to go.
It was smaller than James's house, and simpler. He didn't hear the quiet bustling of the maids washing dishes or cooking dinner in the next room. He looked around at all of the paintings on the wall, and edged closer to one to read what was written in tiny print at the bottom of its frame. Then he jumped away instantly at the loud noise that entered his ears. Emma galloped into the house and over to the phone, next to which James was standing.
"Hello? Yes...yes...well I'll give him the message. He's quite busy at the moment. No, he's - " Emma looked at James, frowning. "Yes, he is standing right here." She handed him the earpiece and sweeped back out.
"Hello?"
"So, you moved in with her, James. I knew you would some day. Being...who you are."
"Charles!"
"Yes, yes."
"How did you find me?"
"Well, I called your house, and the woman there said you had moved in with someone by the name of Emma. She couldn't remember the last name, but I knew exactly who she was talking about."
"Oh, well thats good. Well, we just...we just got here. The boys are unloading the coach outside..."
"James, I have good news," Mr. Frohman interrupted. "I've been getting several letters and phone calls with requests we put on Peter Pan at Easter. So I thought, "Well, James'll be up to this, won't he?" "
"And he will! He will, Charles!"
"Grand, that's grand. And I already know your answer to my next question."
"Well let's see if you're right, then."
"Can you meet me at Lixon's today?"
"When?"
"As soon as you can."
"Were you thinking I'd say yes, then?"
"Yes, I was. Anything to get you out of there, eh?"
"Exactly. I'll be over in a few minutes."
"WHAT?" came Mrs. duMaurier's shrill voice from outside. James turned to look in that direction, then back to the mouthpiece of the telephone.
"I have to go, Charles. I'll see you in a moment."
"Goodbye, James."
"Goodbye." James hung up and ran to the door. "What's wrong?"
"You brought along that thing!" she screeched. James looked down at Porthos, who barked. Mrs. duMaurier grabbed onto James's sleeve with her spidery fingers, her eyes wide.
"Yes, I did. Now. I just had an urgent call, very much unavoidable. I'll be back in a few hours."
"Where are you off to already, James?" Mrs. duMaurier pulled away from him, as Porthos had just run into the house with the boys. James dug his cane out of the back of the coach and turned to face Emma. There was no sense lying to her yet.
"A friend of mine needs me to meet him somewhere," he said, beginning to walk off.
"Well try and be back before supper," the pinched up woman replied, a look of disgust on her face. James waved at her over his shoulder and began his walk to Lixon's cafe.
It hit him when he was just entering town. Leaving to meet Charles meant leaving the boys alone with their horrible relative for a long time; longer than James ever wanted the boys to stay with her. He tried to ignore the thought the rest of the way and concentrated more on the scene around him, and eventually finding himself on the front doorsteps of Lixon's.
The small cafe was filled with people when he entered it. It would be fairly easy to spot Charles Frohman because of his dominant beard, though. People shoved past the author as though he wasn't there, and one man nearly tripped over his cane running to meet a friend opposite him.
After coming to the conclusion that his producer hadn't yet arrived, James sat himself at a vacant table in the corner of the room, and waited for someone to find their way through the sea of people to ask what he wanted. He wouldn't order anything, though. "Just water," he'd say.
So he sat there watching the door for what seemed like hours, thinking about how darn stuffy it was in there and how much he wished Charles would show up soon. After some time, a large woman sat down at the table next to him, and the thought of how much air that that body needed, and excreted, to add to the cramped atmosphere, made him cringe. Before long, he had to push through everyone to get to the door, and stumbled out of the cafe to get just a breath of fresh air.
"Alright, James?" James looked up at Charles, a hint of surprise carved into his face.
"A few more minutes and I'd expect you to have run fifty miles away from this place." He opened the door and they navigated themselves back to the vacant table, which surprisingly, remained available.
"Big plans, James, big plans," was the first thing out of Frohman's mouth as he removed his hat and set it down between them on the table. James smiled at the husky fellow, internally excited to hear what the man before him had to say.
"What do you have in mind, Charles?"
"Well - " he paused, and held up a finger, then fished around in his coat pocket. After a while, he moved his hat out of the way and flattened a newspaper in front of the playwright. The place it was opened to had a picture of what seemed like an incredibly flashy show, and a raving review printed proudly below it.
"Sets, James." James looked up, then back at the photograph.
"Sets?"
"Sets."
"What's wrong with our original sets?"
"They're too plain, James. People can't get the feeling of being in this magical place you've created if they don't see it there." James looked up, a bit of a confused expression on his face.
"I didn't write Peter Pan for people to physically see the magic. I wrote it for people to mentally see the magic. With imagination. You know that, Charles. If you want more sets, I'll argue for the opposite option, and do away completely with the sets." He dropped the paper on top of the gray hat and folded his hands on the table. Charles blinked. "Or use the same sets we used when the play first opened." Frohman watched a man to the side of him get up from his table, then looked back at the smaller one sitting in front of him, in the corner. He restored his initial vigor instantly, ready to pitch another idea.
"Costumes. We'll call the tailor and order better costumes. You can't argue with me that costumes make a show better."
"If they're only there to make the show better, we don't need costumes either," James replied. Frohman froze, staring at his partner, then adjusted his coat, looking at the floor for a while.
"Okay, James," he said, and bit his lip. He looked back up, then spoke with a straight face. "Opening night." James nodded. "Okay? You got everything you wanted."
"Everything I wanted."
"Because you wrote the play."
"Because I wrote the play."
"Right. So it's opening night and inside the theater you've got over a dozen nude actors and actresses, in a completely empty room, in which the walls have been painted white, because, you know, there are no sets. And no costumes. Just like you wanted." James had to smile. "What else don't you want? The stage? The seats? Well we probably don't need the seats, because," Charles closed his fingers around the newspaper and smacked it on his hat. "We'll have no audience, James!" It was stalled, but the playwright began to laugh.
"It's not funny! I have absolutely no idea in my mind how you could find this humorous!" Charles swatted the table with the newspaper and James gradually ended his laughing fit.
"I have bent myself backwards for this play, James. And you and I both know, because we've been doing this for a lot of years now, that there are certain aspects of theater a play has to contain. A stage, costumes, sets, an audience - "
"What about the story, Charles? A plot, a meaning. I think you've forgotten what Peter Pan is all about." Frohman stared at James. "Sit down, Charles." the producer, only just noticing that he had risen from his seat, decided to follow the man's orders. James smiled.
"I remember when we first started this. You hated it. You thought it was complete and utter nonsense. And look at this - look at you now. You're about willing to spend every cent you own on this play, aren't you?" Frohman sighed.
"I just want it to be good, James. That's all."
"And it will be good. It was good the first time we put it on, and we don't need more expensive costumes, or more expensive sets, to improve on it. Why?"
"Because there's no room for improvement. It's flawless."
"Well there's always room for improvement in anything. But in the case of the audience, we're as good as gold. And this is because we haven't had one bad review, Charles. Not one. Everyone has praised this play from the very end of the first performance, right up until now. The only way we could completely fail is if something goes horribly wrong. And we're professionals, aren't we? You said it yourself, we've been doing this for a very long time. We know how to prevent things from going horribly wrong."
"It doesn't mean they won't," Charles muttered, just for the sake of arguing, but since James knew this, he didn't pay any mind to it. He shook his head.
"Then we know how to compensate," he said, and looked out the steamed up window for a moment, thinking, then, remembering what he was there for, turned back to Frohman.
"Was there more?"
"Yes," Charles said stiffly. There was a pause. James blinked.
"Well, what did you have to say?"
"You wouldn't like it."
"You don't know that." Charles sighed.
"The rehearsal schedule. Originally it was two hours, and I'd like to expand it to three."
"Done. When shall we start?" This seemed to brighten his partner a bit, and he began digging in his pocket again. But they were interrupted a bit. Someone near the door had begun to cough.
"Now - " James smiled a bit, and shifted his vision to someone next to the window, a woman. She had undoubtedly choked on the tea that had just been in her hand, and was now coughing particularly loud. So loud that the sound was clanging in James's ears, and he was unable to ignore it and concentrate on something else. He looked back at Charles, whose lips he saw moving, but couldn't hear a word. He nodded and stuck a finger in his ear, moving it around a bit, to see if that would help, but it didn't. He nodded again, putting on a listening face and drawing his eyebrows together to allow for more concentration.
"So. The first...in three...Saturday," James managed to hear.
"Right," he said, though without hearing himself at all. The woman continued coughing, and he persisted in thinking about anything else. He looked at her again, and saw that she had stopped for a brief moment, though it still rung in his ears, and after a while, she continued. He closed his eyes and squeezed them shut. A bit of sound became absent from the ringing in his ears, and he noticed that it was Charles's voice.
"...James?" he heard him say. "Are you alright?"
"I'm f - " the coughing began again. Unable to resist any longer, James squeezed the head of his cane, and stood up so fast the table almost flipped right over.
"James!" but he was already near the door, and gaining on the coughing lady. He glanced at her for a brief second, and her red hair turned to blonde, and her green eyes to blue -
He pushed open the wooden door hard, and ran all the way back to Mrs. duMaurier's house. And that night, he spent the remainder of the night in his new room...until everyone went to sleep.
A/N: Ending's a bit abrupt, but I don't want to put too many words in for pretty much nothing because...that's what happens. lol. Now, reading over this chapter I was thinking..."wow this hops from scene to scene too choppy..." but maybe because I'm a perfectionist and I'm the one that sees every flaw..so tell me if you thought the same.
Hey, check this out:
Me: so i think ill writeNeverland's Sparrow: good and then i'll read
Me: hah. when its FINISHED, that is.
Me: sometimes if im talking to you and writing i give you little tidbits of things that i like
Me: lol but since ur a reader
Me: ill be doing nothing of the sort
Neverland's Sparrow: meanie
Neverland's Sparrow: lol
Me: lol SO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS IN CHAPTER 8?
Neverland's Sparrow: no
Me: ok good
Neverland's Sparrow: sometimes its good to lie
Neverland's Sparrow: lol
Me: well in chapter 8
Me: james gets arrested and taken to germany
Me: and gets eaten by pre-WWII Nazis
Neverland's Sparrow: oh man
Neverland's Sparrow: i didn't want to know
Neverland's Sparrow: lol
Me: and then they take his bones and put them in the colluseum in rome. LOL
Neverland's Sparrow: LOL
Me: well you know...you asked.
Neverland's Sparrow: germans suck
Neverland's Sparrow: and if your german i'm sorry
Neverland's Sparrow: im german too
Me: why, cuz they eat playwrights?
Me: no im italian LOL
Neverland's Sparrow: if you are
Neverland's Sparrow: i'm irish
Neverland's Sparrow: lol
Neverland's Sparrow: yes
Me: i wish i were scottish
Me: then i would rock
Neverland's Sparrow: sux for you
Neverland's Sparrow: i'm scottish. i rock.
Neverland's Sparrow: thanks
Me: oh you suck
Neverland's Sparrow: i thought i rocked :'(
Me: you do...but the person in the rocking chair has no legs
Me: hahaha im kidding
Neverland's Sparrow: lol
Neverland's Sparrow: that was a good one
Me: lol thanks
She'll be flattered when she reads this. lol. And now you know what happens in Chapter 8. hahaha. NAH I'm just teasin. ...REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! (See you all in April :-) )
REVIEW REPLIES FOR CHAPTER 5: only had 4, but I needed to post...
Neverland's Sparrow: Yay! I'm glad you liked it! And my quote hehehe...I just thought of two quotes, that one and "You know, a writer can be a very intimidating sort of person" and I needed to use them somewhere. So that part should be very quotable. lol notice our instant message up there...? ;-) Oh yes, and I wrote the pillow fight while listening to the happier part of "Walk The Plank" on the Pirates of the Caribbean soundtrack. If you have it, you'll know what I mean. Thanks for readin!
Yer best friend: Woo! Yes I am proud of you and it's wonderful that you cried cuz I cried writing it hahaha! And the words on his face...we RPed that...and I thought I could definitely use that in my story so I saved it and wrote it into there! woo! Actually this makes it two of my excellent stories you have read...you NEARLY finished Golden Bell, which I compliment you on. INDIAN HEADDRESS ROCKS ON! (quack!)
Lizella: I'm surprised you read all four and then kept up and read five too! Wow! A lot of people don't do that lol! Thank you so much! Poor oi-oi-oi hasn't had time to read..I hope she catches up with four and five :-( And yes, Emma will appear much more often now...but I must remind you she's not a warmfuzzy character, so she's going to do some pretty evil things...I already have one planned. One idea I have should be a lot of fun to read and appears in Chapter 9 lol so you'll have to keep reading to get a good James/Mrs. duMaurier scene! mwahahaha the bait and the trout...lol jk..thanks for readin.
H.M. Chandler: (all smiles) Thank you! I'll finish readin when I get a chance, I'm really sorry. You keep readin mine and I haven't finished yours yet. :-( It's still minimized on my taskbar thing, I'll get to it I promise!
