CHAPTER THREE.

"You Are Not My Father".

The week passed with nothing overly exciting occurring. James spent his days in the park writing meaningless notes in his journal. The trees in the park had slowly succumbed to the autumn season as their leaves turned from a lush green to bright oranges and reds, until they finally drifted to the ground. The weather had begun to cool down, so now a cool soft breeze blew, rustling the green grass in the park and disturbing the pages in James' journal.

James placed his finger firmly on the corner of the page and held it down as another gust of wind blew past. James much preferred the previous season to this one. The wind seemed to do things to his mind and somehow prevent him from thinking straight. Giving up on the wind, James made his way back inside. Porthos was asleep on the floor, snoring lightly. A small smile crept upon James' face at the sight of the sleeping bear.

He nimbly stepped over Porthos, hoping that the dozing canine would not wake up between his legs. Relieved as he made his way over the great bridge that was Porthos, James made his way into the kitchen. He was thirsty, the wind tended to do that to him. James bent down and opened the cupboard, clasping his hands around a glass. He resurfaced and poured himself a glass of tap water. He cringed at the taste – the tap water was not as fresh and clear as the liquid that resided back home in Scotland.

A sudden thought crossed his mind as he swallowed the last of the water he was so disappointed with. Where was Emma? He had not seen her all morning. It was odd for her to not come and insult him about the way he dressed or the fact that he spent hours writing. She would usually comment that writing in ones journal would not help the boys in the slightest. Of course, James ignored all of these comments and went about his daily business as if she did not exist.

James stared out the window above the sink and watched as a single orange leaf fell from the once green and lush oak tree outside. He smiled and remembered that once upon a time the boys would have climbed that tree, laughing and playing pirate games with wooden swords and scabbards. Now they were much more mature. James had once said to Sylvia that boys should never be put to bed because they always wake up a day older and now it seemed that they had been put to bed a few too many times.

As that leaf fell to the ground, James sighed. He had written all he was worth today and now found that he was left with hardly anything to keep him occupied. The boys were off at school - thankfully it was Friday. Perhaps he would pay a visit to Charles if the producer was not too busy organizing more show times for Peter Pan. Yes, that's what he would do. Visiting Charles was a good idea.

James placed the glass in the sink and walked out of the kitchen, picking his coat off the rack he shrugged into it and stepped over Porthos who was still comfortably asleep on the floor.

The playwright made his way out of the door and noticed that the postman had stopped his bicycle outside the gate. There was only one explanation for this occurrence – he had mail to deliver.

'Good morning.' James called as he approached the man. He was about to place the letters in the box when he noticed James and smiled with a small wave.

'Good morning, Mr. Barrie.' James remembered his name and smiled at him, relieving him of the various packages he held for he and Mrs. du Maurier.

'How are you today, Bill?' James inquired, flicking over the various return addresses of the envelopes. He noticed a few that he recognized and some that he did not.

'Good thank you, Mr. Barrie.' Bill replied with a kind and vibrant smile. 'Well, I'd best be off, more mail to deliver.'

James waved a goodbye to him and continued to look at the return addresses. There were a few letters for Emma, undoubtedly for social events that she would be invited to, there was one from James' mother, another from Mary's solicitor finalizing their divorce, but there was one he had no idea who it was from. There was no address in the top corner, not even a name to tell whom the sender was.

James placed the mail back in the letterbox to collect when he got back from Charles' office, but he kept out the unnamed envelope to read as he walked. James shut the gate behind him and opened the envelope, still walking with his head down. He took the paper out of the envelope and read it.

Dear Mr. Barrie and Mrs. du Maurier,

As headmistress of Saint Ignatius School for Boys, it is my duty to inform you that your child James' -eyes lingered strangely on the words 'your child'-. Peter Llewellyn-Davies, has been behaving disagreeably towards the staff and his fellow students.

We are concerned about Peter's lack of attendance at our school and were wondering where he has been all this time. He has not attended class for the past three days and the times prior to that when he did attend school he did not listen nor participate in any of the lessons given.

Saint Ignatius prides itself on having an unsurpassed understanding and rapport with its students and nurtures any positive relationships within the school. We endeavor to create a safe and secure learning environment for all our boys. As our school motto says: "Spectemur Agendo" – Judge me by what I do.

Sincerely,

Odette Drysdale.

James had been so wrapped up in his letter that he forgot where he was walking. It was lucky that he had not crossed the road and been hit by a passing car or horse and carriage. As luck would have it, he had continued to walk along the same footpath, but unfortunately in the wrong direction in which he desired to go.

James folded the letter back the way it had been packed and thought deeply about it. The name signed at the bottom was familiar. Odette was the woman who he had been two too many times wanting him to buy her a replacement scarf. Of course, it could be another woman, there had to be more than one Odette in London.

However, the name signed on the letter did not explain the nature of the accusation. It had been written that Peter had not been attending school. As far as James knew, Peter left school with the other boys and returned with them, and sometimes with Porthos as well. This puzzled James because he would never think of Peter to be the type of boy to disobey his wishes of him attending school.

James turned around and began his way in the direction of the theatre. He put the contents of the letter out of his mind; he would talk to Peter about it later when he got home from school or wherever he was going during the day.

The walk to the theatre was not a short one, but by no means was it a complete trek. Besides, James enjoyed the air and the chance to stretch his legs. He had not seen Charles in quite a while since the operations of Peter Pan had been taken largely out of his hands and placed into those of Mr. Frohman. James had never been good at managing his affairs let alone the affairs of a blockbuster play. Those types of things were best left to Charles and if the manager needed him then James knew that he would not hesitate to make contact.

James turned the corner and smiled at a few children as they walked past him with one of their teachers. They were obviously going on a school outing of some sort. When James was at school they hardly went out of the grounds, but nowadays it seemed that children were taken on excursions almost once a week. James knew this was an exaggeration, but it seemed that whenever one of the boys came home they had a fabulous story to tell him about where they went today.

Finally the theatre was in sight. James smiled slightly as he saw it. It truly was a spectacle to be seen by all who walked past it. James smiled even more as he saw a poster of Peter Pan hung on the brick wall. It proudly said 'SOLD OUT' in large red letters. James was sure that the only reason that Charles had kept the poster up there was to let everyone know of the fact that the play was so good that it was sold out and therefore hint at his own success.

Since the release and subsequent success of Peter Pan, James' life had not changed too dramatically. Of course, that event had coincided with Sylvia's death, an event that had changed his life forever. James tried to think back to what life was like before he had even met Sylvia and the boys and he could not even remember. It was as if he did not even have a life before then. Of course, that was an absurd notion, but for some reason the playwright found it difficult to remember how he spent his days as opposed to running in the park after kites with his newfound friends.

James liked to believe that success didn't change a person, but he knew now that that was not true. He had heard stories of successful authors and the like who had said that they remained the same despite the brilliant selling of their books. James had believed them, struggling to think how a bit of money could change someone, but now he knew that all those times he had met best-selling authors that what they said had been beyond fake.

James was yet to see the profits of Peter Pan, but Charles assured him that they were there and if it weren't for the absurd amount of red tape and forms to sign, James would have his cash in hand right now. Despite Charles' constant goings on about the money that Peter Pan had generated, James found himself not caring in the slightest about the profits he would get. He only cared that people enjoyed and appreciated the play he had written for them. When he had heard the crowd applauding on opening night he had been filled with an overwhelming feeling of happiness. He had gazed out onto the crowd from behind the stage and had seen Peter sitting with his eyes fixed to the stage and the story playing out in front of him, but what had touched James the most was when Peter said 'I'm not Peter Pan, he is.' James had just smiled at the boy, knowing from then on that everything would be all right.

Finally, James found Charles' office. He had not been there in quite a while and noticed that now posters of Peter Pan and pictures of him and James adorned the walls. The Scotsman smiled slightly and knocked on the door.

Charles looked up at him, taking his pipe out of his mouth and waving James into his office. He had been hunched over a piece of paper, obviously sent from someone wanting to know when Peter Pan would be available in his or her part of town.

'Hello, Charles.' James said, walking into the office and smiling at the producer. Charles seemed content beyond belief with his pipe in one hand and a pen in the other.

'James!' Charles almost yelled standing up and grasping the playwright by his hand in a sprightly handshake. 'I have brilliant news!'

James laughed as Charles ushered him into a seat and sat down himself. Frohman just stared at James with bright eyes. James laughed on the inside – the look of Charles at this moment matched Porthos' face at the prospect of going for a walk.

'Well…out with it.' James said impatiently. 'What's the good news?'

Charles beamed and kept staring at James stupidly. He had the widest smile that James had ever seen.

'What's the news?' James asked again edging his friend on.

'You know America?'

'Of course I know America.'

'Good.'

'And…anything else you want to tell me, Charles, or is it just 'you know America?''

'They want Peter Pan to go there.'

'What?'

'You heard me.'

James was shocked. He had never intended for one of his plays to go internationally. Sure, he had entertained the prospect in his mind a few times, but he never actually thought of it as being possible. He couldn't help but smile just as Charles had moments earlier.

'Charles, I'm speechless.' James said still shocked that America would want his play. Then again, it was probably just going to be played in small independent theatres scattered across the country.

'Not just America, James.' Charles continued. 'Broadway.'

'Broadway?'

'Yes, Broadway.'

'When do they want it?' James asked now extremely interested at the prospect of having his play go to Broadway of all places.

'December.' Charles replied, a wide smile still on his face. He was obviously proud that he had actually managed to secure a contract in America let alone get an actual date.

'Well…it's September now so that's…' James counted on his fingers. 'Three months. Three months. Charles, how are we going to get it together it three months…it's impossible.'

'James,' Charles said, looking over at him from his glasses. 'You said it yourself, nothing's impossible.'

It was true. James had repeated on many occasions to Charles as he was having doubts about Peter Pan that nothing was impossible. As usual, Charles' quick wit had beaten James once more.

'Of course, we can't have our actors go over there because we have shows booked all over Britain until March next year. So, I was talking to one of my associates in New York and he mentioned to idea of having some of their actors come over here and audition for some of the parts.' Charles said all of this very quickly and it took James and few moments to actually process what he had said.

'Hmmm..' James thought for a moment. 'Sounds like a plan.'

The two men continued to talk for some time about their venture to America and wondered how the audience would receive it. James was worried that they may not like it, but he decided that it was worth a try anyway.

James left Charles' office at about two o'clock in the afternoon. They had been so immersed in their conversation that James had forgotten that he had to be home for when the boys arrived back from school. The playwright opened the mailbox, taking any mail out of it and slid through the gate, making his way to the door.

He slid the key into the lock and smiled as he heard Porthos barking from behind the wooden door. As soon as he swung the door open the large Newfoundland bounded up to his owner, bowling James over and causing him to fall flat on his back.

'Easy, boy!' James managed as the large dog flattened him against the floor.

'Uncle Jim, what are you doing?' a small voice said from behind them. James managed to sit up and saw Michael standing at the door, accompanied by Peter, Jack and George.

The Scotsman stood up, brushing dog fur off his pants. He smiled at the boys and patted Porthos on the rear, sending him bounding down the hall. James ushered the boys inside and asked them about their days. He was met by mixed comments ranging from "Good" to "Okay."

James shut the door behind them and watched as Michael, Jack and George all went out into the yard to play. James was glad they were back to their old selves. Peter, on the other hand, was not. The playwright heard Peter in the kitchen, presumably getting something to eat or drink. James left him for a few moments and then slowly walked in after him.

As James had predicted, Peter had managed to find something out of the pantry to eat. By the looks of it, it seemed to be a biscuit of some sort. James just watched Peter for a moment. He was not sure if Peter knew he was there, but he would soon find out.

'What?' Peter asked, turning to James and placing his biscuit down on a plate next to him. 'What are you staring at?'

'Nothing.' James replied, still looking at Peter with unwavering attention. 'I received a letter from your headmistress today.'

Peter did not say anything and instead went back to his biscuit. Silence passed between the two for a few moments before James cleared his throat and took the aforementioned letter out of his pocket, he handed it to Peter who seemed reluctant to take it.

'Would you like to tell me what it is about?' James asked, leaning against the bench of the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest.

Peter read the letter aloud to James, pausing at certain parts to obviously let it sink in to his own brain. As he finished it he looked up at James, no emotion in his face. For once his features were completely unreadable. James was unnerved by this and resisted the temptation to look away.

'Well?' James asked. He tried to remain kind, though his voice did have a hit of reproach in it. He tried to stop it, but just couldn't.

'I don't know about any of this.' Peter replied, stone faced and monotone.

'I think you do, Peter.' James said, still looking at boy despite his wanting to just leave him alone. James had the thought of leaving Peter to his own devices. He would learn soon enough that skipping school was not acceptable, then again, maybe he wouldn't. 'I must let you know, that this is very serious.'

'You are not my father!' Peter yelled, accentuating the word "not". The boy dropped the letter on the ground and ran up to stairs to his room. Porthos wined at the loud noise, but placed his head back down to go to sleep.

James stared after Peter. He was not going to go up there and talk to him. He would let the boy sort his own emotions out for himself. However, that comment had hurt James more than ever. Just when he thought that the boys were accepting him as their guardian, something had to go wrong. James knew that it was not a good idea for him to care for the boys, no matter how much he loved them. He sighed and looked out the window. The sun was slowly turning orange and getting ready to set in about an hour. For some reason James wished that he could go to Mary and talk to her about this. He cursed himself for thinking such things. They were already halfway through a divorce – it was pointless to let himself see her again, besides, judging by how she had acted on their last meeting, James doubted that she would want to see him again.

The playwright suddenly noticed something on the dining table. It looked like a piece of paper and on it was written a small note. James read it aloud under his breath.

Dear Mr. Barrie,

I have decided to go on a trip to France for two weeks. I shall be back soon and expect you to look after the boys as if I was still there. I was tempted to hire a maid for the two weeks, but decided against it. It is best for you to learn how things operate around the home yourself.
I hope the boys are well,

Regards,
Emma du Maurier.

(A/N: Well, there we go. All done for another chapter. Sorry if it was a bit boring. I did, however, enjoy writing Charles in this for some reason. He's such a fun character. Well, leave me some of those lovely, lovely reviews. - Em. xxx)