All Things Bittersweet and Imaginary
Chapter 3
A Rock And A Hard Place
Author's Note: Readers who love longer chapters will most definitely love this. I enjoyed writing this chapter very much - intense and fun and funny and good. It's my birthday on Tuesday, and I'm most definitely not going to release shite so close to my birthday, so here's a fun chapter! Enjoy!
BARRIEFACT: J.M. Barrie was good friends with George Bernard Shaw, who was said to have despised James's pipe smoking. Very, very, much. He was also a good friend of H.G. Wells.
Inside: 2 stories, and 2 conflicts.
OoOoO
Still Wednesday, The 4th of May, 1905
Charles found James on his park bench, but he was unaccompanied by his journal - only by his dog. The playwright moved over once he saw his friend, and immediately after he sat down, Charles began to talk.
"Alright, what's the matter, James?" he demanded quickly. He looked, to James, like a small boy fantasizing to his mother about purchasing a puppy, or a new toy. This, however, was not the first time the playwright had seen this expression on his best friend's face.
"Mary."
"What about her?"
"She called me today."
"Did she?" Charles raised his eyebrows. "Was she, by any chance, hoping to change her part?"
"Not at all," he said. "She's estatic about the role. And, you must remember, she would have called you for that," he added remorsefully, but the producer snorted.
"Not necessarily," he muttered.
James ignored this.
"She called to invite me boating with her and Gilbert," he said, looking at his feet. Porthos had set his head on top of them.
"Why on Earth would she do that?" Frohman's brow furrowed.
"That's what I positively cannot fathom. Additionally, she said that the boys would be welcome to come as well as I."
"Really." Charles thought a moment. "She still likes you, you know. I can identify these things when they surface."
"She doesn't, Charles."
"She does."
James frowned. "I do not wish to carry on this discussion with you." Charles mocked his friend, by straightening his back against the bench snobbishly. He only recieved a glare in return, so he scratched his own neck apologetically.
"Do you not trust me?" he said.
"No, no, just - never mind."
"So, you'll have to go boating, then."
James nodded, but he looked straight at Charles's right ear, and the producer, though having not turned his head, could tell his partner's eyes were on him.
"James, do not continue to speak, please," he said plainly, but the meaning was clear. He knew the playwright had gotten an idea. One of which, would almost surely involve him.
"Come with me."
Charles had begun to shake his head long before James had voiced his idea. And the more he did, and the less he answered, his friend would repeat his phrase more insistently. Finally, Charles decided to answer.
"No, James, I am not going with you," he said simply.
"I need you, Charles!"
"If you ask me, I really don't think you should go at all. Decline. Tell her 'no.' That's all I have to say on the matter." Charles began to rise, but he was almost instantly shoved back down.
"I'm not declining. I want to see what Mary's up to. Why does she think it would be something normal to do, to invite me on Gilbert's boat? (Assuming it's Gilbert's - but, of course, Mary wouldn't own a boat.)"
"That's what's strange about it - a woman just doesn't call her former husband out of the wide blue one day, like nothing's wrong with it, and ask him to go on an outing with her, and her new husband! It just isn't done, James, it's not right!"
"That's precisely why I want to go!"
Charles thought about his opinion, and James's response, and eyed his friend suspiciously."Are you drunk, James?"
The playwright stiffened. "You know I wouldn't be. And that's not what I meant. I meant that that's why I want to go: because it's strange, and I want to find out - Charles!" The producer had stood again, only to find himself on the bench once more.
"She still likes you, it's as simple as that. She's realized the error of her ways, and misses you."
"She may, and I won't know that for sure, unless I go to find out."
"Go ahead, what do you need me there for?"
"I'm not going alone!"
"You have the boys." Charles was up, Charles was down. By this time, Porthos, who had gotten worried that his ears would be trampled on, had moved a safe distance away from the argument.
"I need you, Charles! I'll - I'll take back my play," he said confidently.
"No," the producer said, disbelieving, a smile coming to his face. But this only made James more serious.
"I will - all of the scripts and notes and lists and figures. All of it."
"I have the figures, James," Charles said, amused.
"Well, everything but the figures, I'll take away." He paused. "Please, Charles."
The producer shook his head tiredly. "Though I very much doubt that you, James Barrie, the James Barrie I have known for years, would never in a thousand of those years go as far as to take a play from the Duke of York's Theatre, I'll go."
"You will?"
"Yes, I'll go on your stupid boating trip."
"Thank you, Charles! Thank you! Now, you won't back out, will you?" He shook his finger in Frohman's face sternly.
"No, mother, for the sanity of the both of us, no."
James could have hugged his best friend, but said, instead, "You may leave now."
"I do not need permission." Charles huffed, got up, looked at James, and shook his head a last time. He took his cane, straightened his hat, turned, and left.
"Damned Scots," he muttered to himself.
OoOoO
Thursday, May 5th
A few hours after James was left to himself, by the boys, the next morning, he found Charles on his doorstep, equipped with a thick stack of paper, a fixed brow, and a look of concern in the whiskers of his mustache and beard. He thrust the papers to James and invited himself inside, closing the door firmly behind him. They sat around afterwards discussing budgets and costumes and sets and salaries, up until the boys came home, when they found Charles and their Uncle Jim in James's den, looking as if they had just finished running around the whole of London, and back.
"Uncle Jim," said George tentatively.
"Hello, boys," he answered, rubbing his forehead.
"Can I take them to the park?"
James looked at Peter, Michael, and Jack. "We'll come with you, George," he said, standing up and piling up Charles's papers, and setting them atop another unbalanced mountain of papers. Charles began to gather his to bring with them, but his partner stopped him, and told him that they'd continue at the later date. The producer obeyed, which was unusual, and joined the family to go to the park. James called his dog and fastened him on his black leather leash, and got his hat and cane from the foyer.
Kensington Gardens in the Spring looked like Heaven on Earth. The trees were all in bloom, and giving a pleasant storm of pink and white petals to whomever passed beneath their branches, when the breeze startled them. Children were out playing games, some with toys in their hands, and their parents were to be seen sitting on benches reading or just plain listening to the soft din of nature.
A fountain stood a ways away from James's regular bench along the path, and this is now where Charles, James, and the four Davies boys strolled. During the Summer, young boys would (much to their parents' displeasure and distress) jump into and splash around in the fountain, sometimes dragging in young unsuspecting girls who often sat on the cold, smooth, stone edge with their studies or books, by their many skirts. James had never seen his boys in the fountain, and he hoped very much that he could this summer. He also secretly wished he could hop in with them, but that was, sadly, not up for any kind of questioning.
James let the boys go and play, and he and Charles walked around the fountain. Both men were silent for a long time, until Charles spoke up.
"First rehearsal tomorrow, eh?"
The playwright nodded, pretending that he had known - though he had, in truth, forgotten. He remembered now that he thought that it was pointless to start rehearsals on a Friday, rather than on a Monday or Tuesday. The actors were likely to come to rehearsal, have their weekend, and come back the following Monday having to start over.
"I hope all goes well. Ah - that reminds me, I have to call Mary to confirm that we're going boating..."
"Keep her on the edge of her pink, frilly, Gilbert Cannan - ridden seat: wait a few days to keep her wondering, don't mention it at rehearsals, and then bring it up when she'd least expect it. She'll have more of a pronounced reaction, then."
"You seem very fluent in the minds of women, Charles. May I inquire as to why?"
"I have my secrets," the producer responded, as if his best friend was prying into a place in which he kept something which no one, but he, should know about. James left it at that, and the two continued on in silence once more for a while.
"Your birthday's on Monday, you know," the producer said. Another thing James had forgotten. May the ninth. His own birthday.
"Of course I know. I am able to remember the date of my own birthday, thank you, Charles," he said defensively. Frohman smirked at James's sensitivity, and nodded.
"Have you planned anything yet?"
A third thing. "No, I haven't, actually."
"Well, I'll take you out to dinner, how's that? You pick where."
James thought it over, and nodded. "Yes, that would be nice, thank you. I'll have to send the boys to Em - " he stopped himself. Why had he said that? He'd lived with Emma before she had died. "Actually, I don't know where to send the boys to. We could all go out to dinner," he suggested.
Charles nodded. "Fair enough. The least I can do is to be agreeable, with your play being a hit and all. And it will be a hit - I can sense these things before they happen."
James remembered Peter Pan. "Of course, Charles, of course."
"Of course, of course." The producer raised his chin confidently.
"Uncle Jim!" James felt a hand grab the fist he was holding Porthos's leash in, and he stopped walking, to look down to see Michael. "The four of us would like you to come and play Tag with us." He looked at Charles. "Mr. Frohman may play, too, if he wishes to," he added respectfully. James smiled.
"Tag, James?" Charles said, intrigued, giving James an amused look underneath raised gray eyebrows, and then looking down at Michael with, rather, a polite grin. "No, thank you, Michael, I should like to watch this from the side."
James returned the look, but this one being out of frustration, and went with Michael to where his brothers were assembled.
George was chosen to be "It" first. He chased everyone around for a very long time; James noticed he wasn't putting as much effort and thought into the game as he had in previous instances. He James was, rather, a tactical player. He never came within the length of an arm of George, as the other boys did, and was dodging behind trees and swerving from the other players. He wasn't a fast runner, but agile and clever. Peter was a good player as well. He ran near James a lot, and was only close to being caught once. Jack, however, had to jump out of George's reach about ten times. And, as for Michael - the first game ended with his appointment to the "It" position. He covered his eyes immediately after, as though glad he had lost the game, and began to count loudly, pausing periodically to remember what Mrs. Stecks had taught him in school. James wiped his brow during the break, and turned his head when he heard Charles chuckling from the bench.
"Enjoying yourself, Charles?" he said.
"Oh, immensely. Is there any way your narrator in your play could drop his book and chase Zinschiel and Jacob around the stage so I might have the opportunity to witness this again?"
"Not a chance," James yelled, looking at Michael, who was almost finished. Charles chuckled again.
"One Hundred!" the little one bellowed (even though he had only counted to ten) and ran, arms thrashing the air, straight for James, who shot away instantly. Michael was giggling, his arms outstretched, and was - gaining on James. The playwright sped up, and dashed behind a large tree before a little hand could swipe his back. He caught his breath, and peeked out from behind his hiding place, watching Michael. He had begun to go after Jack now, but he, too, escaped. So the child turned to see his guardian, and changed his course when he spotted him, to go in that direction. James turned away and bolted forward. he ran a few yards before he looked back to see his pursuer, but seconds after, felt his body collide with something, which fell away from him, and knocked his feet out from under him in turn, when it did. He lay there for a moment, breathing hard, and trying to figure out what had just happened. He stood slowly, and found that he had ran into a woman. His heart sped up, as he was now thoroughly embarrassed.
"Oh, Dominie! I'm so sorry!" He held out his arm, and she took it, while holding her bonnet on her head.
"That's quite alright. I shouldn't have been reading and walking at once, anyway," she said, smiling, and picking up two books from the grass. James strained to see the titles on the covers, but only saw bits of them. He could tell, though, in an instant, their full titles. He cocked his head. She kept hers down, the brim of her bonnet covering her eyes. Loose strands of shining brown hair draped over her shoulders.
"The Little Minister and Auld Licht Idylls. Two novels about nearly the same thing - though one being written after the other."
"Yes, indeed. Auld Licht Idylls was written first," she responded, tapping the cover.
"May I ask which you are reading now?"
"Auld - " She gasped suddenly when she looked up. "Mr. Barrie! Do pardon me!" she said quickly, blushing. James had never seen a darker red on anyone's face before.
"No harm done. I was being chased by my - son. About...this high." He held up a hand, ad the woman laughed.
"Molly," she said, shifting the books to the crook of the opposite arm, and extended a newly freed gloved hand in his direction. He reached for it, when his own hand was intercepted by someone else's.
"Charles Frohman." Charles took her hand in the hand that wasn't holding his partner's dog's leash, and kissed it. She looked from James, to his friend, confused. James awkwardly set his hand back to his side.
"This is my partner, Mr. Froh - " James exhaled, having been interrupted. Charles had begun to jabber ceaselessly to the woman, so he decided to say that he had to go, and turned the opposite way, back to the game. Charles's eyes followed his friend, and he finally stopped talking once he was out of earshot. Then, he looked at Molly, and he smiled.
OoOoO
James had just rounded up the boys and had closed his journal, when he caught a glance at Charles, who was still talking with the woman, Molly. He watched the two for a while, not fully conscious of Michael tugging on his jacket.. Charles finally tipped his hat toward her, tucked something into his own jacket pocket, and began to walk back toward James.
"What was that about, Charles?" he asked.
"Uncle Jim!"
"Hang on, Michael."
Charles smiled at Michael, then at James. "Let's go, James," he said, and handed Porthos's leash back to his owner. The party of six then began walking to the path, which led to the park entrance, and then Michael's tugging began again.
"Uncle Jim!" he whined louder.
"Not yet, Michael. Please be patient," James said, grabbed little Michael's hand to keep him from disturbing his jacket anymore, and looked back at Charles. "What were you talking to that woman about?"
Charles was grinning broadly, and after a few minutes of silent walking, he took a small leaf of paper out of his jacket. He handed it to James, who unfolded it and read the writing on it.
An address.
"Oh, Charles, you didn't. You don't even know this woman," James said.
"Neither do you, and yet I'm giving this to you." He reached over and pointed below the address. "There's a telephone number there as well."
James, whose eyes were transfixed on the paper, blinked, and then finally forced himself to look at his best friend. He stopped walking, Charles and the boys doing the same. "I don't understand."
"It's time, James."
"Time? Time for what, exactly?"
"You know what," Charles said, "and if you don't, I'll trust you to figure it out. The moment I saw you with that woman, I knew it."
"What? What did you know?"
"Why, James, you looked perfect together."
James was enraged then. He had never looked perfect with anybody but Sylvia, and he wasn't going to let a complete stranger take her place. His first thought was to see Peter's reaction, as he knew this would his him hardest, but it was George who said something.
"He won't, Mr. Frohman," he said, his voice wavering. Now, if James was anything like Emma duMaurier, (with all respects to the dead) he would have told George to quiet his mouth. But he didn't, and allowed the oldest boy to speak his mind.
"He's right," said James, crumpling the paper and shaking his head. "I won't and I never will. Children do not get involved with women. Especially after they have already lost two, one being irreplaceable. "
"You think about it, James. You'll change your mind, you've been known to." Charles nodded his head and tapped the brim of his hat, and continued down the path alone, leaving James with the boys crowded around him. He called over his shoulder that he'd see James the next day, and for some reason, this made the playwright throw the crumpled paper to the ground. He bit his tongue, and rubbed his jaw, embarrassed about his action, then began walking again, telling his boys to follow him. He doubled back, though, after a few steps, and bent down to take the paper back from the dusty road.
OoOoO
When the five returned home, James called Mary to confirm that he was indeed going with her boating, and told her that Charles would be coming as well. She, knowing that that would be the only way her ex-husband would come, agreed, and tried hard to sound immensely happy in order to keep him at ease.
James spent remainder of the time before dinner sitting in his study, rocking back and forth on the two back legs of his chair, looking out the window, holding the address and thinking, staring at his many stacks of paper. He finally recrumpled the address and threw it into the wastebasket, looked at it for a while in there, at the top of a full collection of crumpled paper, then abruptly got up to go downstairs to the dining room, avoiding the basket.
He used to have to tell the boys when dinner was, but they had been living with James long enough to know that at seven o' clock sharp, everyone must be down in the dining room for supper. And tonight, everyone was. In fact, knowing that their Uncle Jim would be agitated (or on the edge of being agitated) when he came out of his room, all four boys had already gotten themselves seated at the table, and Sarah and Emma were standing shoulder to shoulder, stock still, next to the kitchen door, their eyes only on Mr. Barrie. The scene surprised James, and although he knew that they might have thought that this would make him happy, it didn't in the least - it only made him uncomfortable. He sat at the head of the table without a word, fearing that an interruption of the silence would make everyone fall out of their chairs. As soon as the chair ceased movement, the housekeepers skittered into the kitchen and reappeared with the silver platters, which they set down nearest James, out of respect for him, and his touchy mood. (This also made him disturbed. He wished that they had put the platters in the middle of the table instead. He wasn't the only one eating, after all.)
Everyone began to eat once they had all received their meals, and as James was picking up his fork, he glanced at Peter for a second, but had to look back, as he saw the boy was staring at him. He lowered his utensil, and Peter slowly looked away and started to eat his mashed potatoes.
After a few minutes of ultimate silence, (the grandfather clock in the parlor could be heard from the dinner table) James couldn't stand it anymore, and fought his frozen brain to give him something to say that could result in pleasant table conversation. Desperate, he said the first thing that came to mind. A question would work - someone had to answer.
"What was it you wanted earlier, Michael?" He had been right - the sudden sound made everyone start. They all paused, and looked at James. Not only was the sound surprising, but the nature of his tone was as well: as soft and gentle as it always was.
"Jack said that he had a detention yesterday," Michael said promptly, but quietly. James looked at Jack. "George asked him where he was, and guessed a detention, and when Jack fidg-et-ted, he knew it was."
"You received a detention, Jack?" James said. He still hadn't taken a bite of his meal yet, nor had he raised his voice. Jack slammed down his fork, making everyone jump again.
"Michael, you little mosquito!" he said loudly.
"Jack, please be quiet, it's not necessary. I'm not angry."
But Jack continued: "You always have to tell everything!"
"If you ask me, you should have told Uncle Jim yourself," George said under his breath, his mouth in his glass, about to take a drink.
"Yeah? Well, I didn't ask you. And you're the reason this has started in the first place - if you ask me, you should keep your mouth shut!"
"I didn't ask you either!" George shouted, abandoning his glass without taking a sip.
"Boys!"
"So, tell me, Jack, why did you get a detention?" George said, leaning forward and dropping his own knife on the table. "Too intelligent for schooling? Think you know everything there is to know? Couldn't pay attention, had to stare at Carolyn Mundette's - "
"I said, shut up!" Jack's voice had risen considerably, and he was burning red, the tip of his nose a light shade of purple.
"Jack, there is no need for that!" James could feel himself shouting, feel himself acting like Emma. Was that a good thing? She was a disciplinarian, and he wasn't much of one, but needed to be in this instant. But he couldn't. Even his shouting was quieter than the younger Jack's fury. It was no use. This was not what he had in mind when he was desperate for pleasant table conversation.
"And what if I don't?" George said, tense. "Who are you to tell me what to do? I'm older than you, and you're only a sniveling little - little - codfish!"
"Won't the two of you just be quiet?" Peter shouted over everyone. Jack had stood and begun to shout something, but all eyes were on Peter when he spoke.
"What's your problem?" Jack said harshly, but calmer than before. Peter didn't answer, and when he didn't, Jack slowly descended back into his chair, his red face fading to pink. This was all that anyone needed, to know not to say anything more. James set down his fork, and buried his face in his hands.
OoOoO
Author's Note: I must have edited that last scene at least 50 times. I think I do fairly well with timing, and I hope that didn't erupt or end too fastly. I said it aloud with voices (hehehe) maybe 10 times, and it worked. I don't think it got too bad-angsty...I'd like responses! (On this, and on the entire chapter of course haha likes and dislikes, come on. Let's hear 'em.)