All Things Bittersweet and Imaginary
Chapter 4
Turn L., Turn R., Exit R. (He Sighs Exasperatedly)

Author's Note: This was a fun chapter. I can't seem to get the story going - when I look at it as a whole, there's some good parts, but it doesn't seem contained in a story. The main themes are pretty much Man With Music - and Molly, who will get important to James. Again, they will NOT get very serious. More themes are Peter's problems, Jack's infatuation, and George's issue, which has been briefly introduced. In case you're having trouble following.

I finished The Admirable Crichton by JMB raising my amount of JMB works read to three - Peter Pan, Little Minister, and Crichton. I just now ordered Dear Brutus off of and have started J.M. Barrie and the Lost Boys - the biography by Andrew Birkin. People that love authors that do research will love me. Anyway, stop reading this dumb intro - read the story!

BARRIEFACT: During World War I, JM Barrie and his literary friends, Bernard Shaw, William Archer, GK Chesterton, (etc.) made a western film.

Inside: 3 stories, 4 scenes, much frustration, Charles Frohman, trashpicking, and two conflicts.

OoOoO

Friday, May 6th - Day of the first rehearsal for The Man With Music On His Face.

Marjorie Simmons and Sylvia Namm walked down the sidewalk together, talking rapidly. They were only two of the many people in the crowd of London citizens who walked the streets in the morning, getting to their work places or commitments. They had planned to have breakfast that morning at the restaurant across the street from Lixon's Coffee Shop and Café, and had decided to walk rather than take a carriage, as it was a lovely day, and they hadn't walked lately. It showed: they were both rather homely women, but could afford tailored gowns and so disguising their large bodies with numerous frills, puffs, and netting. They were also, incidentally, the main pair of gossips in the city. They always seemed to be in the right place at the right time, and were ready to babble about any incident to any passerby. So, if you were living in London and were in the gossip circle, you might be called a Marjorie Simmons, or a Sylvia Namm.

They had both been in Kensington Gardens, these two fat old rats, when they had seen wealthy Mr. James Barrie crash into much-less-wealthy Molly Blennerhasset. They had seen them talk, had seen them smile at each other, had seen her try to shake his hand, and now, they had been sitting back and watching the news spread quickly through the town.

Today this is what they talked about, until they saw poor Mrs. Carroll walk down the street, aided by her husband, who was keeping her standing up and protectively guarding her bulging stomach. The eyes of Sylvia, who had noticed it first, grew wide at the sight.

"Did you know that's going to be their twelfth child?"

"Is it really?" Marjorie said, intrigued. She was, of course, sure to pass this information on to someone else, conscious of it or not; no one really knew whether either of them even were, when they spoke of someone else's business to a stranger, or even a friend, for that matter.

"Yes! I was talking to Eva Dickonson the other day - she was friends with Emma du Maurier, you remember - God bless her soul - and she knows someone who knows someone who's good friends with them, and that's what she heard."

"Excuse me!" Sylvia, before she could respond, turned her head, to see James, a book clasped in his hands, shove past her with his head down. Suddenly Mrs. Carroll was a lot less interesting.

"Oh, look! I wonder where he's off to!" Sylvia wondered aloud, excitedly.

James was on his way to the Duke of York's for the first rehearsal of his play, of course. He was late - mostly because of the crowded streets, the loitering throngs of people in doorways and at intersections, and of course, the two fat old gossips. He knew Charles would be none too happy about his being late, and would lecture him about being on time to every meeting they had, no matter how important it was. He had to get the boys to school, after all, and that being his greatest priority, had to be taken care of first. Had he left as soon as he had awoken, he would have avoided the crowds and would have arrived before any of the actors did, but the boys, to him, were more important than any rehearsal, 2 minutes late, 30 minutes late, or not at all.

Charles turned when he heard the sound of the theater door opening echo off the walls of the majestic auditorium. He raised his eyebrows at the playwright's disheveled appearance as he watched his partner walk down the aisle, his script in hand. Charles turned to the cast, seated on the stage, and made a humorous facial expression, which evoked many chuckles.

"I'm sorry," James whispered to Charles, and set his script on one of the auditorium seats' armrests, and removed his suit jacket.

"It's quite all right, we have all the time in the world to rehearse - no need to start early - we could easily make this rehearsal four hours instead of three, taking your appalling tardiness into account." The producer gave James no opportunity to retort, and turned back to the cast professionally. James did the same, and when he did, made eye contact with the young man who was to play Zinschiel Barber, and saw that he was smiling. The playwright smiled back, and looked at Mary, who was staring vaguely at the balcony in the back.

"Now that our wonderful, dependable, pitifully tardy author and director is here, we may begin the rehearsal," Charles said.

"Thank you, my underpaid, low-esteemed producer and best friend," James said, smiling politely. Charles bowed and sat, satisfied, in the front row. "You didn't want a director," he said to himself, behind his hand, and watched James carry on the morning, his eyelids drooping more by the second.

OoOoO

It seemed like hours before Charles called a break. The play was difficult, and the actors were progressing slowly: Mary seemed to be able to fake a Scottish accent, but she sounded too fake, and so, James, not feeling right to tell her not to use it at all, though not being able to stand the wrongness of it, let the matter alone despite his now red knuckles that had become so because of his constant clenching them to hold back numerous comments that had built up in his mouth, but had remained in their place behind his pursed lips; John Harrow had had multiple opportunities to play his violin, but could only get as far as lifting his bow, as James decided to change the dialogue which came before every one of his cues; and, the actors seemed distracted by stage directions, so that when even standing in one place and reading through their lines, there were long pauses where they desperately searched for the non-italicized words written between the parenthesis, which they had to speak.

The only reason Charles had called a break, was because James had asked him to: the producer had had his arms slung over the chair in front of him, with his head down between his knees. When the playwright called his name, he rose his red face over the top of the back of the theater seat, tiredly, and called the break. Relieved, they all left the stage, or sat on it to read through their lines, and mark in pen where their speaking text was located in the confused jumble of directions.

James put his face in his hands and closed his eyes. His pupils, and the whites of them burned when making contact with the inside of his eyelids, and tears leaked out into the corners because of it.

"James," Charles said, tapping his partner's shoulder, and sitting down beside him. He looked up, hearing the noise, and then away again, to his script in his lap, and began adding still more stage directions in the margins and between the lines. Charles watched the pen, a look of extreme pain on his face, but continued nonetheless, when his friend didn't respond. "I'm not sure you'd like to hear this now, but Maude Adams is in town for a few months." At this, James looked at his friend.

"She was in The Little Minister at the Empire,"said James, "I remember going overseas to see it. She was a wonderful Babbie. And, I believe I talked to her at the after party at your home in the city - she was completely ecstatic to meet me in person."

"That memory of yours again - that's the Maude Adams I'm thinking of. She's going to be in London for a while; she called me from where she's staying, last night."

"Ah. Well, if she calls again, tell her I said 'hello', and give her my best, of course." James put a hand to his head and returned to his work, but was stopped.

"You'll be able to, yourself - I invited her boating with us."

The playwright sighed in response, and as a reflex, out of the corner of his eye, glanced at Mary, who was sitting in a seat down the row, whispering her lines to herself. "That's fine."

"You know, you'll be the only one without a date," Charles said, smirking. Both men were on the edge of extreme anger, and Charles, having already taken it out with his previous reminder, didn't say anything when James became angry first, and slammed his script shut, glaring at his producer, warningly. Charles looked at the script for a moment, pausing to lick his lips.

"Are you planning on writing any more in there? We seem to have" - he reached over to his own copy of the script, and flipped through it, showing the pages to his partner - "enough of them. Don't you agree?" The producer had a mocking shimmer in his eyes, and his face bore the look of someone who was intent on annoying the hell out of anyone who crossed his path.

James stood up, red in the face, and not amused in the least, trying to look threatening. He was very much unsuccessful at his attempt. "What are you trying to do, Charles?" Charles merely shrugged, got up, and walked down the aisle toward the curtain, behind which was a hallway that contained the door to the green room.

"James?" The playwright turned, still frowning. Mary disregarded it, and held her script in front of him. She looked at him, and continued timidly, "It's a question...on the Scotch." The playwright, now thoroughly infuriated, simply walked away, to talk to John Harrow about his fiddle.

OoOoO

Peter and Jack sat at their desks, both with their eyes fixed determinedly on the clock. Peter slowly closed his textbook without looking away from the contraption; Jack craned his neck and stretched his legs, ready to leap out of his seat. When the bell finally sounded, he did, nearly as fast as jackrabbit jumping clear of danger. Peter watched him leave, sighed, and gathered his things. He took his cap out of his book bag, shoved it on his head, and walked out of the room, heaving his bag onto his shoulder.

He kept his head down while leaving, as he usually did; he wasn't one to want to be noticed, and preferred to be left to himself during the school day: the product of being picked on mercilessly by the other children. He took a detour today, though, one that made him walk around the side of the school to get to the flagpole on the front lawn. It took a longer time, but was a much more deserted path. By the time he got to his and his brothers' meeting place, though, he saw that no one was there anymore. What were they all in such a hurry for? Jack had been first to leave without him, now his other two brothers as well?

Peter stopped, temporarily in a trance. He sighed shortly after, adjusted his bag better on his shoulder, and began to walk again, when he felt something hard rap the back of his head. He snapped it around, and then he heard it - laughing.

George wasn't here now, the boy was on his own. Three older boys, holding stones, advanced on him.

"What do you want, now?" Peter asked with confidence. He tried to show them that he wasn't scared - and as he thought about showing them this, he realized that he really wasn't scared, like he was the year before. The jeering from this group had grown very old by now. What was the worst they could do to him, anyway?

"We'll settle for loose change."

"I haven't got any."

"I haven't got any," one of them mimicked, and threw another stone, which hit Peter on the side of the head. "Your beloved Uncle Jim gave you three whole shillings this morning, didn't he? Far too much for lunch - and you brought your own to school, anyway. Who made it, Peter, your servants?" Peter merely ignored this, and turned around. He had hoped to go to the pastry shop after school with his brothers, with the three shillings, but now he knew he had to go straight home, and felt that his hope was foolish. Another stone hit his neck, and he turned back, to more laughing.

"I see," he said, angry now, and went straight up to the boy in the middle of the group. "You're only jealous because my family has money, and yours is living somewhere in the streets in a trash bin."

"Do you really think I'd let someone like you talk to me that way?"

"What are you going to do?"

The boy paused, narrowing his eyes. "Give me the money."

"I haven't got it anymore. I've given it to my brother, George," Peter responded easily. His face was straight, and his tone, stern. None would have argued.

"Fine then. What's this?" The boy stretched his hand toward Peter, but was swatted away. He raised his eyebrows, surprised, clenched Peter's hands, and reached behind him to draw his journal out of his book bag.

"Give it back!" Peter lunged for the boy, who quickly turned, and began opening the book. He read aloud, with mock seriousness.

"May 1912, I lent my Uncle Jim my story today. I do hope he returns it to me with criticism. I would jump at a chance to improve - " This was met by open laughter by the group, who had dropped their stones. The boy with Peter's journal pushed him into one of his friends, who held him tight, while the third dug the three shillings out of the pocket of his trousers, then allowed the second to push him to the ground. The eyes of the boy holding the book glimmered, now, as they set on a loose string near the binding. Peter saw this, and leapt at him, but was too late. The boy pulled it hard, and with that, the thread pulled loose of the pages, scattering many of them across the lawn, and allowing the wind to pick up the others. More laughter came from the group, louder than before. Peter crashed into him, bowling him onto the grass, snatched back the binding, and crouched to the ground to gather what paper he could, his cheeks red from anger and embarrassment.

"Because he's such a good person, isn't he?" The boy said, sitting up, his face still laughing. "Always does the right thing, don't he? Always follows the law?"

Peter glanced up. "Yes," he said, through clenched teeth, and stood, the remains of his journal in his arms. Not being able to take any more, he turned and began to walk away from the three, the brim of his cap down over his eyes, and his head tilted downwards.

"Of course, he is! He forged the will, Davies! Didn't you know that? He forged your mother's will!"

And in his mind, the statement stayed, burning into his skull. And, he walked home without stopping, back to his brothers and his Uncle James, with the tears in his eyes too tired of leaving so often, burning inside his head.

OoOoO

James left the theater without a word to Charles. He walked out with Mary, straight past him, without taking his eyes off of the woman in order to avoid his friend. This hurt Charles very much, and when he noticed he was being ignored, his brow didn't bend, but rather, dropped sadly. James had never ignored him before like that, less had he walked out of the Duke of York's without a 'goodbye,' or at least a 'good day,' or 'goodnight.' So, the producer stood, watching his best friend talk to Mary on the sidewalk.

"Charles is planning on taking a lady friend with him on the outing," James said, plainly, not wanting to go into details.

"Oh, that's fine. You'll be alone, then?"

"The boy's aren't "no-one."

"Yes, but I meant..." she trailed off, noticing his indifferent expression, looked away, and touched a hand to her hair. He looked briefly to Charles during this, and when he saw that he was staring at him, looked back to Mary immediately.

"In a few weeks," he said, rather hurried to make like there hadn't been a break in the conversation.

"Pardon?" She looked up, and rolled her script into a narrow tube, nervously.

"Have Gilbert ready to take the boat out in two or three weeks."

"Oh - yes. I'll tell him, and we'll call you for the date."

"That would be fine."

"Alright, well...goodbye."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes, see you tomorrow."

The pair turned their backs to each other, and left in opposite directions, James, in the direction of Emma's house, and Mary, in the direction of Gilbert's.

When James arrived home, he found that the boys were not yet home. Perhaps they had stopped somewhere on the way, or had been delayed at school. He went up to his study, and sat at his desk, stared at his papers for a while, sighed, and began to sort through them, attempting to neaten up. He frowned at one sheet, crumpled it, threw it across the room, and heard, soon after, a sound that frightened him - an empty thunk. He looked up at his rubbish bin, and stood automatically. It was empty.

"Shite!" he shouted, his heart hammering in his chest. He ran out of the room, and into the kitchen. "Who is responsible for emptying my rubbish bin?" he said loudly. Sarah nearly dropped a baking pan, and Emma tripped over her own feet, having to grab a counter for support.

"It was I, Mr. Barrie," Emma said, quaking, and regaining her balance. She and Sarah and barely ever heard him shout.

"Where did you bring it to?"

"Outside, to be collected." At this, James ran out the door to the street, where a man was beginning to dump the can into his collecting bin.

"Stop!" he yelled to him, and the man turned his head. James hurried down the long walk, and his hands struggled to open the gate. He told him to set down the can, and then promptly began digging through its contents. The man leaned against the wheel of his carriage, and watched, amused.

"Forget something?" James declined to answer to this, but kept looking. Where was that paper? He came across many crumpled sheets of his writing, but no small ones with addresses on them. The man, who had begun to get impatient, heaved himself into the seat of the carriage. James insisted that he should wait, and got his hands to work quicker. When he finally saw it, he let out a cry of triumph, which made the man on the cart look around the street nervously for onlookers - he saw nobody but a fat, snickering woman on the corner, who seemed to be out for a stroll. As soon as he saw her, Marjorie disappeared down another street.

"Thank you," James said, getting himself out of the bin, and holding out the paper. "I've found what I was looking for. Good day."

"Good day, sir." The garbage collector climbed back down, and emptied James's bin without further interruption.

OoOoO

"He was digging through his garbage?" Sylvia said, in disbelief, a giggle creeping up her throat.

"That's exactly what I saw. Goodness knows what he was looking for. Apparently he found it, for I heard someone yelp once I had gotten halfway down the street!"

"Apparently so!"

OoOoO

Author's Note: Hah - I had to get something else humorous in there. Review! Ta!