All Things Bittersweet and Imaginary
Chapter 5
The Rowan Tree
Author's Note: I do apologize to all of you kind people that this took so long for me to finish. I have been busy lately, and if I'm not busy, I'm not in the mood to write. I have chapter summaries written up to chapter 8, so hopefully I can write without so many pauses. So, without further adieu, the not-so-lengthy chapter 5. Be looking forward for chapter 7. Enjoy, guys! xox Love, MJ
P.S. Thanks again to Aimee and Danny for editing my Scots again. You guys rock. xox
BARRIEFACT: Arthur Conan Doyle was the only member of the cricket team James Barrie founded, The Allah-Akabarries, who could actually play cricket.
Inside: a flashback, and two, maybe three stories.
OoOoO
"James!"
James looked up into the tree. In it, high above his head, was David, straddling a thick branch, and sporting vivid red juice on his chin, and that bright, though extremely mocking smile. It was an effortless smile, spread across his lips like good homemade butter.
There was a large cherry tree outside of David's school, at which James would run from home to, to meet his brother (their mother barely noticed he was gone) when classes were over. James always knew what time his brother would be done with classes in the afternoon, and would leave the house ten minutes early so he had time to walk to the school, and would be there when David appeared on the front steps. Today had been no different. He met him at the front, had taken his school bag from him without asking, and carried it to the tree. David climbed it, James sat on the grass, and looked up, waiting. He'd watch his brother intently, so as to not slow down the picking process. He always admired David for being able to climb a tree. Of course, he himself was able to, but his brother always seemed to have enough courage to get higher than James ever could, and always knew which cherries were best to pick. Besides, he looked better in the tree, better than the scrawny James. He looked, if possible, even more handsome, and so majestic; like a king; like he ruled the world. He climbed it and sat inside it gracefully, and delicately, as if he was meant to sit in a dirty tree for hours. James always looked at David this way, always, with such admiration, never disrespecting him, no matter what his real thoughts were.
The cherry hit James square on the nose.
"You have to catch it, silly!" David cried, laughing.
" It wis aimed fur m' face! An' besides - I wasna ready!" James picked the fallen cherry up from the grass and polished it lovingly on the lapel of his jacket, then tucked it in with the other fruit. During this, David tutted.
"You might want to get rid of the Scotch when we get home. Mother thinks you're speaking English when you're away from her, as well as around her."
"English is difficult. Am no nearly as wonderful as y' are, David." David shook his head, dismissing the compliment, and waved at a young girl who had just called his name.
"What are you so busy staring at, anyway?"
"Jane Gregory's a michty lovely young lass, David."
David followed his brother's eyes to the small girl next to the young lady that had just called to him, and let out an amused, "Hah!" and didn't bother repressing laughter at James's comment. "Women are always trouble - that's what father says. He says he had the luck of a fisherman in Spring, finding mother."
"'Ow do ye ken? Dad's on'y hame 't nicht."
"I heard them talking one night, to each other, and that's what he said."
"Syne, Margaret Ogilvy's a michty lovely lass," James said, indignantly, praising his mother, glad to have the chance to.
"Mum's only uncommonly wonderful. And, it's impolite, James, to refer to members of our family by their first names."
This is one thing that James didn't listen to David about - he disagreed and rebelled heartily, and called his mother whatever he liked. She wasn't concerned enough with him to attempt to change his ways - that's why David did.
"Aye, David."
"Good. Now, catch this next one now, okay?"
"Okay."
The two picked for an hour more, and then David climbed out of the tree, told James that "that's it," and led the way home, James behind, carrying the cherries carefully, in his empty lunch sack.
"It's impolite to stare at ladies when they're walking somewhere, James. They might just look up and see you and give you a hard cuff on the head. Remember that."
"I will, David. I dinna want the leddies no to like me." James nearly tripped on the road, and because of his younger brother, and the cherries, did David extend his arm to stop his fall.
"Watch your footing, instead of the weavers, James." David glanced inside the window his brother was peering into, but then back forward, striving to set a good example. "You wouldn't want to crash into someone."
"The weavers do so fascinate me."
"They fascinate me too," David replied simply, and the two walked the rest of the way to the house in silence, David smiling to himself. He gave his little brother a pat when they were halfway.
"Sara! Jane Ann, watch yer sister, will ye? The bairn's gang tae knock 'er 'ead on tha table. I needta get the claethes uff th' line." Margaret, a woman who looked just barely alive, and was that way because of all of her other young Barrie children, scuffled to the door with a basket, just as David and James were coming in. Margaret jumped out of the way, surprised.
"Dominie, David! Ye gae me a start! Wha' did I tell ye aboot comin' in thro' the back?"
"We apologize, mother," David said.
"Who's 'we'? Who ye got wae ye? James? Or did he walk hame frae th' park agin to-day?"
"Yes, mither, It's me," James said, creeping out of his brother's shadow, though not fully, so that Margaret still had to look behind him to see the other little boy. She smiled a bit at him, her wrinkles digging hollows deep into her face.
"Hello, James."
"Good afternoon, mither."
"I picked cherries today, mother," said David, giving an enthusiastic smile.
Margaret knew David was always the one to climb the tree.
"Let's see, then! If I hae time, I'll try'n make a pie fur us!" Margaret said, delighted. David reached behind him, and James set the sack in his hand. The older boy handed it to his mother, and her face lit up.
"O, they're lovely, David. Aye, they're beautiful. My boy, climbing ta th' top of th' tree!"
Jane Ann, bouncing little Sara and looking on, watched James, who was looking idly around the kitchen, and once he completed his assessment of the walls, went up the stairs quietly, and otherwise unnoticed. She looked pained.
Jane Ann, after all, knew James was always the one to gather the cherries.
OoOoO
Saturday, May 7th
Charles arrived to a quiet Duke of York's on Saturday morning. He took a quick look out to the house, before ducking into his office. Quiet, how he liked it; all of the empty auditorium seats, which could not talk, which could not complain about their roles in a play; empty seats, which could not get angry with him and storm out of the theater with their ex-wives. Quiet stage sets, only half-finished. The carpenters were coming on Monday to paint and put things together, Charles remembered. He muttered something to himself, closed his eyes, breathed the rich smell of the theater seat linings, and mothballs, and retired to his office, which was, like the auditorium, quiet, but for the sound of his clock ticking timidly from the shelf, daring to disturb the producer's profit-mixed-with-endless-praise-fueled creativity.
He took off his jacket, draped it over the chair's back, and sat down, rubbing his fingers across the smooth surface of his desk, while smiling to himself. He looked at the far corner of it, at the backside of a picture frame, and his mustache tensed, as he reached forward to take it in his hand. Staring straight back at him were he and James, in the middle of Broadway together. The photograph had been taken a long time ago, when he and Mary had ventured to New York for their second time, together, a few months after their second wedding anniversary. James was only as tall as Charles because of his standing with back straight, top hat perched upon wind-blown hair; and Charles had his own off, and was bending down a bit in attempt to equal their sizes. They each had an arm round each other, with joking, laughing expressions painted across their faces.
Charles bit the inside of his lip, and set the frame down on a clear space in front of him, then, in an effort to ignore it, took out his script of The Man With Music On His Face. He finished page one, and was flipping to page two, when his head jerked up to look at the photograph again. He put a hand on it to turn the frame around to face the wall, and while looking at James's black and white face, heard it. Whistling. It seemed far away, and seemed to echo as if in a tunnel - and then it stopped. Charles furrowed his brow. Am I going completely insane?
He shook his head, deciding that he wasn't, and went to turn it again - the whistling came, as before. Charles stood up, withdrawing his hand, went out into the lobby, and crept to the door. The whistling stopped for a moment, and then - singing. He bit his tongue, straining his ears to hear the words.
"Rowan tree, O, rowan tree. Thou'lt aye be dear tae me..."
Charles raised himself haughtily, trying not to be embarrassed at his own unawareness.
"Entwined thou art wi' mony ties o' hame an' infancy." He stepped out from behind the curtains silently, squinted, and saw what he hadn't before - a little brown-black head poking up from the front row of seats. A page turned, and there was some humming, then more singing. "Thy leaves were aye the first o' spring, thy flow'rs the summer pride. There wasnae sic a bonny tree in a' the countryside. O, rowan tree."
The producer sighed.
"How fair wert thou in summer time, wi' a' thy clusters white. How rich and gay thy autumn dress, wi' berries red an' - "
"Are you serenading me?" The singing abruptly stopped at this, and Charles's words were carried out to the front of the auditorium, then seemed to thud to the ground, such as a drunken fly, when it reached James. He chanced a walk down the aisle, and sat next to the author. Neither man spoke to the other for a long time, until Charles began to twiddle his thumbs. This action always bothered James immensely, and it was one which he felt could only be stopped if he did talk.
"Saturday rehearsals are extremely foolish."
Charles snorted, but didn't stop his thumbs. "We'll have to meet at Lixon's again to agree on a new schedule."
James smiled. "I suppose we should."
Charles nodded, and then stopped. "James, that song you were singing..."
"My mother used to sing it to us. On thy fair sterm were mony names, which now nae mair. I see but they're engraven on my heart, forgot they ne'er can be. My mother! Oh! I see her still, she smil'd out sports to see. Wi' little Jemnie on her lap, wi' Jamie at her knee. O, rowan tree. It's nothing very special to anyone else."
Charles smiled, and pat his friend's back. "Do you ever think about your mother?"
"She was a wonderful person. But, I don't want to talk about that right now; Mary says that it's fine if you bring Miss Adams along."
The producer smiled, a little more excited than he had been. "Oh, did she?" He sat up in his chair. "I just talked to Maude last night, and gave her your 'hello'. She asked about you."
"And, what did you say?"
"I said you were well, and that I think this play's going to be a hit. If we get the rehearsals straightened out, anyway."
James nodded, paused, then spoke again. "I was here early this morning. I left the boys home with Porthos."
"That's good," Charles said, grateful, but uncomfortable about the fact that he had arrived after his partner. Another silence followed.
"I'm sorry, James."
James didn't need to be told what the subject was turned to. "No, I overreacted."
"You didn't."
"I did."
"I've been picking on you for sixteen years now. You had the right to overreact. But, really, James, that Molly - "
James tensed. "Don't ask me about that again."
"Why don't you call her? You still have that paper, don't you?"
James recalled the day before, in front of the garbage man. "No, I'm not calling her."
"I'll call her with you."
An even worse idea. "Heavens, no."
"Listen, James - think of the boys. They need a mother, don't they?"
"Yes, but that's completely beside the point. They don't want a new mother, they want their old one. And, I'm not ready for - and, frankly, don't want, any type of female companion. I've already tried, and it's just not for me."
"So you've given up, is that it?"
"Indeed."
"So you've quit?" Charles tutted, and James shifted uncomfortably at it. "My, my. James Barrie, a quitter?"
"Charles, you don't understand, and I'm not going to try and make you understand, because you're too stubborn to put an ear to it."
"I saw how you were looking at her."
"No, no."
"Yes! Ask her for coffee."
"No."
"Take her to Lixon's! And then, she'll come boating with us, and eventually - " Charles but a hand to his ear. "Are those wedding bells I hear? Here comes the bride, all dressed in white!"
James stood, smacking Charles on the back of the head, and walked toward the green room. "No!"
"Call her!"
"No!"
"James!"
"After rehearsal, Charles!"
The producer immediately jumped up, nearly tripping over a theater seat, ran to his best friend, and grabbed him in a bone-crushing hug. Mary walked into the auditorium during this, and looked at the pair suspiciously.
"What's going on?"
"He's going to call her!" Charles sang carelessly, and danced behind the curtain. Mary's face fell, and she kept quiet, save for when she spoke on stage, for all three hours after.
OoOoO
Once, when James was young, he had overheard, in the streets, two jolly old Scottish men talking. They were leaning against a fence, a wheelbarrow accompanying them. One was holding, and petting, a scraggly-haired gray cat. Both had dirty hats and dirty clothes. Their pants were ripped, the soles of their shoes were coming loose from the cracked threads, and they had scruffy beards with whiskers growing in all directions: North, South, East, and West. They didn't look like they had a penny to their names, and yet, they were still jolly old men - not complaining, but instead leaning against a fence, just talking to each other, like the world was just right.
James's family didn't have very much money either, and had to save and use as much of anything they had, as they could. Any penny that anyone in the family earned dropped into a mason jar that was kept on the mantle; but, they got along all right, and with money being difficult to come by when the town is small and not wealthy; when the man of the house has the only job, and when that job is that of a weaver's, they were doing better than most folks.
James had only been passing briefly on his way home from town, and had to strain his ears to listen, at the same time trying not to let on that he was listening, but he had caught what they were saying:
"Ta be 'n th' comp'ny 'f a beau'iful leddy 's th' on'y thing I need 'n life. I daurna ask fer muckle, ye ken tha."
"Ay, but, I'm sure 'f I 'ad th' chance, I'd ay ask ta be 'n th' comp'ny 'f twa beau'iful leddies!" After that, the two busted up laughing, parted, saying their goodbyes, the one man with his wheelbarrow, and the other with his cat.
James wasn't sure why he remembered that now, but this is what he thought about whilst walking with Charles.
"...she's a florist, and she should be getting out of work in about five minutes. If we're lucky, she'll be home when we get to the phone."
James took a moment to register the information, then said, "How do you know this, Charles?" He was now honestly a bit disturbed by his friend's wealth of information about a woman neither of them barely knew.
Charles grinned, triumphantly. "I met Marjorie Simmons in the park that day you met Molly, and set her a little task: to find out things about her that may prove...useful."
The playwright inquired no further. "It's impressive, really," he said, with a sigh, "that a large city like London could have such successful gossips." Charles nodded vaguely, and the pair proceeded to Emma's.
"You have the telephone number, don't you?" Charles said excitedly.
"Yes, I have it," James said, and closed the door behind him. Once he had gone to his study to fetch the paper, the two assembled themselves at the phone. Charles was the one to take a deep breath. James, expressionless, fingered the paper (which now sported an ugly spot from turkey fat from the trash) in his hand, and began to dial, while the producer rocked back and forth on his heels, smiling cheerily.
"Hello," James said into the phone, and Charles inched closer to the earpiece. "Is this Miss Blennerhasset? Yes, this is James Barrie - yes, hello. How are you?" A pause. "Oh, I see. Well, I'm sorry to call at such an odd - pardon? Yes, I'll hold." He turned to Charles. "She wants me to hold."
"I realize that," said Charles anxiously. "Ask her for coffee - "
"Hello. No, I've been at rehearsal all day. It's coming along all right."
Sometimes you had to lie.
"No, I just got home myself, I have a fr - "
"No!" Charles mouthed, eyes wide.
"Fr - French woman playing my lead role. Yes, she's stunning." The playwright shrugged pathetically, and Charles shoved his shoulder. "Coffee!"
"Very good, she's fabulous. Anyway, I wanted to propose. Something - I wanted to propose something." Charles bit his tongue. "Would you like to meet me for coffee some day - After eleven o' clock?" Another pause. When James brightened, Charles responded by nearly smiling his beard off of his face.
"Monday's fine. Tomorrow I have to go to Church, but Monday's wonderful. Lixon's? Alright, Lixon's it is. I'll see you Monday. Yes, thank you. Goodbye." James hung up slowly, and with a shaking hand. As soon as he did, he let out all of the air in his lungs and Charles immediately gathered him into another bear hug.
"I nearly lost my head."
"Well, you'd better hold onto it," Charles laughed, "you'll be needing it for Monday morning!"
OoOoO
Author's Note: Reviews are quite welcome, you know. (smiles)