All Things Bittersweet and Imaginary
Chapter 6
The Failure Of Success

Author's Note: I ended up liking this chapter a lot after I finished it. It did take a long time, and I am sorry, but I did finish it.

I was accepted to this Western New York Young Writers' Anthology, and I had the reception for it last night. It wasn't too big, only a few people were there, but I felt special, anyway. I read With A Daisy In Her Hair and...well, I hope people liked it. Anyway, I have nothing else to say, so, enjoy chapter six!
xox Love always,
MJ

BARRIEFACT: James Barrie's first novel was named Better Dead. When he was asked his opinion of it in later years, his reply was the title.

Inside: Two stories, and one flashback.

OoOoO

Sunday, May 8th - The Day Prior To James's Birthday

Church was always a serious affair. It was to be taken as the best time of the week, even though James still thought it strange that the Sabbath of the English Church was on a Sunday, instead of a Saturday - the day that he and his brothers and sisters would be dragged off to the town kirk to worship - which meant, ultimately, to sit still and try with all of your might to resist slumber.

James's family (as were many families in Kirriemuir, let alone Scotland itself) had been Presbyterian, and had gone to church regularly - and had continued doing so after James left for University, without him. He became busy then, and the velocities of his faith dwindled as each unacknowledged Sabbath passed him by. Once he got older, and his sister, Jane Ann had decided to put her dreams and ambitions on the back burner, where they would burn, die, and be blown away by the wind with her, instead of after her (as the legacies of many, of course, are carried on after their deaths), as she spent the rest of her life caring for her mother and taking the old woman to the kirk when she could feel her feet - he began going at least once or twice a month, always on Easter, and always on Christmas.

And now, he went to the English Church for the sake of, in memory of, and in favor towards Emma du Maurier. He'd remind the boys each Sunday (though reminding himself simultaneously) that it was the right thing for them to do. George once asked why he went to church every Sunday for someone who he was of no relation to, when he had only gone when he had had the time, after his mother died. James had merely shrugged in response and said he wasn't as busy at the present time as he had been then, which was good enough for George.

The real reason, though, was that James believed that a month of consecutive English Sunday Sabbaths accounted for at least (if not more) two Free Presbyterian Church Saturday Sabbaths, depending on the days, the month, the weather, and the mood of the month in question.

So, the morning of the 8th, James did as his own mother had done: dressed his boys in their suits, and took them to the church, with the promise that they could go swimming afterwards in the pond. They went, however, with glum faces, led down the street by James as they were every Sunday. They were each handed a program upon their entrance and took their usual seats in their usual pew near the middle of the room.

The introduction to the opening hymn started suddenly, as the congregation got to their feet. A gasp was heard from Michael, and he began to tug on James's sleeve sharply.

"Uncle Jim!" he hissed at him. James closed his program silently, and bent down. "It's the woman from the park!"

"What do you mean, Michael - ?" He looked up and around hopefully, but quickly looked down at Michael when he couldn't locate her on his own.

"There, Uncle Jim!" He pointed, and James saw her at last, and there was an excited fluttering in his chest when he did.

She was dressed in a nice light blue dress, which most definitely set her apart from the other ladies in the congregation: while her clothing looked like Summer, the other ladies looked like they were in the middle of Winter. She seemed, though, overly dressed for the occasion, but still very beautiful, as though this was the only time in the week that she dressed up. Her eyes sparkled, and her face was glowing, and she wore a pair of lacy white gloves on her hands. The other women had on dark gloves, and dark gowns. And, what with them all wearing the "four thousand skirts," each and every one of them looked like, in some way, shape, or form, a caricature of Emma du Maurier.

Not Molly. While everyone stood fanning themselves with their programs, she stood for the most part, unnoticed, looking at her own program while she quietly sang along with the organ. She looked as if the collection basket might pass her without a second glance, even if her attire was outrageously contrasting.

James, at this time, realized that he wasn't singing, so, began mouthing nonsense and finally removed his hat, forgetting to feel shameful about wearing something on his head in the presence of God. Only a few minutes after he started trying his best to blend into the crowd, the organ silenced and the congregation sat down - all but the preoccupied James, who required being tugged down by George, and at the same time, was being watched by both Marjorie Simmons and Sylvia Namm, who were sitting in the very front pew. They were both watching the scene behind them with interest, knowing precisely why James was acting the way he was, and smirked and snickered at his flustered display. They then turned, and continued to fan themselves.

Molly, luckily, hadn't seen the disturbance at all, and removed her bonnet, fixing her hair. Then it occurred to James - why wouldn't he want her to, after all?

So, here began the playwright's attempts to make himself noticed by Miss Molly.

James fumbled with his bible when the priest announced the page that he would first read from, and quickly found it. Once he began to read, James cleared his throat loudly, twice. The priest looked up long enough for the playwright to apologize, but Molly didn't move herself to face James with the rest of the congregation. Their eyes were soon averted, though, and the sermon continued as if there had been no disruption.

George looked away from his own bible. "Are you all right, Uncle Jim?" he whispered.

James shook his head, dismissing the question. He pointed to the opened page, indicating that he wanted George to continue to follow along, and looked again at Molly, two pews to the front of him, on the other side of the aisle. George did not obey, though, and kept his head turned to watch - soon with Jack, who followed suit almost instantly after. James did not notice this, and pursued his goal.

He slid his foot underneath a kneeler, lifted it up slowly, and let it hit the floor with a thud that echoed so that even he jumped. The priest, again, paused and lifted his head to look for the culprit that was disturbing the peace, but, when seeing everyone with their heads bent, scratched his wrinkled hand and continued to read. Jack giggled, and covered his mouth. He and George watched as the playwright glanced over to Molly again, but discovered that he had been, once more, unsuccessful.

James gave up for a moment, then began to gently tap the butt of his cane on the wood floor. He did this until Sylvia Namm turned her head around to face him, and smiled. She turned back when he stopped tapping, touched a hand to her hair, and followed along in her bible.

The priest stopped talking, and when the congregation closed their bibles, James snapped his own shut. Molly did not turn her head - only crossed her legs, and toyed with the ribbon on her bonnet sitting in her lap.

The fifth attempt came at Communion. As soon as his pew was dismissed to go to the front of the church, he hopped up and urged George, Jack, and Peter to follow him quickly. He folded his hands, and peeked around the arm of the man in front of him. Molly was almost to the front, already.

"Molly!" He whispered, and the tall man turned his head to frown. James apologized out of fear and shame, and gave up. The last thing he wanted was a fight in the church.

James ran a hand over his hair, and looked in her direction. She was sitting alone in the front, waiting to go up to the pulpit to speak. When her time came, she walked up importantly, cleared her throat quietly, and began to read. The boy smiled, and leaned forward in his seat, nearly falling off of it, and hanging on her every word. Her blue eyes, her blonde hair - she was wonderful in every way.

"I aim to get her," James said quietly, leaning over to his friend, who smiled.

James McMillan was a frail-looking boy, who jumped at every unexpected sound, and, like James Barrie, had no chance of getting any girl, no matter what her interests were. McMillan was also James's best, and only friend at Dumfries Academy. The two were always together, playing games, and acting out the short plays that James would write for their enjoyment. James had nicknamed his friend "Bobbin," or "Bobbie," as they often confused themselves when talking to each other.

"What would Thomas Carlyle do?" was the other small boy's response.

Their imaginary hero, Thomas Carlyle - what would he do?

The girl stepped down from the pulpit, and the minister replaced her quietly. The entire congregation remained silent, taking in the words, meditating on them. James and Bobbin watched her sit down intently, and when the minister began speaking his own words, the congregation closed their books. James snapped his own shut, then looked at Sarah for her response, but there was none.

Church ended, and James pulled Bobbin up by his sleeve, and dragged him to the door, but they were greeted before arriving there, by a bustling throng of women. James peeked around one.

"Sarah!" he called, and tried to push through. His vision was blocked momentarily by a very tall man in front of him, and when he could see ahead again, found that she was walking towards the street, with another boy, who belonged to the other church, on her arm.

"Molly!" He tugged at George, who pulled his brothers along down the aisle after him, and reached forward to touch the woman's sleeve. She turned, and when she saw James struggling, walked to the door, and waited for him to reach her. When the five escaped the confusion, she smiled.

"I didn't know you went to this church," James said.

"My family has gone to this church since my sister and I were children. She's buried in the cemetery here."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I have friends buried here as well." Molly nodded her condolences, and glanced at the boys, knowing the story, which, by now, was crawling with rumors, about James, and Sylvia Davies.

She looked back to James, and smiled. "You were very loud in church today," she said.

James turned instantly red, and Jack and George exchanged amused glances. "Yes, well, the heat was making me uncomfortable, that's all. I've always said that they cram too many people in that kirk."

Molly turned slightly red, hid her smile, and shifted some. "Well, it was nice seeing you here, but I have to get home, I'm sorry."

James was secretly crushed, but tried not to show it. "Oh, that's fine. I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"Yes - I was actually going to call you to tell you that I'd be by the theater on my way to Lixon's from work, so I'll meet you there, instead."

"All right. I'll see you there, then."

"Goodbye, James."

OoOoO

James broke off another piece of bread, snapped it into the water, and lifted his eyes to watch two squabbling ducks fight for it. George mimicked James's action soon after, and the two ducks moved on to fight with a new-coming enemy. James smiled, but still didn't lift his head. He looked down at the bread in his fingers, and fiddled with it. He saw George out of the corner of his eye, sitting next to him on the bank of the pond, watching his other three brothers fool around in the water on the far side of the pond. Both onlookers were still dressed in their Sunday clothes. James licked his lips and sighed.

"Why don't you join your brothers?" He knew the answer, and George's shrug wasn't needed. James shook his head. "You boys," he said. "If you were girls, I would have to remind you about not growing up, but boys...especially you four, you're just fine on your own." He was merely expressing his hopes.

George threw a piece of bread, and looked at James. "I can't join them, anymore, though, Uncle James."

"Oh?" The playwright didn't move his head, but gave up more of his bread as well.

"I've forgotten how to fly, Uncle James." He watched his friend play with the bread crusts in his hands, and pressed on to try to get through to him. "I've...I'm growing up."

"Of course you are. How old are you now, fifteen? Jack's nearly fourteen, Peter's nearly thirteen, Michael's seven. You're all growing up."

"I don't want to grow up."

James smiled, more to himself than to George, who happened to see it. "I see I've impressed you, somewhat."

"You have."

"Everyone has to grow up, George." He finally lifted his head, but still did not look to his side. "As much as we deny it, it happens, and it is, indeed, the worst part of our lives."

It was George's turn to lower his head. "I'm sorry, Uncle Jim."

"Oh, there's no need to be sorry. Actually, I'd known you'd be the first, simply because, you're the oldest. When your father died, did you feel the need to be the father of the family?"

George nodded. "And when my mother died, I felt like I had to be both parents - because I'm the oldest."

"Aye. It's only natural."

"Were you the eldest in your family, Uncle James?"

James hesitated. "No, I was in the middle. There were so many of us. My mother died, actually, after the first day I was on my honeymoon with Mary. We had to leave for Scotland when I heard she was very sick, and was asking for me from her bed. I think it was confirmed, then, to leave our subject, mine and Mary's bitter feelings toward each other. Confirmed, because, even though we'd just been married, she'd already begun to have little periods where she was annoyed with me, and some things I said and did utterly disgusted her...even then."

George had to smile. "You haven't had much luck, Uncle James."

"Aye, The first leaves me, the other dies. God only knows what will happen to Molly." He smiled meekly, and looked at George.

"Do you love her, Uncle Jim?"

"No, and I won't ever." He threw a piece of bread forcefully, and it hit one of the ducks' bills. It shook its head and complained loudly, and even more so when one of his enemies scooped it up from below him.

The eldest Davies boy, though confused as he was, kept quiet. Hadn't he just seen his Uncle Jim try to gain attention of the lady in church not two hours ago?

The subject was then dropped.

"What's Peter like at school, George?" James asked, watching the boy he talked of, who was laughing at himself for going to the deepest part of the pond unintentionally - the quarter of it that went over all of their heads. James said that that was because before the pond was filled with water, that was where a baby dinosaur slept. When Michael asked why it hadn't been filled in, he said because the clay underneath was impossible to remove. That was good enough for Michael, though he didn't know how there could be clay in the ground.

"He's quiet, mostly, when I see him. Jack would be able to tell you more - they're in the same class together."

"Does he have any friends?"

"No," George said. He didn't sound very sad - it was only a known fact.

"Doesn't he talk to anybody?"

"Me, and Jack, and when he sees Michael."

"I see."

"Uncle Jim!" Peter called. James turned his head. "Jack dared us to go in the deep part!"

"Come, George." James stood with his equal-heighted sidekick, and made his way to the other three boys. "Did he? Well, I'd like to see Jack do it first."

"That's all right, I can see it from here," Jack stated confidently.

"Of course you can," said James, smiling.

"Go on, Jack. Are you afraid?" urged George.

"Not at all. I'm not afraid of anything."

"Then go, brave knight, and leave all others in your wake!" called James.

This seemed to heighten Jack's spirits, and he gave a fearless nod before walking toward the underwater hill. When it became too deep for him to set his foot down, he treaded water, and nearly reached the other side when - he screamed. The three in the peanut gallery jumped, and watched Jack swim back.

"Something touched my foot! It reached out and grabbed my foot!" James furrowed his eyebrows. "Do you think it was the dinosaur, Uncle Jim?"

"The dino - Michael!" James looked where Michael had been, and felt the breath leave his lungs.

"Michael!" George yelled. He threw off his jacket and stepped into the water, swimming down to his brother.

"Can he swim at all?" James called to Jack.

"Michael? No, he can't swim! We kept him in the shallow parts!"

James nearly asked whose responsibility it was to be watching their little brother, but it was no use. Besides, he was the father figure, and it was, after all, his responsibility.

George tried, at first, to find Michael blindly, but he had to open his eyes to see. When he did, they began to burn from the algae, and the pain slowed him down. He realized what he was doing under the water, and forced himself to get to his brother faster. When he spotted him, he took his little arm and brought him up to the surface. James was relieved to see the both of them emerge, both coughing, Michael on the verge of tears. He went to them and brought the little one to the grass. George stumbled out and followed him into the house, Peter and Jack tripping after them.

This was James's third worry about the boys. Peter had been mercilessly teased, George had grown up, Michael had drowned. As he led a towel-wrapped Michael upstairs, he looked at Jack and wondered what would be next. Trying to abandon that thought, James tucked Michael into bed, and rang Sarah and Emma for tea. When the two mugs came upstairs, George refused his and offered it to Peter, who took it with shaking hands. Michael, however, didn't move at all, save for his breathing. James set the mug on the night stand, and the four sat with the little one for a while, Peter drinking his tea, and George shivering. Finally, Michael opened his eyes to look at James, and spoke.

"Pasty," he said.

"We should have some," said James quietly, taken aback by the sudden noise from the boy. "Didn't you go to Gilmer's the other day, Peter?"

"No, Uncle Jim," Peter answered into his mug. This was the last thing he wanted to talk about.

"I gave you the money, didn't I? or, did I forget?"

"No, Uncle Jim," he repeated. Peter lowered his mug. "Jack, George, and Michael all left school without me. And...the money was stolen."

Everyone stared at Peter, then James scratched his neck, and everyone looked at him.

James, though, looked at Jack. "Why did you all leave?" he asked. Jack blushed, and opened his mouth to speak, but George saved another one of his brothers in the same hour.

"It was my fault, Uncle James," he said. He had found Jack and Carolyn together at the flagpole that day, and had rushed him and Michael home. All three had forgotten about Peter, but Jack was the one put on the spot at the moment. George knew that James had enough on his mind to add another thing. So the eldest brother decided to save Jack the grief this time (but only this one time - he, as everyone in the house knew, ended up with the bad end of the deal after every other issue was resolved).

Peter looked at George in awe, and muttered something to him, but James only stared at George. He recognized the heroism - something was going on. After all, he knew the situation - he'd written something like this before. His own characters, Gavin and Babbie, had been caught together while a score of soldiers were looking for the woman. Babbie forced Gavin into helping her save herself by lying to the soldiers. Only, in this real-life situation, George was acting the hero again, saving Jack voluntarily. Just like in the story, though, Gavin had opened his mouth to talk, but was cut off by the gypsy woman before he could utter a word.

James sighed, and decided to play along. "Well, thank you for your confession, George, that was aye the right thing to do," he said, without thinking. George bit his lip, and only nodded. "I'm going to go...get myself some tea, then." The playwright attempted a smile at Michael, and exited the room, closing the door gently behind him. He put his back against it, and let himself slide to the floor. Why did George have to lie to him? He was sure that the boys knew that they could tell him anything - he wouldn't dare to, or have the heart to, punish them harshly.

He was doing something wrong, though, he had to be. What else could make his George, his beautiful George, lie to him? Then it came to him. He knew only one possible reason for all this. It was all he could find for an answer, and it was simple.

He had been a bad father.

His chest throbbed when he had the thought, but it was the only thing that could explain everything that had occurred.

And, as if that wasn't enough, Peter still knew something James didn't even know that he knew. The playwright had, indeed, forged the will of Sylvia Llewelyn Davies. James had whisked it away so quickly when he had found it, that he was able to make his own version, fit to his liking, before the official reading of the will. Sylvia had clearly written "Jenny," who was one of the family's close friends, but after careful handiwork with his pen, James did what he wanted to be done, because he couldn't stand to be without his boys, without his inspiration, without the four true loves of his life. He loved them, yes, not romantically, but in a way only a father could, or someone better than a father could love - he loved Jack, George, Peter, and Michael - in the way of Peter Pan.

Pan's love is a love more complicated than that of a confused woman who cannot let go of her own unfortunate love, for example, that of her drunkard husband. It is a love so inexplicable that if the best of medicine men tried their hands and their minds at deciphering the mysterious code of it, their quest would surely end in graciously giving their lives for the work in order to spare themselves of the horridness that had infected them in trying. There is truly no accurate way of putting any words together to describe this love; it's simply accepted by the most faithful of believers. This confused sort of love was James's love, in its purest definition, however cluttered with nonsense it may seem. Somehow, it was simple to James, made complicated only by those around him. If everyone knew this love, maybe the playwright wouldn't have had to get his boys by force.

He had written "Jimmy." Sylvia had begun to call him that, after he had developed his own pet-name for her out of her middle name, Jocelyn. It was the name he secretly reserved for himself, and only referred to her in that manner in letters and often in his journal. No one else knew of it, so he was satisfied. He had gotten the chance to share something with her that had no risk of being taken away, because of its clever lack of being known.

Today it seemed upside-down, turned on its side, and mixed together. The boys were the sturdy cart, and James was the taunting pothole in the road.

OoOoO

Author's Note: I am very glad that I decided to jump out of bed at midnight and finish this before the morning. I am very much surprised at myself. Hope you all liked it! Reviews are quite welcome!