Chapter 2: To Talk

Within about half an hour, the majority of the locals had returned to their own conversations, life continuing as it always did, but for the occasional glance towards the corner. For sure, there was an unusual abundance of conversation about how the modern city is corrupting the youth of the world, and the loss of good English values of respect and dignity. And conversation also centred around the French (for whom most English maintained a strong dislike); but there were no outright jeers or insults, for the people of St Just simply didn't DO that sort of thing.

And so an hour passed, and then two, with the people of St Just coming and going at will to their various endeavours, while Mr. Wesley continued to bake and cook and brew. Most people would find that job exhausting – spending all day slaving over a hot stove, creating culinary delights for such a large crowd on one's own, and then (once they left for the evening meal, which Mr. Wesley did not provide) having the responsibility of both cleaning the kitchen and dining area, but also managing the Bed & Breakfast itself. But Mr. Wesley was never happier than when he was busy, for it gave him no time to think. Thinking brought memories, and memories are dangerous.

However, on this particular afternoon, Mr. Wesley did indeed find himself thinking, as he glanced towards the lonely corner holding their new guest. Despite his alien appearance, Mr. Blanc was neither rude nor obnoxious, as would have been expected under such scrutiny. Instead, he did his best to become innocuous and unnoticeable, and quietly stared out the window or did something in a small green notebook he seemed to carry around. To Mr. Wesley, it looked as if he was not only used to this behaviour, but expected it; but how could that be? Unlike most residents, Mr. Wesley had some small experience of the city, and knew that, albeit getting some looks, such attire was not at all uncommon, especially in one of his apparent age.

As the oil splashed out of the pan, nearly injuring him in his inattention, something that had not happened for several years, Mr. Wesley admitted the truth to himself. He was curious about this man – what had brought him here? Why was he so accepting, so jaded? And how, and this was the most pertinent question, how could a man with the clothing and attitude he showed, be a teacher of children?

But no, it couldn't all be put down to curiosity. Mr. Wesley felt… sorry was not the right word, but perhaps a bit of empathy. An image flashed into his mind of a fat pig-like boy, a crowd of jeering faces, a black gaping hole under the stairs, but they were quickly suppressed. Those days were over, to be forgotten and hidden in the deepest recesses of his mind. He was Mr. Wesley now. But he knew what it was like to be different, and perhaps it was that which provoked his next move, a move that would change his life forever.

When a break came, all the pastries happily cooking, enough coffee and tea to last a good half-hour, Mr. Wesley joined his guests and neighbours… and sat down beside their young visitor. The locals stared at him in shock.

For the first couple of minutes, as Mr. Wesley maintained his customary quiet, young Mr. Blanc seemed not to register his presence. However, as he lifted his head towards the window, he noticed a roomful of people staring at him. No, not at him - at something beside him. Turning to see the seemingly older man, he resentfully uttered, "What do you want?"

His tone sparked a mutter of outrage among the locals, that he should be so rude to the proprietor of this place, who had yet to enforce any sort of payment for the apricot Danish and mug of coffee he was cradling. But Mr. Wesley ignored them, and instead offered his hand to the quiet young man. Understandably suspicious at first, when Mr. Wesley failed to withdraw his hand, the young man reluctantly shook it, and Mr. Wesley smiled slightly. "Welcome to our town, Mr. Blanc."

Mr Blanc snorted. "Call me… Mallory, I guess. Mr. Blanc sounds too much like some middle-aged respectable Englishman, and you could hardly say that about me, could you?" he added, gesturing derogatively towards his clothes, before realising he had indirectly insulted the other man. "And you are?"

"Blake Wesley, I run this café. And I must say, Mr. Blanc sounds more like a Frenchman than an Englishman, however did you end up with such a solid English accent?"

Mallory rolled his eyes. "My father's family is French, they say I take after him. However, I don't believe I have ever left this fine country. I grew up in Wiltshire, which isn't too far west of here, hence why Mother has relatives in this area."

"I see," replied Mr. Wesley. He would not have expected a stranger to talk so easily, even about unimportant topics like family history. But then, he himself was rather reticent about his past, as most of the village could vouch.

"And yourself?" Mallory asked. "I suppose you've lived here all your life. Family business?"

"No, actually," Mr. Wesley replied. "I grew up in Surrey, with my aunt and uncle," and there was a shared surprise among the numerous eavesdroppers. Despite having lived in the village for ten years, no one knew more than that he came from Surrey, and now he had unknowingly revealed this before a complete stranger? It was all very odd.

"Your aunt and uncle?" Mallory asked, echoing the question on many villagers' lips. "What happened to you parents?"

"They died." Mr. Wesley replied shortly, a shuttered expression coming over his face, which was previously so interested. "If you'll excuse me, I have work to do," he said shortly, before leaving the table and Mallory's surprised face to return to his job, angrily haranguing himself for his lack of subtlety. Once able to maintain the worst of lies with his powerful occlumency, now he couldn't even remember to hold his tongue. It was shameful.

Mallory looked after his rapidly departing guest, a look of confusion on his face, quietly asking what he did wrong. Noticing the countless faces intently staring at him, he blushed in embarrassment and attempted to move away, but was halted by an older man, who grabbed his arm and prevented his departure.

"It's not your fault, kiddo, Mr. Wesley hates to remember his past. In fact, he just revealed more to you then than he has to anyone else in his ten years here." Looking around, Mallory saw agreement on all the faces around him.

"You mean, none of you knew he was an orphan?"

"All we knew was that he came from Surrey and was a nice enough chap, albeit a bit quieter than the average Englishman, especially at the age he was when he came."

"Oh… and how old was that?" Mallory asked, interested.

"We think he was thirty, but we simply don't know, kid. No one knows. But, it seems, you might have the chance to. Mr. Wesley needs a friend, and despite all logic, you seem to be the one. Don't waste it."

"I won't," Mallory replied firmly. Thinking about it, he realised that he hadn't had a real friend for a very long time, not a friend who didn't judge or expect or ask for things. Maybe this would be different – either way, he was willing to give it a go.

And as he looked around the room, he saw that although none were eager to talk with the strange young man with nose-ring and rock shirt, neither did their eyes hold the same disapproval they had before. He may not be one of them, but he had a link, now. And maybe, with someone to talk to, this 'holiday' wouldn't be so bad.