Hey there, lovelies! God, I am really SO sorry for taking so long to update this. I hope I actually do still have readers. I hope this big fat chapter makes up for it? *gives you all puppy eyes* But I feel so flattered by the amazing response for this story. Thank you so much for your reviews, for taking a few moments out of your day to actually voice an opinion on something I've written means so much more to me than words can say. Thank you, thank you! :D
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Time Knows No Boundaries ~ Chapter Nine
Do you think of her when you're with me?
Repeat the memories you made together
Who's face do you see?
Do you wish I was a bit more like her?
Am I too loud? I'll play the clown to cover up all these doubts
Perfect heart, she's flawless
She's the other woman, shining in her splendour
You were lost
Now she's gone and I'm picking up the pieces
I watch you cry, but you don't see that I'm the one by your side
'Cause she's gone
In her shadow, is it me you see?
'Cause all that's left is you and I
And I'm picking up the pieces she left behind
'Picking Up the Pieces' – Paloma Faith
.:*:.
Captain James Nicholls?
Martha could feel her heart hammering painfully in her chest. She blinked several times, firmly convinced that her senses were playing tricks on her. Goosebumps tingled their way up and down her arms...though this time, it did not have anything to do with the large spiders that were scuttling about in the cobwebby attic.
"Dad?" she called, her voice trembling slightly, faintly surprised she could utter a single word in her shock, "Dad, w-where did you get this painting?"
"Huh? What's that?" she heard him reply from behind the wall of cardboard boxes.
Martha picked up the frame with shaking fingers, straightened up and clambered back towards her father, who was looking expectantly at her. She held it up to show him.
"Ohhh... Blimey, I haven't seen this picture in years," Greg said, his green eyes shining in delight as he surveyed the oil painting, "This was my gran's..."
"Your gran's?" Martha echoed, staring at him.
"Yeah, she had it for ages. I remember as a kid, my brother – your Uncle Jeremy – and I, we always used to look at it whenever we went round to her house. She must have known how much I liked it 'cause she left it to me when she died... Here – bring it downstairs so we can see it in better light..."
"But where did it come from? Where'd she get it?" Martha demanded as she followed him down the loft ladder again, listening eagerly to her father's story. Once back on the landing, she eyed him beadily, craving to learn more. Greg's eyebrows knitted together slightly at the sudden urgency in his daughter's tone, but he continued regardless.
"Apparently, some soldier type she was engaged to back during the war – the First World War, that is – painted it and gave it to her. There she is, there, look..." he added, pointing at a framed photograph on the wall nearby.
Martha turned her head in the direction he'd indicated, and ventured over to look at the old black-and-white photo of her grandparent's wedding day, a picture that she knew well. There was her grandmother, Elizabeth, smiling away, looking positively radiant in her gown, one arm entwined with her grandfather's. The couple were laughing happily, perhaps over a long-forgotten joke which had just been told. She was holding a beautiful bouquet of trailing white roses (at least, they looked white in the photo). But it was the beaming elder woman standing on her grandma's other side whom Martha had focused her attention on - her great-grandmother.
Martha had never known her great-grandma; she had died long before she was born. But somewhere from the deep crevices of her mind, she had a vague recollection of some of the stories her dad used to tell about her. She glanced back at the picture of the horse with his gleaming burnished coat. Trying very hard to keep her cool, Martha swallowed back a lump in her throat and asked,
"What happened to him? The soldier?"
Greg paused for a moment as he tried to remember, his expression thoughtful.
"Uh...I think I remember her saying he went to France, I believe... Yes, that's it, France. But sadly, he didn't come back... And apart from her engagement ring, that's all she had left of his. I'm sure I've told you all this before about my Granny Meg?" he added to her, frowning slightly.
Martha felt a sudden chill dance down her spine. Meg? Granny Meg? James had said that that was his fiancé's name... But... No, no, it couldn't possibly be...
Forcing herself to remain calm, Martha asked tremulously, "Have you got any photos of Granny Meg when she was younger?"
"I'm sure we have..." Greg answered cheerfully, and he headed down to the living room, and Martha followed at a distance, still continuing to stare at the painting of the horse called Joey in her hands, feeling suddenly very strange indeed. This couldn't be just pure coincidence...surely?
Oblivious to Martha's turbulent thoughts, her father was rummaging through an old cedar cabinet, bringing out box after box of photo albums which had been passed down through the Burton family over the years. After a few minute's searching, he found what he was looking for.
"Aha! Here we are," he announced triumphantly at last, "this is the earliest photo I've got of her – "
But the words were hardly out of his mouth as Martha, in her excitement, snatched the photo album from her father's grip and held it up to her eyes so closely that the end of her nose was touching the page.
"Hey, hey, steady on, Carrot-Top - !" Greg scolded, "Be careful with those, they've been in the family for years and they're delicate!"
Paying no mind, Martha gaped at the sepia photograph and she felt like somebody had just struck her very hard in the stomach. To say that she was stunned at what she saw was a severe understatement.
"Oh my God..." she breathed.
There was a little scribbled caption reading, "Meg – holiday in Devon, April 1922". The photo was small, terribly grainy and not altogether clear. But Martha could see immediately who it was...
The photo had captured Meg sitting atop a jagged rock overlooking the sea, toying with a long bead necklace between her fingers. An impish, playful smile lit up her entire face, which reminded Martha all the more of a mischievous little pixie. Although she may have looked a little older, and her hair was shorter and styled into an elegant bob that was of course fashionable in the twenties, along with a stylish cloche hat...this was, without a shadow of a doubt, the same beautiful young woman as the one in James' pencil sketch that was lying on Martha's table.
"That's her," she whispered hoarsely.
"That's who?" her father started to ask curiously, "Whoa, Martha, are you okay?"
For Martha had nearly felt her legs give out in shock as a wave of dizziness suddenly washed over her, and Greg held out a hand to steady her as she swayed dangerously on the spot like a newborn foal who was struggling to find its footing.
"Yeah, I'm fine! I'm okay... My tickety hasn't been more boo!" she rambled in between breaths, as her dad helped to steer her onto an armchair.
She was only vaguely aware of her dad disappearing for a moment but promptly returning with a glass of water. He held it out to her and Martha accepted it with shaking hands. She took a sip, but the cool liquid did little to relieve her. Greg gazed down at his only daughter, looking deeply troubled.
"Sweetie, you look pale as death. What's up?"
He placed a hand on her forehead as though to check her temperature in case she was sickening for something.
"You don't happen to have a picture of the soldier who painted that horse, do you?" Martha managed to ask eventually in a hushed tone, trying to gather her wits. If he found the question a rather strange one for her to ask, Greg didn't comment upon it.
"No, I don't, I'm afraid..."
But Martha knew she didn't really need a photo to confirm it. How many men by the name of Captain James Nicholls in the world could there have been?
"Dad?" she said, "Do you think I could borrow a couple of these albums?"
James blinked a few times as he pulled himself out of the world of Harry Potter, and became aware of his surroundings. He had flown through the novel; indeed, already he was on the ninth chapter. He glanced around him and was faintly surprised to see that night had fallen, but Martha had not yet returned. He wondered how much longer she was going to be. It did not do for a young lady to walk out alone after dark - especially when she had mentioned before about the unsavoury characters that lurked around on the estate at night. He hoped she was alright and that all was well. Though before he could grow too worried, however, he heard the slam of her door.
Unable to conceal the small sigh of relief, James called to her genially, "There you are...I wondered where you had got to..."
She didn't answer him at first. He looked round at her and watched as she hung her coat and scarf up by the door. He needn't have worried, anyhow; Greg, still concerned over his daughter's rather strange behaviour, had given her a lift back to the flat, not wanting for her to walk home alone in the dark, no matter how short the distance.
"So, was your father pleased with his gifts?" James asked her.
Martha walked slowly into the room with the painting held in her arms, now carefully swathed in bubble wrap, but she was holding it as gingerly as one might if they were carrying a bomb which was liable to explode at any given moment. But still she did not reply. James inclined his head slightly to one side in order to get a good look at her face. She was awfully pale and seemed troubled over something. Abandoning his reading, James rose to his feet and was at her side in seconds.
"Martha, is something wrong? Are you quite well?" he asked with concern, touching her shoulder gently.
At his cool touch, she looked around to stare up at him, as though she had only just realised he was present. Her eyes, which had been distant and preoccupied only moments before, now focused on him. James thought she looked a bit shell-shocked. Something was definitely amiss.
"I'm not sure, to be honest," she murmured absently. James remained silent, waiting for her to explain. Taking a deep, shuddery breath, she said, "Well...it seems that the pocket watch isn't the only thing I have that used to belong to you..."
James did not understand her meaning, and was about to say so, but as he watched her rip off the protective wrapping from the slim package in her hands, the words died on his lips. Martha had held up the painting for him to see and immediately, she saw the captain's own already pallid features whiten. For what felt an eon, he simply stared at the portrait.
"But that's my...that's... Joey?" he whispered in shock. Turning wide eyes upon Martha, he demanded, "Where did you find this?"
"It was in the attic," she replied, "My dad was having a clear out and I found it up there..."
For a few moments, James was completely unable to speak. He did not think in a million years he would ever see this painting again. Taking the frame in his hands, he ran a graceful finger along his signature at the bottom before tracing over Joey's handsome profile, remembering each stroke as though it were only yesterday when he had sat down in the stable to paint the horse.
"But I sent this to..." James trailed off, utterly bewildered, "What in the world was it doing in your family's attic?" he asked, looking around at Martha in confusion as he propped up the picture on a nearby chair. It did not make any sense at all.
"It used to be my great-grandma's," Martha began to explain to him, "She left it to my dad. I didn't even know of its existence until today..." After a moment's pause, she added slowly, "Apparently...she was engaged to a dashing young cavalry captain and he gave it to her..."
It seemed to take a long time for James to properly process her words.
"Your great-grandmother left it to your father...?" he repeated slowly, as though trying to properly comprehend what she had said. Martha looked up at him, wringing her hands nervously as she awaited his reaction. "But then...that could only possibly mean..."
James' sky-blue gaze met hers. When Martha gave him a little smile, all at once, it hit him like a ton of bricks, for he realised that it was a smile that he knew intimately...but on another's lips. Suddenly, everything clicked into place in his mind.
"Your great-grandmother was...was...?"
She nodded mutely.
"You're her...?"
James was now staring at her as though seeing her for the first time. How on earth could he have been so dim? He had been so desperate to learn what had become of Meg, and yet all the time, the answer had been right under his very nose! He suddenly grasped Martha's hands in his cold ones.
"Good heavens..." James stared down at her, eyes roving all her face, studying her, "You are!" he exclaimed, an exultant smile lighting up his whole face, so much so that one would not have possibly believed that he was actually dead. "You're my Meg's great-granddaughter!"
"Yes..."
They stood simply looking at one another for a few stunned moments, neither of them fully certain what to do or say.
"You're Meg's great-granddaughter," he repeated to himself in a whisper as though he could not even begin to fathom it. "Good Lord...I don't believe it..."
"Hi," she said with a little shaky laugh. James let out a little surprised laugh himself as he stared down at her, his mind reeling.
"I see it now! That is why you seemed so familiar...why I felt like I knew you even though I had never met you before. I was so convinced that I knew you from somewhere and I was right," he murmured.
Feeling a sudden rush of relief that he appeared to be happy about this revelation, Martha suggested, "Maybe this is the reason why I'm the only one who can see you? Because I'm Meg's descendant?"
"Perhaps," he nodded, hardly aware of what he was saying, feeling somewhat in a bit of a daze as he continued to stare at Martha. It was like he was seeing her in a whole different light. The both of them seemed rendered speechless in view of discovering this connection between them.
"Well...you wanted to put the past to rest and know what happened to your fiancé after the war..." Martha said, her voice wobbling slightly with emotion as she fished out her family albums from the carrier bag and sat herself down on the sofa. She patted the spot next to her, indicating James to do the same so that she could show him and reiterate what her father had been explaining to her earlier that evening.
"This is the only photo Dad could find of her when she was younger..."
She opened up one of the albums and flicked through the pages until she found the right one, and tapped a finger on the photograph of Meg by the sea. James stared down at the photo and he felt a heavy jolt in his chest. There she was, his Meg, just how he remembered her. Oh, but she looked so beautiful! He never thought he would ever see that wonderful smile ever again...
"Meg got married to an Edward Turner after the war," Martha explained, "they had two children...one of them obviously being my grandma, Elizabeth... Then she got married to a William Burton, who was a bus conductor, and over the years, they had three boys - my uncles, Jeremy and Nicholas – "
Finding the appropriate page, she pointed them out in a photo of three almost identical young men, the youngest then being in his twenties, who were sitting side by side in a garden, smiling widely, with a Cocker Spaniel sprawled across her Uncle Jeremy's lap.
" - and the youngest was my dad, Gregory..."
Martha threw cautious glances at James from time to time, gauging his reaction, but he said very little; he only listened. James was gazing at the photos of Martha's family, and saw others with the same long nose, the same vibrant red hair...
"He met my mother, Charlotte, and then they got married and had just the one daughter...me," Martha finished, showing him a photo of herself when she was a bonny, smiling infant.
"Good heavens," James whispered again, his mind all of a flurry. He was once again drinking in the photo of Meg that had been taken in 1922. He was staring so intensely at it that Martha thought he looked as though he desired nothing more than to fall into the picture with her. He could feel the backs of his eyes stinging.
"Do you know if she was happy?" he asked in a murmur, blinking hastily to keep tears at bay, not wishing for Martha to see.
"I guess she was..." she answered, "Dad always said she was like a ray of sunshine, he adored her... " James smiled at this, running a finger gently over Meg's photo. "Oh, by the way, I asked Dad where she was buried, but he said he remembered that Meg had asked specifically to be cremated and to have her ashes scattered at a place called - oh, where was it he said now?" Martha's eyebrows knotted together in a frown and she drummed her fingers as she tried to remember. "Thurlbear or something - ?"
"Thurlbear Wood," James finished for her.
"You know it?" she asked, blinking at him in surprise. James' smile widened.
"Yes, I know it very well indeed... Meg and I would often take walks or ride there. In fact, it was where she first gave me the pocket watch..."
Thurlbear was a beautiful ancient woodland of oak and ash situated on the outskirts of Taunton – at least, it had been as James remembered it. It had been very much a favourite haunt of the young sweethearts while they had been courting. They would spend hours at a time strolling through the sunny, bluebell-strewn coppice, listening to the cheery, twittering medley of birds; Meg happily scooping up handfuls of wildflowers that speckled the ground, enchanted by the beauty of the place. It was also in that wood where James had proposed marriage to her, but he couldn't bring himself to say this aloud to Martha. He felt deeply touched, however, to learn that after all these years, despite getting wed to another, Meg wished to have her remains scattered in that particular spot that she loved so much...where they had shared their fleeting moments of happiness before the war.
Noticing the slightly pained expression on his face, Martha cleared her throat and continued, "Well, it's a nature reserve now apparently, according to Dad."
James was at a loss for words and did not know what to say. He was completely taken aback at the revelation that his dear Meg's descendant was currently sitting right next to him. Martha was looking once again at the picture of Joey. The horse's intelligent dark eyes seemed to twinkle at her knowingly, as though he too was happy to be reunited with his long-lost friend.
"It's a gorgeous painting," she praised, breaking the silence, "I meant what I said before, you know...you're a brilliant artist."
James was still continuing to stare at the young woman – probably more than what must be deemed appropriate – but he could not help himself. Realising at once what he was doing, he averted his gaze.
"You are most kind to say so," he thanked her quietly.
"Was Joey your horse?" Martha responded in kind.
"No, he wasn't mine initially... He belonged to a young lad called Albert Narracot," James explained, "I bought him from his father for thirty guineas. I knew that a fine animal such as he was worth far more than that, but it was all I had. The poor boy begged and begged his father to change his mind. It was obvious he loved that horse as one might a brother..."
James shook his head sombrely and sighed, the image of Albert's tear-stained face still clear in his mind's eye even now. His desperation of not wanting to be parted from his dear friend, even lying to James that he was nineteen in order to volunteer himself as a soldier, just so he could be with him. James was sympathetic but had had to let him down as gently as possible.
"I promised the boy that I'd look after him..."
"I'm sure that you did," Martha said.
"But I wasn't able to stand by that promise, after all, was I?" continued James rather bitterly, "Poor old chap probably perished in the charge, same as I."
Martha glanced up at him sharply. Until now, he had never spoken about the reasoning behind his death. Usually he didn't want to talk about it, so she had never liked to bring it up. However, she was mighty curious and decided to throw caution to the winds.
"What happened to you, James?" she whispered tentatively, wringing her hands, "How did you...die?"
There was quiet between the two of them, save for the light pitter-patter of rain on the windowpane. The seconds ticked by and Martha feared she may have spoken out of turn, and was about to apologise when James heaved a sigh and spoke.
"We were camped near a small town, Quiévrechain, to defend the borders from the Germans..." and he launched into the terrible tale of the course of events leading up to the charge; the orders to leave any buttons or buckles unpolished so as not to give them away...how many of his comrades – rather naively, in James' opinion – believed that this would be enough to thwart the Germans' advance and they would all be home by Christmas. The blind horror and even guilt that had coursed through him to know he had stolen men's lives as his sword slashed to and fro. But there was no room for fear or guilt...
When he reached the moment in the story where he realised that they had greatly underestimated the enemy, could see that dreaded machine gun turn its ugly snout upon him...James felt his throat constrict and found himself quite unable to continue. Torturous memories flickered and danced in his mind's eye.
(Flashback)
Pain. Excruciating pain, such as he'd never felt before, suddenly erupted in his chest and shoulder. Terrified, confused and disorientated, James was barely aware of the fact that he had lost his sword and felt himself falling from Joey's back... He landed hard on his back, knocking the air out his lungs, the smell of grass scratching at his nostrils.
The terrible pain he had felt in his chest returned in full measure and he cried out at the feeling. So intense was the agony, he could not even summon the strength to try and move at first. His right hand reached up instinctively to grasp at the spot where it hurt and James couldn't help himself but emit a loud groan of anguish. Vision obscured with tears of pain, he stared blearily down at his hand and saw that it was drenched scarlet. Blood...His own blood... He chanced a glance and could see that the front of his once-immaculate uniform was soaked and already the blood was seeping onto the grass beside him.
With enormous effort, James made an attempt to sit up, only to be rewarded with a particularly harsh stab of pain in his ribcage and he collapsed back onto the grass, letting out yet another cry of pain as he did so. But after another fruitless bid to get up and falling back down onto the ground, in that moment James resigned himself to the fact that it was too late for him now...his time had come...
James was jolted out of his recollections and back to the present by the feeling of warm fingers curling themselves around his comparatively longer ones, giving his hand an oh-so gentle squeeze. He felt something wet fall onto his and Martha's entwined fingers and he looked up to see her sage-green eyes now resembling oceanic pools due to the fact that they were swimming with tears.
Once again, she looked at the raggedy hole above his breast pocket. She did not need for him to finish his story. She knew rightly enough what had happened.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered. Tightening her hold on his hand, she added, "Alive or not, I think you're the bravest man I've ever met,"
"I am glad that I've told you," nodded James, smiling at her. For it was true; he did feel better for sharing his story with her. "Even if Meg could never have known what had happened to me, at least I was able to tell her great-granddaughter..."
Scraping back her tears, Martha gave out a loud sniff.
"Hey, um...I'm starving!" she piped up, in what she hoped was a merrier tone, closing the photo album with a snap and jumping up from the sofa. "I can't be arsed to cook tonight, I'm gonna order a pizza... Hey, how did you get on with Mr. Potter, by the way...?" she added.
After that, their conversation turned to other much more cheerful topics. The pair stayed up and had continued talking long into the night, both of them abuzz with a mixture of joy and wonder at the discovery of their mutual connection to Meg. If someone had told her a few weeks ago that she would be spending her evenings chatting pleasantly to the ghost of a World War One soldier – moreover, one who had been engaged to be married to her great-grandmother, Martha probably would have laughed in their face.
At some point, she had put on a film; Charade, a favourite of hers,although James quickly found himself losing track of the plotline, his mind was so consumed with all that had occurred that evening.
By the time the movie had come to an end, James turned his head to see Martha had fallen asleep, her prone figure curled around a cushion, breathing softly. A wayward strand of hair had fallen partially across her face. Smiling, James reached out a hand to gently tuck the coppery ribbon behind her ear. She stirred a little, mumbling something in her sleep but did not awaken.
A tartan woollen blanket was draped across the back of the sofa, so the captain, not having the heart to wake the sleeping woman, carefully tucked it around her.
"Goodnight," he whispered, "Pleasant dreams..."
Martha was sleeping peacefully and soundly on her leather sofa, feeling exceptionally warm and comfortable. Even more so as the merrily dancing amber flames currently blazing in the hearth were washing over her like the warmth of sun rays on a summer's day. She felt something stir beside her, and Martha roused herself to see James roll over next to her. He favoured her with the most disarming smile before going to wrap his arms around her... He didn't feel cold at all. On the contrary, he felt extremely warm... Martha rubbed a small, pale hand sensuously over his chest and down, down his abdomen, before reaching up to kiss the exposed side of his throat, and whispering seductively, "Hey, Soldier Boy – "
Martha snapped her eyes open and sat bolt upright on the squashy sofa...only to find herself very much alone with only the warmth of a woollen blanket wrapped around her for company. No fire blazing...and certainly no James there with her to -
Martha's face burned at the memory. It had just been a dream, only a dream... But it had felt so real... A bit too real. She sighed and ran a hand through her tangled red locks, making them even more dishevelled than they were already. Pale autumn sunlight peeped its way around her curtains, so she shuffled over towards her balcony window to push them aside, flooding the living room with hazy sunshine. Last night's rain had cleared up, so Martha, wrapping the blanket more securely around herself, stepped out to survey the urban landscape before her.
It was chilly but all was quiet and still for the moment, and Martha relished this rare moment of serenity, though she was confused and a little unnerved about her dream of James and what it could possibly mean.
Her serenity was shattered, however, as a distant crash met her frostbitten ears from the flat above hers and the sound of a woman's voice shouting and swearing. And just to add insult to injury, a most unpleasant odour made her wrinkle her nose; the acrid smell of cigarette smoke was suddenly drifting its way from the balcony adjacent to hers. The culprit being old Mr. Bristow, her neighbour. Although he was pleasant enough, he was a very lazy man whose personal hygiene was a lot to be desired.
Martha sighed a little, her breath mushrooming out and fading into the crisp air. She was just doing her best to try and block out the noise of Mr. Bristow's ragged coughing, when she heard a, "Good morning,", and looked round to see James had appeared next to her, and not only that but he had brought her a mug of steaming coffee. It was a simple gesture but she was touched all the same. There was a fleeting moment where Martha thought that she could easily get used to this picture of domesticity before she quickly reprimanded herself not to be so silly.
Immediately perking up, she answered, "Morning!" with a smile. She gratefully accepted the proffered mug and took a soft sip. "Mmm," she hummed appreciatively, as the delicious liquid energy warmed the pit of her stomach, "Thank you."
"You're welcome. I feel I ought to be congratulated, though," James added with a grin, "I managed to conquer your coffee machine without any assistance at all."
"See? I told you you'd get the hang of the twenty-first century, didn't I?" Martha answered, nudging him with her shoulder in a friendly manner.
James was about to answer her but he was interrupted from yet another harsh cough from the man next door. Frowning slightly, he eyed the surrounding estate of dreary flats. The view up here was no better than on the ground. Everything here looked so tired, shabby and desolate.
"Martha, how can you live in a place such as this?" he asked, unable to keep the tone of distaste out of his voice.
"Snob," she teased, smirking, "No, I'm kidding. Because it was the most convenient option at the time," she answered, "Sometimes, when I want some time out by myself and get away for a bit, I take my bike and just drive and drive and drive, until I get to the coast, and sit on the cliff tops overlooking the water and just stay there for ages. I love the sea. I'd like my own little cottage by the sea someday... Somewhere with a garden...yeah, a garden would be nice..."
She trailed off, staring off into the distance, lost in the beauty of her daydreams for a moment.
"Are you alright?" James asked her softly. When she turned to look at him questioningly, he added, "After last night, I mean."
"I think so," she nodded, "Are you alright?"
James smiled at her but it was a different sort of smile than he had used before. It was almost the kind of smile one shared with somebody as though the pair were in on some sort of secret.
"I am glad that the mystery has been solved as to why I found you so familiar," he said, before adding half-jokingly, "I would have thought that something like this might have inspired your writing - "
Martha nearly choked on the swig of coffee she had just taken and stared up at him.
"Say that again," she spluttered, her eyes watering from almost choking on the scalding-hot beverage.
"What?" James asked.
But Martha did not wait for him to finish. Her eyes were as wide as saucers. She looked as though she had been struck.
"Jimbo, you're a genius!" she cried happily all of a sudden, a huge, beaming smile illuminating her face.
James watched, perplexed, as she darted back inside, tripping over the rug as she went, and began to rummage around on her untidy desk. She managed to unearth a notepad and pen and began to hastily scribble something down.
"Martha, what are you - ?"
"I know what I can write about for my novel!" she babbled out, letting out a happy squeal, "Oh my days, I'm so excited!" She suddenly hugged him around his middle seeing as that was all she could reach at her inferior height. "Thanks, peacock!"
"What did I do?" he laughed, not making head nor tail of the young lady's rambling.
"You've inspired me!" she cried, pulling back from him. At his puzzled expression, she explained, "A girl in the present day gets haunted by a ghost of a soldier from the past – I could write about that!"
James looked down at her. Her eyes were aglow with a passion and enthusiasm, her tousled hair on end, as she was struck by this new idea. She was giddy with excitement. James chuckled and shook his head a little.
"What is it?" she asked him.
"You are just so much like Meg."
He couldn't honestly understand how he did not make the connection before. It seemed so obvious to him now. While she may not have resembled Meg in appearance, now he came to think about it, Martha shared many of her mannerisms and characteristics: the little dimples in her cheeks when she smiled, the tucking her hair behind her ears in exactly the same way; the way her nose wrinkled as she laughed...and the way she was dashing around now like a whirling dervish filled with such buoyancy and glee...
As Martha turned back to quickly jot down some notes, her enthusiasm dimmed just a little at James' words. Was this how it was going to be from now on? Now that he knew that she was in fact related to Meg, was he now going to keep comparing Martha to his long-lost love? Was it Meg's face he saw now when he looked at her? Perhaps he wished that Martha was a bit more like Meg... She wondered why this suddenly irked her so much. But then, no woman liked being compared to another, after all.
James had noticed her face fall suddenly.
"Martha, what's the matter?" he asked with concern, watching her expression carefully.
There was a moment where Martha considered telling him exactly what was on her mind. One look into those beautiful crystalline blue eyes of his, however, and Martha found her frostiness melt away.
"It's nothing!" she trilled, breezy smile back in place. But James wasn't fooled by that. He had been around Martha long enough to know when something was bothering her.
"Martha..."
But Martha did not wish to fall out with him over this. She shook her head and made to brush past him, only for James to grasp hold of her wrist, strong enough to stop her in her tracks but not to cause her any discomfort.
"Martha, tell me what's wrong..." he whispered to her.
However, just like in her kitchen yesterday, Martha gave out an almost inaudible gasp when he touched her; her breath caught in her throat, goosebumps danced their way up and down her arm, and her heart was hammering so loudly in her chest, she wouldn't have been at all surprised if he could hear it. She felt him ever so slightly, ever so gently caress the sensitive skin of the inside of her wrist. Or maybe she imagined (or hoped?) that he had...
Then, before either of them could do or say anything more, Martha's doorbell buzzed, making them both start. The abrupt sound seemed to pull them back to their senses. James, for his part, suddenly realised how close together they were, and let go as quickly as though he had received an electric shock. Martha's own hand dropped back to her side, feeling an odd sense of loss and even disappointment.
"I-I'll just um...go see who that is..." she muttered, padding across the room.
She pulled open her door to see –
"Elliot?"
Sure enough, much to her utter surprise, there was her boyfriend, looking more tanned than when she had last seen him, a bulging duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He beamed widely at the sight her.
"I'm back!" he crowed happily, holding his arms out wide as though expecting a hug.
Martha simply stood rooted to the spot, gazing at him in astonishment. Then she could have smacked herself on the forehead. She had completely forgotten he was due back home that day. All of this business with James and Meg had driven it clean out of her mind...
"What kind of welcome home do you call this, then, eh?" Elliot said jokingly, "I missed you!"
He then threw his arms around her, spinning her round slightly.
"W-When did you get back?" she sputtered out when he had let go at last. She felt a bit disorientated by his impromptu arrival.
"Yesterday," he grinned, making his way into the flat, "I did phone you but you never answered. So I thought I'd pop in this morning and surprise you."
"Yeah...well, you've certainly done that," muttered Martha in a daze, as Elliot dumped his bag on the floor. She then cleared her throat awkwardly. "Do you...um...want a coffee or something?"
"Yeah, coffee sounds good! I'm parched," he replied, reaching out a hand to pet Blossom who was sat on the back of the sofa as he spoke. The tabby hissed angrily at him and retreated to her usual hiding spot under a cabinet, swishing her tail from side to side irritably.
"I see she still doesn't like me, then?" Elliot grinned, unconcerned, lounging himself on the sofa and exhaling heavily.
Martha did not answer. As she set about making a fresh coffee, she couldn't help thinking that for the first time ever, she wasn't entirely pleased to see her boyfriend as much as she should be. The guilt gnawed at her on the inside and her stomach churned uncomfortably at the thought.
I am a horrible, horrible person, she thought, Yup, there is a barstool in Hell with my name on it, for sure...
"How was your trip, anyway?" she asked brightly, but hating how falsely cheerful her voice sounded. "How was New Zealand?"
While Elliot was busy chattering on about queues and delayed flights, Martha took the opportunity to look around for James. Much to her dismay, however, he was nowhere to be seen.
"Hey, listen, babe..." said Elliot after a moment, standing up and approaching his girlfriend, "have you got to work today?"
"No, not today..." she answered, somewhat absent-mindedly, for she was wondering where James had got to, "Why?"
"Well, I just thought, seeing as I don't have to be back at work for a couple of days or so...we could use this time to uh...y'know..." He smiled wickedly, "catch up..." He snaked his arms around her waist from behind, his voice husky against her ear.
"Haven't you got any work you need to catch up on?" she asked, a little unnecessarily harsh.
"God, you sound like my mum," he laughed at her, "I don't want to come straight back from holiday to do boring old teacher stuff now, do I?"
With his dark ruffled hair, angular features and eyes like deep-set pools of midnight black ink, Elliot did not exactly fit the mould of "boring old teacher". But for all that, as he began to seductively plant kisses along the column of her neck, Martha ducked aside slightly, bristling.
"El, " she hissed in embarrassment, "Not in front of – " but she quickly stopped herself, her eyes flying around the flat just in case James was still somewhere nearby, only invisible.
"What's up with you?" Elliot asked as he straightened up, quirking an eyebrow.
"Nothing."
"Then why are you being so weird?"
"I'm not," Martha insisted with a little nervous laugh, tucking her hair behind her ears, "but you've only just this minute walked in the door. I just thought you'd be knackered after your flight, is all," she added apologetically.
Elliot shrugged, indifferent.
"Slept on the plane," he grinned, his dark eyes smouldering, reaching out to run a forefinger along her bare arm, "Hey...forget about the coffee. Let me show you how much I missed you, eh?" he growled, tugging her against him, kissing her enthusiastically, and running a hand over her rear.
Martha could feel the heat of his hand through the thin cotton of her pyjama bottoms. She briefly wondered to herself why his sensuous ministrations which normally would have driven her wild with desire, were not exciting her as they usually would. Unbidden, the memory of her dream of James came to the surface of her mind, and there was a split-second's thought where she wished that it was a certain soldier who was embracing her with such fervour instead...
What? Where did that come from?
Guilt stabbed at her unmercifully like a knife once more. Completely oblivious to Martha's self-admonishment, Elliot grasped hold of her hand in his, intending to pull her in the direction of her bedroom, but she managed to evade capture by holding up a forefinger in a "one second" motion.
"Just give us a few secs and I'm all yours!" she chirped, not entirely sure how she managed to maintain this casual air the whole time. Elliot gave a mock sigh of long-suffering.
"Okaaay... But don't make me wait too long," he teased, not missing the opportunity of swatting her on the rump before he disappeared.
Martha made sure that he was well out of earshot before she turned back to her apparently empty living area.
"James?" she whispered into the room, "James, are you there?"
But there was no reply from the ghost officer. She dithered awkwardly on the spot, waiting to see if he would reappear, but he did not. Feeling her heart give a little clench with something acute to sadness, Martha departed for her bedroom, hoping that Elliot's return had not driven him away for good.
A couple of hours later, a tousle-haired Elliot ambled out of the bedroom, yawning noisily, clad in nought but his boxers. He was about to head towards the kitchenette to fetch himself a glass of water, when he heard the buzz of his mobile phone. The screen suddenly glowed white from its spot on the coffee table. It did not ring, however; it only continued to buzz like it was some sort of enraged insect. Elliot hurried over, plucked it up to quickly read the name displayed there before answering it.
"Hey..." he murmured, running a hand through his dark mop of hair, "I told you not to call just yet..." he said in a low voice, barely above a whisper, glancing furtively around in case Martha was anywhere nearby. It was perfectly clear that he did not wish to be overheard. "Nah, she hasn't got a clue...she thinks I stayed with my parents. I know... I'll call you later...yeah..." He let out a little laugh, "Me too... Okay, bye baby...bye..."
Elliot hung up, shooting yet another careful glance towards Martha's bedroom door once more before slipping the phone into his coat pocket and going back to join her.
Unbeknownst to him, however, he had been overheard...just not by Martha...
The ghost of Captain James Nicholls was riddled with suspicion. Unwilling to be present during the couple's reunion, he had made himself scarce. But now as he sat there on the sofa, he felt a surge of protectiveness well up inside him all of a sudden. The way Elliot had been smirking at Martha earlier with an almost predatory air like a cat in the fishmonger's...it made James' stomach turn for some reason. But now, after hearing that phone conversation, alarm bells were ringing in his mind. James had never considered himself the sort to be suspicious by nature. After all, he did not know Elliot. All that he knew about the slightly older fellow from Martha was that he was a schoolteacher by profession. However, James did like to think that he was a good judge of character...
And there was something most definitely not right about Mr. Elliot Fielding.
An important notice: My family and I are in the throes of moving house, and the property we're moving to is like 200 miles away from where we are now. So as you can imagine that's taking up a lot of my time, so I really couldn't say when my next update will be. I'm not ditching this story, oh heck no! I'm having too much fun writing it! :D All I ask is that you, my darling readers, to bear with me and be patient. Being the lovely bunch that you are, I'm sure you will be!
Anyway...I hope you enjoyed this chapter. As always, reviews would be just lovely and all reviewers can have a Tom Hiddleston, cookies and Cookie Monster and all! :D
