Chapter 37

At first John had been nervous about walking with Anna on his arm, but with practice, it grew easier. He found he rather liked it. She wasn't so much on his arm tonight as clamped around it with both of hers. He didn't mind in the least, though it did slow their pace across the grounds. Anna was quiet. John was distracted. William had changed out of his livery and left the house as soon as it was possible.

The nights were growing longer and cooler. John liked winter, but he hoped this one would be mild. Bad weather, cold weather, would prevent evenings in the temple. The moon was full and bright.

"You're quiet tonight John." Anna smiled up at him.

"I was going to say the same of you." He smiled back into her eyes. He sighed as they continued on. "I'm a little worried about William. He hasn't been himself this week, and…well, I'm concerned.

"Daisy's been walking out with the new stable boy."

"She's a silly girl." Poor William. Not that he was likely to do much better.

Anna smiled. "She's very young. She might improve."

John smiled down at her. "Spoken like a fine old lady, Miss Smith." He wanted to kiss her.

Anna giggled. She looked like she wanted him to kiss her. Her eyes sparkled before turning serious. "William went to the pub." John knew. His heart sank. He stopped and looked at the sky. Dark but bright.

"I think between not being allowed to enlist and Daisy, he's been drinking more."

John knew. He had heard William stumbling to bed a few nights that week, after he and Anna had retired, which was late indeed. He didn't want William to go that way, but he didn't know what he could possibly say. "I didn't know he ever had more than his allotted glass of wine at Christmas."

Anna looked towards the path that led into the orchard. "He doesn't. I think he thinks drinking will somehow make people think he's a man."

John sighed. "I can't possibly talk to him about it." It would be condescending. Former drunkard, offering guidance, to a young man. Too paternal. William wouldn't listen.

Anna rubbed her hands along the muscles at the top of his arm. "Maybe if you approached it not as advice, but…talking about things."

John laughed. Men didn't do that. They hit things and drank and chased women.

"What? Too simple?" She grinned.

"A little." He slid his hand to cover hers. "And I'm not sure what I could say that wouldn't sound patronizing. I used to drink a lot? That drowning his heart in liquor isn't the way?"

"He might need to hear it." Anna rested her head on John's shoulder. "But it is tempting. The idea that something can take away cares and worries." She seemed suddenly pensive.

John looked at her. He was about to ask what she meant or maybe say something about temptation and resisting and sucombing when he heard singing. Loud, drunken singing. An old Irish song he knew. Stumbling footsteps. William reeled into view, waving his hat in his hand. Singing. Oh it happened one evening at the playing of the ball1.

Anna and John looked at each other, and sighed. William saw them and waved. Called to them as he caught his foot on a root and fell, flat on his face. He was still singing. Lovely Willie said she. They hurried to him. William had rolled over and was clutching his leg. Handsome fair and tall. Anna reached him first. He wasn't badly hurt, but they should see him back to the house. Between them, they heaved William to his feet and draped his arms over their shoulders. John took as much of the weight as he could and still manage his cane. William wasn't helping at all. Just singing. It's then I'll go with you you're the boy I love best. John detected a tear. House in my father's garden. Hiccup. Then I'll go with you. Hiccup. A rapier he drew. This song was really more in Mr. Branson's line. Lovely Willie he slew. William's voice cracked into sobs just as they reached the kitchen door.

John steered them to a crate. They deposited William as well they could. John bent to relieve his back. Anna stretched her arms over her head. John heard something in her body crack. The way her back moved with such fluidity, the way her breasts lifted, was enchanting. He looked away. William really was heavy and tall. He had stopped singing and was trying to catch his breath. Anna stepped back as William heaved himself to his feet, turned, and was sick behind a barrel. John chuckled. Anna looked revolted. William groaned as he sat back down, his head in his hands. John had a feeling William's drinking would slow down after this night. William swayed.

Anna crossed her arms over her chest and looked at John.

"There's nothing we can do for him right now." He put his arm around her, drawing her against him. "He'll be fine." With luck, he would have learned something.

Anna looked over her shoulder as they headed towards the gardens. "Trust me, there's nothing to be done." He smiled at her. "I have years of experience as a drunk. He just needs to be sick, maybe pass out, and sober up." Anna smiled at him, concern lingering in her eyes. "With luck, this won't be a problem for much longer." He felt Anna shiver. "With luck, William will feel so horrible tomorrow he'll never want to look at alcohol again."

They walked in silence, close but no longer touching. It was easier, especially with the hazards of the dark. John saw a bat cross the moon.

"John…I was wondering…why did you stop drinking?"

John let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He looked at the sky as they wandered into the orchard. "Well, I realized one day, as my life had totally fallen to pieces, that I needed to stop." Sometimes John was afraid to think what his life would have become if he hadn't stopped drinking. "I knew it would be hard, possibly the hardest thing I ever did, so I tried to make it easy."

Anna blinked and smiled at him. "How did you do that?" What was it that sometimes made Anna, usually so bold, hesitant? "Was…was that why you went to prison?"

John stopped walking. "Yes." He gestured to a bench. It was time to sit. "I knew if I stayed with Vera, I would never stop drinking. Vera…well….Vera is much easier to take drunk." Him drunk, her drunk, it didn't especially matter, so long as alcohol was involved. Vera sober was positively horrifying. "Vera gave me the perfect opportunity to get away, to start over. Our marriage had been over; it had been over for years. I knew she'd let me take the blame, and that she'd leave me while I was in prison." Vera was sometimes so predictable. "I also knew prison would force me to quit drinking. Alcohol simply wasn't available for two years. I had to do without it, and I did."

"But it wasn't easy, was it?" She was leaning slightly against him.

"No." The screaming, the smell, the sickness, the visions. "No, it was…well, rather frightening. But I knew it was the only way to change my life." A lone rabbit hopped up to them, and sniffed at the hem of Anna's dress. "I wasn't living a life I was proud of. After the war, I didn't want to feel, and alcohol can help with that. I drank constantly. I was drunk at work. There are days, weeks, I don't clearly remember." He didn't want to remember. "No one ever said anything. I'm not sure anyone even knew, but my mother and Vera." Vera, he didn't care. His mother though, the look in her eyes. He was an embarrassment to his mother. "I wasn't living a life I could be proud of. I provided for my wife, I looked after my mother, I did my job, but…but it wasn't…I felt half alive." Half dead. "And sometimes, you need to be numb. But not all the time. I spent years numb and in a fog."

Anna titled her head to look at the branches over their heads. "What was it like when you came out?"

John exhaled. "It was different. When the alcohol was finally out of my system, and it took a while, even in prison, life was brighter, louder. I found I could engage with people, have conversations, I didn't smell." He knew she was smiling. "There were so many times that I was lying in my bunk, fighting the alcohol, that I wondered if it would all be worth it, and it was."

He put his arm around her shoulders. She snuggled close. "Did you always drink a lot?"

Another rabbit ran by. "I did, but I didn't always drink to get drunk." That was the difference. "There was always whiskey at home, especially when we were in Ireland. My cousins had a band, and would play at the pub, and my uncle…it was a problem for my uncle. One sip and he'd be dead drunk, falling over, laughing." It was embarrassing. "His drunkenness was just part of the village." Here came the fox. "I was never properly drunk before the war. It never affected me like it did my uncle, or William. It took a lot before I felt anything." He hoped the rabbits were safe. "When I joined the army, we'd go out to the pub, and all the others would be so drunk they could barely walk home." Sometimes they didn't. Sometimes they got in fights, passed out on the tables, or left with whores. John never did. "I just…didn't. I would drink more than they did sometimes, and it had an affect on me, but not like that. And then I met Vera."

"From what you've said, Vera would make any man drink."

John laughed. "Well, she enjoyed a drink herself, and together we both drank more." It was the only way to deal with her. She was so exciting drunk. Being drunk made her seem exciting. She was a drunk. They would drink all day. Before the war, it was exciting; after, it was awful. Vera would pick fights; John grew bitter and nasty. "I think drinking became a necessity in Africa. War is awful. I want a drink just thinking about the things I saw and did and saw done."

"Did drinking help?" Her voice was quiet.

"Depends on what you mean by help. Drinking didn't so much make me forget or not care, it just deadened the sensation." Deadened the sensation of causing death. "And then, when I was shot, it was the only way to lessen the pain." All the types of pain. "I've never slept easily. When I was young, I'd stay up reading or thinking, and I still do, but drinking gave me a way to sleep. It wasn't restful sleep, but it was sleep." It was darkness, with the promise of oblivion, and that was enough. "So, once I was home, it became a pattern. I would drink, all day, until the point that I could if not sleep, black out." He would drink at home, fight with Vera, leave for the pub, and sit at the bar and consume a bottle of whisky, dram by dram.

Anna stirred as if she were uncomfortable. John hated telling her, if it hurt her to know, but part of him thought she needed to know. "What were you like? Were you like William?"

John smiled and tightened his grip around her shoulders. "No, I was never so young or so light- hearted as William." For all his concerns, William was a simple boy. "Drinking rarely enhances the good side of a person. It has a way of bringing forth the bitterness. I didn't sing, or fall over, or start fights. I just drank and spoke my mind, but my mind was clouded."

"My brother gets violent. He's been banned from the Black Bull in Haworth, and he beats Molly. She drinks too, and always says it isn't his fault." She was looking away.

"It is his fault." John knew too many soldiers who beat their wives after a night of drinking. "A man's most basic characteristics come out when he's drunk. William is insecure, but basically happy. I tend to be inclined to ponderous thought, and I have a short temper, which leads to me being maudlin and bitter, hot- headed. Your brother is a violent degenerate." Most of them got away with it. If they were drunk they weren't culpable. The lack of responsibility was disgusting. "But that's no excuse for what a man does when he's drunk." A breeze rustled through the branches of the apple trees. They would be ready soon.

"Edward says it isn't his fault if he's drunk." An apple fell. "But he's always drunk."

John rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. He was always drunk. He kicked a fallen apple. "Some people lose control when they're drunk. I've never thought it was an excuse, but I have no right to judge him. I was able to stop, but it was horrible. Some people can't stop, and…"

"But some people never try."

John sighed. He might not have tried. "No, but it isn't as simple as that. If I hadn't chosen to remove myself from the situation entirely, I couldn't have done it." He kicked at the apple again. "I went to prison so I could stop drinking. I voluntarily surrendered my rights and my good name. I was useless, and worthless, and turned myself around. It can be done, but no everyone can do it. It doesn't make them weak, or bad, no more so than anyone else." Somewhere some of the apples had begun to rot. "I don't know if I'm explaining it well. Drinking became a need. I couldn't function without it, and I'm not sure I can explain how…I knew I needed to stop or I would die or worse, but I didn't want to stop, I was afraid to stop." He ran a hand through his hair. "I had this moment of clarity and knew I had to try."

Anna reached towards one of the low hanging apples. She couldn't quite get it. "That's one of the reasons I love you. You knew you had to try." John pulled it down and handed it to her with a smile. "Your control and your self-discipline are so admirable, and I…." She blinked and looked away. She turned back and smiled at John, taking a bite of her apple. "That's why I trust you so." She handed the apple to John, with a raised eyebrow. He took a bite, his teeth breaking the firm flesh just where hers had been. It was crisp and tart and sweet. John didn't know what to say.

The wind was growing cold. Anna nestled into his side as they passed the apple between them. "How hard was it when you were out? Were you tempted?"

Constantly. "I wasn't sure what would happen. I knew I had to avoid my old life, but I wasn't sure to what extent I needed to avoid alcohol. Mother gave me a glass of whiskey out of habit, and it made me sick. That was the last taste." John felt his leg stiffening. "Mother believed my drinking was a weakness, and maybe it was, I'm not sure. She didn't seem to understand that it wasn't as simple as just stopping or slowing down. If I had one drink, I had to have another and another until I was drunk, and that took more and more."

Anna shivered. It was nearly time to head back to the house. "What about your leg?"

"Prison destroyed my leg. I didn't need a cane before. Alcohol numbed the pain, and without it, and with the damp in prison, I felt it like I hadn't since I was first injured. And there are days, especially in the damp of winter, climbing the endless stairs in this house, that yes, a drink would be most welcome. Warming, soothing, relaxing, yes." Anna stirred against him. He put his face to her head. Her hair was silky. She smelled of apple and breeze and soap and lavender. "And there are days when nothing seems to go right, or I have to deal with something from Vera or think about the war. A drink would help." But it wouldn't help, not really. "And I'm tempted. But I have so much to lose."

Anna looked him, her eyes large. "No, John, I'd still love you."

He smiled. "I know." He'd rather not test it. "And that isn't what I meant."

"I know. I just wanted to make sure you knew." They looked at each other and smiled, laughing. Anna threw the apple core behind them.

"We should get back, check on William." He kissed her, gently. She tasted like apple. John stood first, and reached for Anna's hand.

"William's such a sweet kid. I wish he'd get over Daisy." Anna sighed.

"I wish Daisy realized what she could have with him."

"Maybe she will."

They reached the courtyard. William was still there, but he had moved from where they'd left him. He was sprawled on the ground near the door, asleep. He'd been sick again, and had managed to loosen his tie. John and Anna looked at each other. She giggled.

"We could leave him for Mr. Carson to find."

"That would certainly ensure that this never happens again." John laughed. "Can you help me get him up? I think he's learned his lesson." They bent together and heaved William to his feet. He blinked but didn't seem to see them. "He's in for a rough day tomorrow." Together they moved to the house. "At least I won't need to talk to him about this now." John bent to kiss Anna over William's bent head, as he might if William were their child. "Goodnight, Anna." It was surprisingly easy. Though the love and trust in her eyes no longer surprised him, it still made him feel a little dizzy.

"Goodnight, Mr. Bates."

1 Song, "Lovely Willie," Irish traditional. The recording by Custer La Rue and Chris Norman, album, Lullaby Journey on the Dorian label is my personal favorite version. What it lacks in musicological authenticity it makes up for in musicianship and spirit.