Born for adversity
May. 13th, 2016 04:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
allofmyheartI haven’t written for a challenge before, but when lexigent told me about the ‘Intoabar’ challenge, I was keen to have a go. I chose Sidney as my main character, was allocated d’Artagnan as my other character, and this is the result.
For anyone trying to pinpoint things, what we have here is d’Artagnan somewhere around S1 Ep 8 or 9, and Sidney between S2 Eps 5 and 6.
I would like to give massive thanks to lexigent and RedSkyAtNight for their very helpful beta comments.
Sidney bangs the vicarage door shut with more than necessary force and leans against it for a moment, head back, eyes closed, breathing in the chilly night air. Even through the closed door he can feel the force of Mrs Maguire’s disapproval, not expressed in words but still radiating through the solid oak like plutonium. It stems from the fact that she knows he is heading for the pub. It will still be there, permeating the house, when he gets back, and will probably take most of the next day to dissipate. He could, of course, stay in and empty the bottle of whisky that he keeps in his desk drawer; but then he would be under the same roof as the disapproval, and worse, Leonard’s gentle, unreproachful disappointment. Tonight he wants to escape both. To drink, and escape everything.
It is a dank, dark evening of mist and drizzle, and the village street is deserted. Droplets of moisture condense on Sidney’s hair and he turns up his coat collar against the chill. He passes the single streetlight, shining weakly through the gloom, and follows his familiar route along the high street. At the pub, he pushes open the door and heads straight through the public bar and into the snug beyond.
Half a dozen regulars, middle-aged men, sit at tables near the fire, a couple of them playing draughts. They glance up and acknowledge him, but no more. Sidney turns to take his regular place at the end of the bar but stops short when he sees that it is already occupied.
Leaning on the bar is a man of highly unusual appearance: clad in a grubby leather jerkin and trousers, some kind of leather armour on one shoulder, dark hair past collar-length, olive-toned skin. He looks completely out of place in the Cambridgeshire inn; out of place and, Sidney can’t help but think, out of his time. In this pub it’s rare to see anyone unfamiliar, let alone a man of such foreign appearance, dressed in such a peculiar way. Yet, amazingly, the locals by the fire are paying him absolutely no attention, remaining absorbed in their chat and their game. For one fantastic moment Sidney wonders if he is the only one able to see the stranger, before dismissing such a ridiculous thought from his mind.
Feeling slightly aggrieved, Sidney takes a place at the other end of the bar and waits to be served. He wants a drink, quickly: something to numb him, stop him feeling, stop him hurting for a while. He doesn’t want to think. But the stranger is intriguing. Glancing at him sidelong, Sidney sees that he is young, barely out of his teens if appearances are to be believed. And yet the way he carries his lean, muscular frame suggests someone who is physically well-trained, skilful: a fighter, and moreover, one who has seen action. Sidney is reminded of the war, of seeing other such young men with experience beyond their years, and he feels a stab of anger at what happened to them.
Mavis the barmaid appears and places a pint of beer in front of the stranger, then continues to Sidney, offering a cheerful greeting which he cannot match. A flicker of concern crosses her face when he asks her for a whisky; when the vicar starts the evening on shorts, not pints, it isn’t a good sign. Nevertheless she serves him without comment and retreats again to attend to customers in the public bar.
Sidney takes a greedy gulp of his whisky and exhales, feeling the familiar burn down his throat. He sees the stranger sip his pint and immediately grimace and give an involuntary “Urgh.” The man turns to him and exclaims “Foul ale! It’s like ditchwater! Can you believe they don’t have wine in this place?”
Sidney is not in the mood to talk to anyone, but clearly this demands a response. Also, it’s bizarre. Sidney knows full well that pubs do not serve wine; it would never occur to him to ask for it. Cautiously he replies “It’s… not unusual. If you don’t like beer, maybe stick to spirits.” He indicates his own glass.
“What’s that? Brandy?” the man asks, eyeing the amber liquid.
“Whisky. Scotch,” replies Sidney, taking another gulp.
“Usquebaugh?” The man sounds surprised. “Do you think they have any cognac?”
“I should imagine so.” Despite himself, Sidney attracts Mavis’ attention and orders a cognac for the stranger and another whisky for himself. His third slug of it has drained the first glass. He watches Mavis measure out the drinks and place the stranger’s glass in front of him with a slightly puzzled look on her face, as though she is aware there is something slightly unusual about him but can’t quite put her finger on it. For a second time, Sidney wonders whether the other occupants of the pub can see the man in quite the same way that he can. Moving a little closer to him along the bar, he initiates conversation with “I… don’t think I’ve seen you in here before?”
“No.” The younger man takes a swig of the brandy, which appears to be much more to his taste, and glances at Sidney. “I’ve never been here before. I wanted to get away, have a bit of time on my own…” He sighs, his eyes flickering downwards. “My friends mean well, but tonight… I wasn’t in the mood... I just found them irritating.” He takes another sip. “I left the inn and just walked – I didn’t even notice where I was going – and then somehow I ended up here.” He glances around at the room and frowns, as if trying to make sense of the unfamiliarity of it. “I’ve really no idea where I am.”
Sidney has the instinctive feeling that any explanation is only going to cause more confusion, and after all he didn’t come in here looking for conversation, so he merely nods acknowledgement and drinks his whisky. His and the stranger’s drinks are soon finished, and this time the man buys for both of them. The coins which he counts out of his drawstring leather purse looks strange to Sidney’s eyes, but Mavis accepts them without demur, the same slightly glazed look on her face.
They continue like this for half an hour or more, exchanging only the briefest of comments, but each taking it in turn to buy the next round of drinks. Sidney is just getting into his stride, but the younger man appears not to be so accustomed to drinking spirits. His body becomes more slack, his movements a little more imprecise, eyes slightly unfocused as he turns to Sidney and looks him up and down. The cognac seems to have loosened his tongue, because he gives a slight frown and asks, “What is that garb… that curious collar you wear?”
Sidney feels that any comment on his clothing is a bit rich coming from this man, and in any case who on earth, or at least in England, doesn’t recognise a clerical collar when they see one? But he remembers his manners and simply replies, “I’m a vicar.” The man’s puzzled look deepens, as though the word is unfamiliar to him, and Sidney enlarges with, “A priest.”
“A priest?” The man gives a short, mirthless laugh. “Of all the people I could run into, a priest… Perhaps God is trying to tell me that I’m overdue for confession.”
Sidney considers pointing out that he isn’t a Catholic, but decides against it. He’s not in the mood for explanations, and anyway, if this young man needs to get something off his chest, Sidney supposes he had better let him. He sighs, wishing that he had taken the collar off before he came out. It seems that even when he most wants to, he is unable to escape his vocation. “Confession?” he prompts, settling himself to lean against the bar. Unconsciously the other man mirrors him so that they stand side-by-side, both leaning forwards, neither looking at the other. It is, Sidney thinks, a fair approximation of a confessional, minus the screen.
“Oh, I don’t know.” The young man rubs a hand across his face. “I can’t believe it’s wrong, although I’m sure you’ll tell me it must be.” He raises his dark eyes to glance, almost challengingly, at Sidney, who merely sips his whisky and replies quietly, “Try me.”
The young man gives a fleeting grin and sips his own drink. “It’s a woman,” he begins, gazing sightlessly at the stained wood surface of the bar. “Not just a woman,” he corrects himself, rushing onwards, “the best, the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met – the most wonderful woman in the world.” He swigs the brandy and again darts a glance at Sidney, as if challenging him to argue with this assertion.
Sidney merely says, “Go on.”
“I love her,” the man asserts, almost fiercely. “I love her with all my heart and soul, but – she’s married,” he finishes flatly. “Married – so she can never be mine.” His face becomes momentarily harsh as he says it, anger and hurt clouding his open features.
Sidney’s face gives little away, but he lets out a breath, almost a sigh, at the word ‘married’, and the corners of his eyes tighten. He reflects that God must surely have a sense of irony, to send this man here to him now – to remind him of exactly the pain he is trying to forget. Is it masochism that drives him to enquire further? “Tell me about her,” he says quietly.
“She’s beautiful,” begins the man, not unpredictably, “and kind. And generous, the most generous person I’ve ever known.” Sidney nods, trying to concentrate, although Amanda’s face has risen up unbidden in his mind, beautiful and generous too.
“She’s brave,” the man says, a faraway look on his face. “She’ll face any danger, to protect... someone she loves. Even when she’s scared, she’ll risk her life for m –them,” he continues more emphatically, turning to Sidney to stress the point. “And she’s... she’s amazing! Not like other women. She made me teach her how to shoot, to fight, to ride… and she’s not just playing at it, she really wants to learn. She works so hard at it…” There is real admiration in the young man’s voice.
Sidney murmurs his surprise and affects what he hopes is a suitable expression, but really he is thinking of Amanda, when he first knew her - her unconventional approach to life, her determination to work and have a real job. But when it came to marriage, he thinks bitterly, her courage failed her. She bowed to the expectations of her father and her social class. And yet first tragic Vivian, and then Amanda herself, have told him that he is just as guilty. He too has accepted the social mores, assuming that Amanda would and should marry above him. And so she accepted Guy, in her words, “because he asked me.” He thinks he will never be able to forget hearing her say it, her anguished exasperation, feeling again the plummeting sensation as he realised just what he had thrown away.
Greedily he takes a gulp of whisky and drags his mind back to the present. Perhaps his companion’s situation is similar. To the young man he responds, “Was she married when you met her?”
The stranger almost chokes on his brandy. “Of course!” he says, turning to gaze incredulously at Sidney. “How can you possibly think that I would have let her go, otherwise? I would never, never…I...” he runs out of words, shaking his head in disbelief at the suggestion, and Sidney feels doubly condemned. He lowers his gaze, unable to meet the stranger’s dark, ardent eyes.
“And d’you know what the worst thing is?” The young man is definitely slurring now, swaying slightly as he gestures at Sidney with a forefinger to emphasise his point. “The absolute worst thing... s’that her husband – ” he imbues the word with rank disdain – “he doesn’t appreciate her. He doesn’t deserve her. He’s – oh, you wouldn’t believe him.” The stranger shakes his head and hiccups slightly. “All he cares about is his social status... his precious self-importance... he’s just a petty, self-obsessed idiot... and he can’t see it!” He almost groans the last few words and hits the bar with his fist. “He can’t see how wonderful, how remarkable she is... he doesn’t love her! He just treats her like a possession... he bullies her...” The young man’s voice catches, almost breaks with emotion and he gazes sightlessly ahead, before downing the last of his brandy and signalling for another.
Listening to the description of the unknown husband, Sidney thinks that God’s sense of irony has gone way too far. He remembers the way Guy treated Amanda at Jen‘s party and feels sick to his stomach. Drunk now, forgetting himself, he agrees. “You’re right, that is the worst part. I mean, if you thought he loved her – if you thought she was happy with him – you could bear it – but this...” He sighs, almost a moan, and finishes quietly, “this is agony.”
“Yes.” The younger man looks at him, slightly curious that he seems to empathise so well, but is too drunk to ask why. “But,” he continues, hiccupping again and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “I can’t ask her to leave him. Though she would, if I asked, I know she would... but what have I got to offer her? No wealth, no house... I can’t ask her. It wouldn’t be fair.”
Perhaps, thinks Sidney, rubbing a hand over his forehead. But perhaps not. God, what is he thinking? It must be the drink. As a clergyman he should never counsel someone to break up a marriage, but he finds himself wanting to shout No, to hell with that! Run away with her, make her happy while there’s still time! Do it, before she gets pregnant and it’s all too late!
But Sidney is unable to frame the words, and as he struggles for a reply, the man is suddenly belligerent, gesturing with his finger again. “I’ll never leave her though!” he asserts, looking challengingly at Sidney. “I’ll never give her up – not as long as she wants me – never! I suppose you’re going to tell me that’s a sin?” The defiant effect is slightly spoiled by the way he sways from side to side as he faces Sidney.
Sidney gazes at him, shaking his head, mouth open to speak but finding words completely inadequate. He cannot begin to tell this man how much he shares with him, how deeply he feels the same pain, but no more can he find the easy word, the banal vicar’s platitude. At length he can only quote the words of Jesus to the woman caught in adultery. Quietly, he affirms, “Neither do I condemn thee.”
“Has your friend had enough for tonight, Mr Chambers?” Mavis’ voice break’s into Sidney’s thoughts, her bright tone a cover for the underlying meaning: Please take him home before he throws up. Sidney blinks at her, nonplussed. He is feeling less than sober himself now and anyway, he has an inkling that the outlandish stranger’s home is somewhere far beyond his reach. Before he can respond, though, there is a disturbance in the public bar and in come three burly men, dressed in similar clothing to the young man. They all sport beards, wear cloaks, and appear to be carrying swords.
“There you are!” The biggest of them, who has dark curly hair and an infectious grin, sweeps past Sidney and slaps the young stranger on the shoulder, nearly causing him to fall over. “You didn’t think we’d leave you to wander on your own all night, did you?” The younger man ruefully returns his grin and steadies himself against the big man’s arm.
“We’ve searched every tavern in Paris for you,” says a second man, handsome with a neatly-trimmed beard. “Fortunately Athos knows all of them.” He gestures to the third man, whose rather brooding demeanour is briefly lightened by a smile at this quip.
The third man goes to the bar, raises the stranger’s empty glass to his nose and sniffs. “I suspect you are not yet up to an entire evening drinking cognac, d’Artagnan,” he observes in cultured, almost clipped tones. “Clearly we need to give you more practice.”
“Come on, let’s get you home,” says the first man, putting an arm under the young man’s shoulders to support him. The young man stays him a moment and turns to address Sidney.
“My apologies if I’ve talked too much – thank you for listening. I’d better go with my friends, now.” He leans forward conspiratorially and confides, in the stage whisper of the very drunk, “they might be annoying at times but, actually – they’re the best.” The man smiles, slightly shamefacedly.
“I can see that.” Sidney returns his smile and puts out a hand to shake, feeling a sudden pang of envy at the bond the group evidently share. Then he becomes aware of a presence behind him, and hears Leonard’s apologetic Lancashire tones. “I came to see if you were all right, Sidney. Mrs Maguire’s been quite worried about you, you know. And – and so was I.”
Sidney turns to see his colleague’s earnest face and feels somewhat ashamed. He does have people who care about him, just as this stranger does. Leonard is an inestimably valuable friend, and as usual, he’s right about Mrs Maguire. Her concern for Sidney is genuine, even if it is sometimes expressed less than sympathetically. Between them, they cannot take away his pain, but he knows that they are with him, that he is not alone. “I – I’m all right. Thanks, Leonard.” Sidney allows himself to be steered towards the door in the wake of the other four men.
They cross the threshold, out into the chilly night, and then the strangest thing happens. The stranger, turning left out of the door with his group of friends, calls a farewell; Sidney turns to wave and reply and sees the four men walking away from him, but not along the familiar village street. Instead he has an impression of a narrow alley between high, gabled timber houses, of moonlight glinting off city cobbles, and the smell of damp earth and straw. Disoriented, he lurches, grabbing at Leonard to steady himself, and when he looks again the scene and the four men have all disappeared, and there is nothing but the expected street with its cottages and street lamp.
Sidney shakes his head, hoping that the misty night air will clear it, but the confused images continue to whirl in his mind. Gratefully he leans an arm around his friend’s shoulders and together they head for home.
For anyone trying to pinpoint things, what we have here is d’Artagnan somewhere around S1 Ep 8 or 9, and Sidney between S2 Eps 5 and 6.
I would like to give massive thanks to lexigent and RedSkyAtNight for their very helpful beta comments.
Sidney bangs the vicarage door shut with more than necessary force and leans against it for a moment, head back, eyes closed, breathing in the chilly night air. Even through the closed door he can feel the force of Mrs Maguire’s disapproval, not expressed in words but still radiating through the solid oak like plutonium. It stems from the fact that she knows he is heading for the pub. It will still be there, permeating the house, when he gets back, and will probably take most of the next day to dissipate. He could, of course, stay in and empty the bottle of whisky that he keeps in his desk drawer; but then he would be under the same roof as the disapproval, and worse, Leonard’s gentle, unreproachful disappointment. Tonight he wants to escape both. To drink, and escape everything.
It is a dank, dark evening of mist and drizzle, and the village street is deserted. Droplets of moisture condense on Sidney’s hair and he turns up his coat collar against the chill. He passes the single streetlight, shining weakly through the gloom, and follows his familiar route along the high street. At the pub, he pushes open the door and heads straight through the public bar and into the snug beyond.
Half a dozen regulars, middle-aged men, sit at tables near the fire, a couple of them playing draughts. They glance up and acknowledge him, but no more. Sidney turns to take his regular place at the end of the bar but stops short when he sees that it is already occupied.
Leaning on the bar is a man of highly unusual appearance: clad in a grubby leather jerkin and trousers, some kind of leather armour on one shoulder, dark hair past collar-length, olive-toned skin. He looks completely out of place in the Cambridgeshire inn; out of place and, Sidney can’t help but think, out of his time. In this pub it’s rare to see anyone unfamiliar, let alone a man of such foreign appearance, dressed in such a peculiar way. Yet, amazingly, the locals by the fire are paying him absolutely no attention, remaining absorbed in their chat and their game. For one fantastic moment Sidney wonders if he is the only one able to see the stranger, before dismissing such a ridiculous thought from his mind.
Feeling slightly aggrieved, Sidney takes a place at the other end of the bar and waits to be served. He wants a drink, quickly: something to numb him, stop him feeling, stop him hurting for a while. He doesn’t want to think. But the stranger is intriguing. Glancing at him sidelong, Sidney sees that he is young, barely out of his teens if appearances are to be believed. And yet the way he carries his lean, muscular frame suggests someone who is physically well-trained, skilful: a fighter, and moreover, one who has seen action. Sidney is reminded of the war, of seeing other such young men with experience beyond their years, and he feels a stab of anger at what happened to them.
Mavis the barmaid appears and places a pint of beer in front of the stranger, then continues to Sidney, offering a cheerful greeting which he cannot match. A flicker of concern crosses her face when he asks her for a whisky; when the vicar starts the evening on shorts, not pints, it isn’t a good sign. Nevertheless she serves him without comment and retreats again to attend to customers in the public bar.
Sidney takes a greedy gulp of his whisky and exhales, feeling the familiar burn down his throat. He sees the stranger sip his pint and immediately grimace and give an involuntary “Urgh.” The man turns to him and exclaims “Foul ale! It’s like ditchwater! Can you believe they don’t have wine in this place?”
Sidney is not in the mood to talk to anyone, but clearly this demands a response. Also, it’s bizarre. Sidney knows full well that pubs do not serve wine; it would never occur to him to ask for it. Cautiously he replies “It’s… not unusual. If you don’t like beer, maybe stick to spirits.” He indicates his own glass.
“What’s that? Brandy?” the man asks, eyeing the amber liquid.
“Whisky. Scotch,” replies Sidney, taking another gulp.
“Usquebaugh?” The man sounds surprised. “Do you think they have any cognac?”
“I should imagine so.” Despite himself, Sidney attracts Mavis’ attention and orders a cognac for the stranger and another whisky for himself. His third slug of it has drained the first glass. He watches Mavis measure out the drinks and place the stranger’s glass in front of him with a slightly puzzled look on her face, as though she is aware there is something slightly unusual about him but can’t quite put her finger on it. For a second time, Sidney wonders whether the other occupants of the pub can see the man in quite the same way that he can. Moving a little closer to him along the bar, he initiates conversation with “I… don’t think I’ve seen you in here before?”
“No.” The younger man takes a swig of the brandy, which appears to be much more to his taste, and glances at Sidney. “I’ve never been here before. I wanted to get away, have a bit of time on my own…” He sighs, his eyes flickering downwards. “My friends mean well, but tonight… I wasn’t in the mood... I just found them irritating.” He takes another sip. “I left the inn and just walked – I didn’t even notice where I was going – and then somehow I ended up here.” He glances around at the room and frowns, as if trying to make sense of the unfamiliarity of it. “I’ve really no idea where I am.”
Sidney has the instinctive feeling that any explanation is only going to cause more confusion, and after all he didn’t come in here looking for conversation, so he merely nods acknowledgement and drinks his whisky. His and the stranger’s drinks are soon finished, and this time the man buys for both of them. The coins which he counts out of his drawstring leather purse looks strange to Sidney’s eyes, but Mavis accepts them without demur, the same slightly glazed look on her face.
They continue like this for half an hour or more, exchanging only the briefest of comments, but each taking it in turn to buy the next round of drinks. Sidney is just getting into his stride, but the younger man appears not to be so accustomed to drinking spirits. His body becomes more slack, his movements a little more imprecise, eyes slightly unfocused as he turns to Sidney and looks him up and down. The cognac seems to have loosened his tongue, because he gives a slight frown and asks, “What is that garb… that curious collar you wear?”
Sidney feels that any comment on his clothing is a bit rich coming from this man, and in any case who on earth, or at least in England, doesn’t recognise a clerical collar when they see one? But he remembers his manners and simply replies, “I’m a vicar.” The man’s puzzled look deepens, as though the word is unfamiliar to him, and Sidney enlarges with, “A priest.”
“A priest?” The man gives a short, mirthless laugh. “Of all the people I could run into, a priest… Perhaps God is trying to tell me that I’m overdue for confession.”
Sidney considers pointing out that he isn’t a Catholic, but decides against it. He’s not in the mood for explanations, and anyway, if this young man needs to get something off his chest, Sidney supposes he had better let him. He sighs, wishing that he had taken the collar off before he came out. It seems that even when he most wants to, he is unable to escape his vocation. “Confession?” he prompts, settling himself to lean against the bar. Unconsciously the other man mirrors him so that they stand side-by-side, both leaning forwards, neither looking at the other. It is, Sidney thinks, a fair approximation of a confessional, minus the screen.
“Oh, I don’t know.” The young man rubs a hand across his face. “I can’t believe it’s wrong, although I’m sure you’ll tell me it must be.” He raises his dark eyes to glance, almost challengingly, at Sidney, who merely sips his whisky and replies quietly, “Try me.”
The young man gives a fleeting grin and sips his own drink. “It’s a woman,” he begins, gazing sightlessly at the stained wood surface of the bar. “Not just a woman,” he corrects himself, rushing onwards, “the best, the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met – the most wonderful woman in the world.” He swigs the brandy and again darts a glance at Sidney, as if challenging him to argue with this assertion.
Sidney merely says, “Go on.”
“I love her,” the man asserts, almost fiercely. “I love her with all my heart and soul, but – she’s married,” he finishes flatly. “Married – so she can never be mine.” His face becomes momentarily harsh as he says it, anger and hurt clouding his open features.
Sidney’s face gives little away, but he lets out a breath, almost a sigh, at the word ‘married’, and the corners of his eyes tighten. He reflects that God must surely have a sense of irony, to send this man here to him now – to remind him of exactly the pain he is trying to forget. Is it masochism that drives him to enquire further? “Tell me about her,” he says quietly.
“She’s beautiful,” begins the man, not unpredictably, “and kind. And generous, the most generous person I’ve ever known.” Sidney nods, trying to concentrate, although Amanda’s face has risen up unbidden in his mind, beautiful and generous too.
“She’s brave,” the man says, a faraway look on his face. “She’ll face any danger, to protect... someone she loves. Even when she’s scared, she’ll risk her life for m –them,” he continues more emphatically, turning to Sidney to stress the point. “And she’s... she’s amazing! Not like other women. She made me teach her how to shoot, to fight, to ride… and she’s not just playing at it, she really wants to learn. She works so hard at it…” There is real admiration in the young man’s voice.
Sidney murmurs his surprise and affects what he hopes is a suitable expression, but really he is thinking of Amanda, when he first knew her - her unconventional approach to life, her determination to work and have a real job. But when it came to marriage, he thinks bitterly, her courage failed her. She bowed to the expectations of her father and her social class. And yet first tragic Vivian, and then Amanda herself, have told him that he is just as guilty. He too has accepted the social mores, assuming that Amanda would and should marry above him. And so she accepted Guy, in her words, “because he asked me.” He thinks he will never be able to forget hearing her say it, her anguished exasperation, feeling again the plummeting sensation as he realised just what he had thrown away.
Greedily he takes a gulp of whisky and drags his mind back to the present. Perhaps his companion’s situation is similar. To the young man he responds, “Was she married when you met her?”
The stranger almost chokes on his brandy. “Of course!” he says, turning to gaze incredulously at Sidney. “How can you possibly think that I would have let her go, otherwise? I would never, never…I...” he runs out of words, shaking his head in disbelief at the suggestion, and Sidney feels doubly condemned. He lowers his gaze, unable to meet the stranger’s dark, ardent eyes.
“And d’you know what the worst thing is?” The young man is definitely slurring now, swaying slightly as he gestures at Sidney with a forefinger to emphasise his point. “The absolute worst thing... s’that her husband – ” he imbues the word with rank disdain – “he doesn’t appreciate her. He doesn’t deserve her. He’s – oh, you wouldn’t believe him.” The stranger shakes his head and hiccups slightly. “All he cares about is his social status... his precious self-importance... he’s just a petty, self-obsessed idiot... and he can’t see it!” He almost groans the last few words and hits the bar with his fist. “He can’t see how wonderful, how remarkable she is... he doesn’t love her! He just treats her like a possession... he bullies her...” The young man’s voice catches, almost breaks with emotion and he gazes sightlessly ahead, before downing the last of his brandy and signalling for another.
Listening to the description of the unknown husband, Sidney thinks that God’s sense of irony has gone way too far. He remembers the way Guy treated Amanda at Jen‘s party and feels sick to his stomach. Drunk now, forgetting himself, he agrees. “You’re right, that is the worst part. I mean, if you thought he loved her – if you thought she was happy with him – you could bear it – but this...” He sighs, almost a moan, and finishes quietly, “this is agony.”
“Yes.” The younger man looks at him, slightly curious that he seems to empathise so well, but is too drunk to ask why. “But,” he continues, hiccupping again and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “I can’t ask her to leave him. Though she would, if I asked, I know she would... but what have I got to offer her? No wealth, no house... I can’t ask her. It wouldn’t be fair.”
Perhaps, thinks Sidney, rubbing a hand over his forehead. But perhaps not. God, what is he thinking? It must be the drink. As a clergyman he should never counsel someone to break up a marriage, but he finds himself wanting to shout No, to hell with that! Run away with her, make her happy while there’s still time! Do it, before she gets pregnant and it’s all too late!
But Sidney is unable to frame the words, and as he struggles for a reply, the man is suddenly belligerent, gesturing with his finger again. “I’ll never leave her though!” he asserts, looking challengingly at Sidney. “I’ll never give her up – not as long as she wants me – never! I suppose you’re going to tell me that’s a sin?” The defiant effect is slightly spoiled by the way he sways from side to side as he faces Sidney.
Sidney gazes at him, shaking his head, mouth open to speak but finding words completely inadequate. He cannot begin to tell this man how much he shares with him, how deeply he feels the same pain, but no more can he find the easy word, the banal vicar’s platitude. At length he can only quote the words of Jesus to the woman caught in adultery. Quietly, he affirms, “Neither do I condemn thee.”
“Has your friend had enough for tonight, Mr Chambers?” Mavis’ voice break’s into Sidney’s thoughts, her bright tone a cover for the underlying meaning: Please take him home before he throws up. Sidney blinks at her, nonplussed. He is feeling less than sober himself now and anyway, he has an inkling that the outlandish stranger’s home is somewhere far beyond his reach. Before he can respond, though, there is a disturbance in the public bar and in come three burly men, dressed in similar clothing to the young man. They all sport beards, wear cloaks, and appear to be carrying swords.
“There you are!” The biggest of them, who has dark curly hair and an infectious grin, sweeps past Sidney and slaps the young stranger on the shoulder, nearly causing him to fall over. “You didn’t think we’d leave you to wander on your own all night, did you?” The younger man ruefully returns his grin and steadies himself against the big man’s arm.
“We’ve searched every tavern in Paris for you,” says a second man, handsome with a neatly-trimmed beard. “Fortunately Athos knows all of them.” He gestures to the third man, whose rather brooding demeanour is briefly lightened by a smile at this quip.
The third man goes to the bar, raises the stranger’s empty glass to his nose and sniffs. “I suspect you are not yet up to an entire evening drinking cognac, d’Artagnan,” he observes in cultured, almost clipped tones. “Clearly we need to give you more practice.”
“Come on, let’s get you home,” says the first man, putting an arm under the young man’s shoulders to support him. The young man stays him a moment and turns to address Sidney.
“My apologies if I’ve talked too much – thank you for listening. I’d better go with my friends, now.” He leans forward conspiratorially and confides, in the stage whisper of the very drunk, “they might be annoying at times but, actually – they’re the best.” The man smiles, slightly shamefacedly.
“I can see that.” Sidney returns his smile and puts out a hand to shake, feeling a sudden pang of envy at the bond the group evidently share. Then he becomes aware of a presence behind him, and hears Leonard’s apologetic Lancashire tones. “I came to see if you were all right, Sidney. Mrs Maguire’s been quite worried about you, you know. And – and so was I.”
Sidney turns to see his colleague’s earnest face and feels somewhat ashamed. He does have people who care about him, just as this stranger does. Leonard is an inestimably valuable friend, and as usual, he’s right about Mrs Maguire. Her concern for Sidney is genuine, even if it is sometimes expressed less than sympathetically. Between them, they cannot take away his pain, but he knows that they are with him, that he is not alone. “I – I’m all right. Thanks, Leonard.” Sidney allows himself to be steered towards the door in the wake of the other four men.
They cross the threshold, out into the chilly night, and then the strangest thing happens. The stranger, turning left out of the door with his group of friends, calls a farewell; Sidney turns to wave and reply and sees the four men walking away from him, but not along the familiar village street. Instead he has an impression of a narrow alley between high, gabled timber houses, of moonlight glinting off city cobbles, and the smell of damp earth and straw. Disoriented, he lurches, grabbing at Leonard to steady himself, and when he looks again the scene and the four men have all disappeared, and there is nothing but the expected street with its cottages and street lamp.
Sidney shakes his head, hoping that the misty night air will clear it, but the confused images continue to whirl in his mind. Gratefully he leans an arm around his friend’s shoulders and together they head for home.
