Fic? 3000 words about opening a door.
Nov. 23rd, 2012 05:30 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
krisreinke.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
indeedsir_backupWith the indulgence of the community? A fandom bit of fic from the middle of the infinite WWII epic I will never actually write. Probably.
Or - 3000 words about opening a door.
Please forgive me.
So here he was alone.
In his own house.
Which, really, should feel as empty as it did. What so, it was his house, where he lived (now) and it wasn’t like he hadn’t been alone before. Why back in London (Berkley Square, his home in Berkley square) there had been many an afternoon – even a full day on occasion – when Jeeves had biffed off on some necessary errand and Bertie had remained to entertain himself with his books or his music. More often he would have headed out – those being more sociable days – but not when the weather had been as chill and blustery as the day was proving to be.
Those were some harsh winds playing Paganini over the casements, and the day hadn’t brightened in any sense save the sense of good news.
Best, he told himself, that the crew had jumped ship when they had. The snow was getting deep, halfway up the front steps and piling in drifts over the basement windows. Had they waited until mid-morning they might not have made it out at all.
It had been a bit of a struggle, but with courage and a judicious appeal to the instructions on the back of the Lipton’s box he’d successfully made himself a pot of tea. And really, he’s never like that pattern of china anyway. So there was tea. There were biscuits from Aunt Dalia’s Christmas donation. (Macy’s in New York. Tom Traver’s had pulled out when things were getting iffy, decamping to oversee his business interests in the new world.) There was a spiffing new mystery that had nothing whatsoever to do with distressing topics, rather promising a delightful tableau of larcenous cowboys and murderous saloon girls. In other words, the sum and total of a comfortable evening in an Englishman’s castle.
He had settle by the fire, introducing himself to the who, exactly, might be the dark desperado plotting to rob the Sweetheart Silver mine, when a hard thud interrupted the reverie.
“Hullo?” But there was no answer.
Of course not, he told himself. Silly to expect one. Just a branch or some such hitting the back wall. Best ignore matters, and go back to reading.
The thud came again. Multiple, this time.
Of course?
Really, it wouldn’t hurt to check.
What if some chap was out in this weather? Not the thing to leave him so.
The house was dark. Well, of course it was. No gas to waste, and no Albersworth to go around lighting the lamps had Bertie been the sort to waste it. He should – perhaps – have asked for a lesson on that matter before seeing the household off on their holiday, but he hadn’t considered the matter at the time.
His honest side – and Bertie did have one – might have mentioned that Albersworth had little enough faith in his masters ability to operate a gas ring in an automatic range. Asking for a lesson involving open flames up against the walls? That might have been bit more trust than the old man’s cautionary nature could have encompassed. For that matter – more than Bertie’s memory might comfortably hold. But anyway, he hadn’t needed the lights, now had he? He had the parlor lamp and the fireplace, and nothing more than a light mystery to require reading, and if he tired and put that last down? Well, no man’s life depended on a Wooster’s vision spotting small details.
The pounding echoed again.
Cane in hand, and the other palm pressed to the wainscoting for guidance, Bertie made is careful way down the back staircase.
The kitchen was fully dark now, what with no Albersworth to shovel the new drifts away from what few windows there were, those set high into the stone walls of the half-basement. On the bright side (although not literally) the same thick walls offered protection from the outside cold. Enough so that Bertie considered the prospect of bedding down in one of the unused servants chambers rather than facing the difficult ascension to his own – likely far chillier – quarters on the family floor.
Now where was that door? Bertie recalled that there was one. Somewhere. Well, there would have to be, would there not? Otherwise how would the footmen sneak out for an evening smoke, or the maids for an evening with a footman? (Those being the entertainments of an earlier, Jeeves-reported, time.)
OH! There it must be.
A thud sounded again, sharper now. Several in close order. It really did sound like someone was at the door, although who it might be and how he or she got there on a night like this? Well, Bertie roused himself. No sense taxing the Wooster brain-box. Best to open the door and find out.
Now, where was the key?
Bertie didn’t have it. Of course not. In fact, he didn’t think he’d ever seen it. Ever seen any key for any door in this historic maze, although he trusted such things as keys must exist. Albersworth made enough ceremony about locking up at night – as had the real butler when the old Lord Yaxley - Uncle George of rabbit fame - had haunted the pile. He supposed they could just bolt the egress up at sunset and then unbolt the place come dawn, but that seemed unwarranted bother. Plus – if there were no keys – what would Mrs. Huston use to jingle at her belt? She’d look dashed foolish with bells, now wouldn’t she?
So. Keys. If he were a ring of keys, where would he be?
Well, if HE were a ring of keys he’s be upstairs in the parlor, which is where he perched most evenings. But if he was a non-peeraged sort of key ring?
Feeling around the doorframe, he banged into the hook and – by good fortune – the keys. Of course by bang he meant he knocked the whole mess blade over bow. By the time he’d found the ring (under the side table – and he hoped those pots weren’t anything Mrs. Huston was particularly fond of) and fingered though the keys for a likely suspect, the noise had stopped.
Still, it seemed rather a waste of effort NOT to take a peek out, what with all the trouble he’d put himself to. Jamming the key into the lock, he gave it a full turn.
The lock clicked.
Bracing his best shoulder against the door, he pushed.
There was nothing there.
In the person-who-knocks-on-doors sense, at any rate. There were of course the usual complement of bushes and pump-posts and snow. There was, in fact, a superabundance of snow, rather as if all the previous drifts had gotten together to raise large blustering families of little drifts, and had invited their icicle in-laws to move in for the season. But as he wasn’t planning on inviting the ice in for brandy in the parlor? (The cold had invaded the parlor quite enough sans invite, and Bertie personally considered it rather rude of the weather to intrude so, but then that was climate for you. Rather aunt-like it it’s way.)
Likely there hadn’t been anyone there.
Likely, in fact, that Mrs. Huston had been right about the folly of leaving B.W.W. to knock about on his own , but for all that he knew he’d rather stub a toe or two than endure a keeper. Not that she wasn’t nice enough – within the usual range of servants – but… he just preferred to be out of the range of servants. At least as proved practicable.
He forced the door shut, slamming the latch with a bit of vigor. Unearned. The poor latch hadn’t done anything to offend, really. Just carrying out it’s duty, as all should in these times. Still, Bertie hasn’t appreciated the long dark trek leading to absolutely nothing, and if that meant a bit of oak and iron was to feel his righteous wrath? Wooster’s were not men to be triffeled with.
He was back to the parlor when the boom-boom started again. This time from the front of the house. Or so it sounded. Because again, what strange creature could be out pounding on doors in this vicious weather?
Bertie considered ignoring the sounds. Treating them as if they weren’t there.
Because likely they were not.
Hadn’t Sir Roderick Glossip warned him, time after time, that his skull-stuffing was too weak to handle stress? He’d been on Bertie again after the accident, urging him to move out to the clinic, to have his scrambled eggs attended to by the white-coated coves who were experts in unbreaking the aristocratic nog.
Bertie had declined. Insistently. Not because he doubted the doctor. (Bertie had long past been informed that his gray matter rated distinctly sub-par.) Not even because he questioned that a keeper might be just what the doctor (or rather the aunt) ordered. No. He just couldn’t have endured being cured when so many of his twisted bits were already twisted just the way he liked them.
He was a queer chappie – no denying that – but over the years he had grown comfortable with being queer. And Jeeves had never objected. Well, not beyond the occasional disparate taste in socks and ties. And if Jeeves wasn’t perturbed? Well then, why should anyone else be?
He considered ignoring it – truly spent a good five minutes by the clock contemplating the option – but at the end laid it aside. Not so much from a newfound confidence in his own ears, mind, but from the vision (memory) of how rotten it would feel to be stuck somewhere, cold and alone, shouting for help and finding no answer. No. Best to see what was up, even if the only thing up was his own deceitful imagination proving insistent as old acquaintances in need of the spare pocket lining.
Clutching his cane, he clambered down the front steps to the entry hall.
The front was as dark as the back, for all that this noble chamber sported a rich width of window glass. In spring – in daylight – the curtains would have been pulled to let the southern sun flood the parquet floor. At night the beveled panes would have reflected the rainbow crystals of the central chandelier. Now, in deep winter, the snow pile turned those windows into mirrored obsidian, too frosted with rime to allow even the weak shadows clear representation.
Reaching the portal, Bertie tapped his pockets. The servants would have locked up before departing, but surely – Bertie struggled to recall – surely he had retained the key ring he had found in the kitchen. Had he not put them in his pocket?
The boom came again.
“Who is it?” Bertie cried, even though he doubted if anything would be heard over the rising winds.
Really, it was more of a blizzard out there. Flurries blanked the view one inch past the windows, frustrating any effort to pull aside the curtains for a cautious peek.
Giving up, Bertie opened the lock.
The door, forced in by the wind, nearly blew him off his feet.
White loads, damp snowfalls shaken from the carved arch above, crashed down.
Icy fingers of meltwater trickled down his neck where the jacket gaped.
Worst of all, the stoop was empty.
Abandoned.
No one there.
With great effort, Bertie heaved the door closed.
The march back to his parlor was a miserable retreat. His suit was ruined, he’d left a nasty muddle on the hall floor (which Mrs. Huston was sure to rail against) and the remnant chill of the outer weather added an extra sting to his mind’s betrayal.
Hanging his coat on the hob, Bertie added a few branches to the fading fire.
Sparks flew up, adding dark spots as they snuffed out on his damp cuffs.
He thought of taking the shirt off as well, but settled for just the tie and vest. Even alone, sitting disrobed in the parlor seemed a dangerous laxity of etiquette. What if someone should come by? They would think him a loony. Then again, if someone were by he might think himself less one.
(If someone had come by… but no. There had been no presence, not a front door or the rear. Looking to dreams lead only to disappointment and to white-coated frowns.)
Wrapping the afghan around his shoulders, Bertie resolved to think positively. A good story and a cup of tea, and no time for wandering thoughts. There was still water in the kettle. He slid it onto the hob to heat over the remains of the fire. Tea and a resolute heart, that was the British way.
He was another half-chapter into the American West – caught between the bank robbery and the uncertain loyalties of a saloon dancer – when the next noise pulled him back to British winter.
This clang was not the putative knocking of doors (absent as those had proven) but the more real and more dreaded (if only for it’s unremitting reality) sound of shutters banging open in the high wind. Such things had become sadly common. Not that old Albersworth did not try his best, but with the ground men vanished into the military and the hope of new metal latches vanished into the military demand for brass? Between brass and the brass, there wasn’t much left to deal with an aging country home.
Bertie struggled back into his coat. Still a bit damp on the edges, but better than nothing, and he knew from sad experience that catching the runaway shutters would require opening a window and trying to snag the moving panel as it swung back in. Then - if he was lucky enough to capture the second without letting go of something else (a shutter, the window pane, his arm… whatever was out there hostage to the snow) he’s have to find something to lace between the slats and hold all in place until Albersworth and his tool kit reappeared after Boxing say.
Sad day when a man needed all his wit to outpace a bit of wood – but there is was.
He reached the door, guided by the thumps within.
Really, quite close. If a branch had come in the window? That would just be the last of it. He'd call it quits and move down to Colchester with all the other nutters. No chance of getting new glass delivered, not until the new year and not likely then unless Mrs. Huston could work some miracle with the petrol rations.
Pulling his jacket high to ward off the chill, Bertie pushed open the door and looked in.
Then the slammed the door shut again.
Then he put his back against it - just in case.
“Sir.” That voice. That too familiar voice. That impossible voice.
“No.” Bertie braced his feet against the floor, all his strength mustered to hold this last portal.
“Sir.” The framed creaked. “Open the door.”
“No.” Bertie pushed harder, impossible hope denied by impossible force. “You’re not there and I… I refuse to go crazy. Not when it won’t bring you home.”
“I assure you, Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, that I am home. Or I will be, if you will just OPEN the DOOR.”
“No you’re not.” He was unmoved. Like Horatio at the bridge. Horatio, that was the chappie, right? Jeeves would know, if Jeeves were here. But he wasn’t here, because he couldn’t be. “You’re in France.” Bertie shouted back. “I got a letter from you just last week saying you were headed for Calais.”
There. That was telling!
The impinging spirit chuckled. “And from Calais to Dover, and from Dover to the London train depot, and then to the village, and from there? From there I caught a lift with a lorryman, and walked the last mile.”
The door stopped shaking. So, as a matter of interest, did the window shutters. The mad spirit was at least proving domestic, as clearly it had closed the portal behind it. Rather Jeevian at that. But no. Bertie would not be deceived. He was, and needed to remain, a man of iron will.
“Truly, I think the letter must have traveled more slowly than I did, which was depressingly slow in this winter weather.”
From the sound, identifiable that of the armoire creaking and hangers being rearranged, the spirit was also taking off layers of outerwear.
Rather odd punctuality for a delusion. Bertie’s mind had never been so orderly.
Bertie risked opening the door a crack. The figure inside, in its field cap and military drab, did look like Reginald Jeeves. A rather damp and disheveled Reginald Jeeves. And that is what convinced. Because while Bertram expected his delusions to summon up Jeeviesian imagery, he hardly thought it would manage good housekeeping. Not on his clearest day, and certainly not in madness.
“So.” He risked opening another inch. “It’s really you?”
“It’s really me. And I must confess that I’m really freezing, so if you wouldn’t mind opening the door? I’ve a great urge to get out of this cold room.”
A very cold room. Bertie spotted bits where the snow had fallen from Jeeves’s outfit, and none of it was melting.
“Sorry, Reg.” Bertie held out the afghan. It was a bit chilled, having shielded his shoulders from the direct blast of the draft, but it was still warmer than a damp uniform. “Rest of the house is not much better. Fire places closed.”
“I spotted that. Mrs. Huston has disappointed me.”
“Afraid she’s out too.” Bertie ducked his head, too nervous to move forward, too drawn by memory to pull back. “Everyone, really. Place is bare bone empty. No one home.
“Except for you.”
“Except for me.”
“And as you are the only one I truly needed to see?” Jeeves gently shut the door, leaving them together in the dark hall.
“You don’t mind.”
“Oh, I do mind. I shall still be having words with Mrs. Huston… but?” “I will forgive her. I am far more of a mind to appreciate the fortunate circumstance.”
“Oh?”
“No servants. No servants to make up a room or a bed.”
Bertie smiled. Not that Jeeves could see lips, what with the way Bertie kept applying them to bits of neck and jaw, but he expected that great brain could deduce the event by feel. “I suppose you will just have to share mine.”
“No servants to gossip. None to spy when I do this…” Reaching out, Jeeves pulled the other man close.
Jeeves, Bertie decided, smelled of damp wool, petrol smoke, and heaven. Mostly heaven. Ignoring the icy trickle of snow melting down his collar, he pushed up. The man’s hair was frozen, but his lips were soft fire.
“You are real.” He was. He must be. Or if not? This was a madness Bertie would welcome.
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Date: 2012-11-24 12:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-24 05:19 pm (UTC)My mind has this giant multi-generaltion epic - that my body refuses to write. (TIme - it is evil.)
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Date: 2012-11-24 07:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-24 06:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-25 10:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-30 07:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-28 10:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-30 07:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-30 07:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-30 07:54 am (UTC)But other than that?
Not much. :-)