Work Text:
Upon his return from Peakholme, Archie had known he needed to find something to do. He needed to start living again. It would have to be something worthwhile and something that would bring him into contact with people outside his own class. The army had given him that, and he hadn't realised how much he valued the access until he lost it. He tried to think of possibilities to keep his mind from dwelling on the one huge impossibility that he truly wanted above all else.
He couldn't think of any ideas so he did what he had done all his life with problems he couldn't solve; he went to his uncle Henry for help.
Sitting in his uncle's comfortable library, next to a roaring fire, with tea poured and biscuits served, Archie explained his problem. Sir Henry Curtis thought of a suggestion immediately; a boxing club run by an acquaintance of his. Aimed at helping young men in one of the poorer areas of London, it provided exercise and training, and a safe place for them off the streets.
"Your knowledge and skills in boxing will make you a good trainer even with only one hand properly available. I'm sure Charles Weatherall would love to have you involved. And Maurice and I would be very pleased to see you take on an occupation.
Archie's mind skittered at the mention of his other uncle, but he worked to stay focused.
"It sounds like a place where I could do some good," he agreed, "Where is it?"
"Down in the East End, Hackney - Good lord, are you alright?"
Archie had started coughing violently, "Yes… Yes," he gasped, "some tea went down the wrong way." He took a calming breath. "Hackney, you say?"
"Yes. Lots of different types living in that area. You'd meet and help a wide range of people."
Archie sat back in his armchair and ate several biscuits, "Well," he thought, just… "well."
"I would like to give it a try." he decided, "Could you write me a letter of introduction for Weatherall?"
"Do it right now for you, my boy. No time like the present, what?" Henry was pleased his suggestion had sparked Archie's interest. He had been worried about his nephew since the horrendous tragedy of Jacobsdal and then the events at Peakholme where the boy had somehow got mixed up with Maurice's work. That had looked like the final straw driving Archie into a dark malaise. Henry had been very worried.
Archie went to Hackney the next day. On his way there, he couldn’t help himself but look at the names on the shop fronts. It was difficult to read them from inside the cab. He would walk part of the way home, he decided. It was a nice day, it would be a perfectly reasonable thing to do to get to know the area and if he happened to pass a shop that might be run by the father of a chap he knew, well, it would be reasonable to go in and ask after him.
When he opened the door of the boxing club, he was assailed by the sounds and smells so common to his youth. Sport had been his respite from academic struggles even in his earliest days at school. It was like finally coming home.
A well built man wearing an open shirt and plain trousers, spotted Archie and came over.
“Can I help you at all, sir?” he asked.
“Other way around I hope,” Archie said genially, “Are you Charles Weatherall?”
The man nodded, “I am.”
Archie pulled his uncle’s letter out of his pocket and held it out. “Introductory letter from my uncle, Sir Henry Curtis. He said I should look this place up. Need to find something useful to do now I’m out of the army.”
He gestured with his right hand to indicate the disability, hoping to forestall any questions.
Weatherall nodded sympathetically, “Yes, I know Sir Henry, we’ve met at talks. You're his nephew?” Weatherall looked him up and down with a smile, “I probably should have realised that just by looking at you!”
Archie had an agreeable time with Weatherall, meeting some of the boys and other volunteers. He felt like he could belong.
He enjoyed the walk on his way home as well. Although the streets of the East End were crowded, the place had a vibrancy and life to it. He saw no locksmiths bearing the name da Silva, which was disappointing as he was walking but once he got home, he became angry with himself. The search was foolish. He didn’t have any notion about what he could say to a stranger who might not actually even know Daniel da Silva.
But he couldn’t stop himself. Any day that he worked at the gym he walked part of the way home by a different route and read the names of all the shops.
While Archie was at the gym he was able to forget about Peakholme and da Silva. By God, he actually felt useful again. He enjoyed training with the boys and he'd even begun to spar again with some of the other chaps who worked there, he was able to give a good showing with just his left hand, and they had the skills to protect his right.
But his walks still had him riding a see-saw of hope and despair. He might be getting to know the area but it was also showing him the gulf between his upbringing and da Silva’s. They had no common ground to build a relationship on, and without that, how could he hope to interest such a clever man as Daniel da Silva, poet and secret agent; two things Archie knew were individually far outside his abilities and da Silva managed both.
Archie sighed, this was a dream and he needed to let it go. Even his memory of the desire he’d seen in da Silva’s eyes was beginning to fade. Had he imagined seeing it after da Silva stood so close while Archie tried to gently push the stud through the man’s collar. An occasion that had filled his dreams for so many nights now, dreams that featured a far more courageous Archie leaning in to kiss… Archie shook his head. Need. To. Let. It. Go. he told himself sternly.
But he couldn’t. The dreams continued, the walks home inspecting shop fronts continued.
One afternoon, Archie paused on leaving the gym building, he looked up at the sky and shivered. The day was cold, damp and grey, the worst weather England provided, making him ache for the African sun. He debated taking the 'bus all the way home, but the lure of the possibilities from his walks pulled him on. Because it was so overcast, there were few people on the pavements and Archie was able to walk at a brisk pace to stay warm. Enjoying the exercise for its own sake he almost forgot to keep his eyes on the shops. A word hit his peripheral vision and he stopped sharply and walked back. Not ‘Da Silva’ or ‘Locksmith’ but ‘Poetic’.
A tiny shop window with ‘Dedicated to the Poetic Arts’ painted across it. Archie dithered, could he go in? would the people there instantly spot him for a fool and laugh? would he have to answer questions? He peered through the window and the place looked empty. It also looked warm and inviting. What could it hurt? He could always leave. He squared his shoulders; Sir Henry had coped with African tribes, he could cope with a poetry shop.
He opened the door and stepped inside. So far, so good: no alarms blaring to announce an interloper. He looked around, it was a nice little place with a couple of chairs and shelves of books lining all of the walls. An older man, around his uncles' age, was behind the counter and had looked up and smiled as he entered.
“Hello, sir, come on in! Even if you’re just here to warm up, I could do with the company.”
The man walked out from behind the counter. He was short and sparely built - poets didn’t seem to come in large sizes, Archie reflected, all that starving in garrets, waiting for the muse, he supposed
“Is there anything you’re looking for?” the man asked Archie.
The man had given him a genuine smile of welcome so Archie decided to leap. “Yes… er… actually… book I read at a house party. I’d like to get my own copy. The Fish-pond. Poems by Daniel da Silva,” it felt magical to have a reason to say Daniel's name out loud.
The man nodded, “Oh yes, young fellow, modern type. I don’t sell a lot, but I like to keep one or two in stock. Show support, you know.”
He led Archie to the back of the shop where the shelves held many different thin volumes. The man trailed his fingers down the spines until he stopped at a grey volume. He pulled it out and handed it to Archie.
Archie took it and looked at it reverently, his own copy of da Silva’s poetry. At which point Archie realised he had no idea how much poetry books cost and he hadn’t come out expecting to be spending money at all. He checked the inside and back covers looking for a price while trying to continue to look admiring. Three shillings, thank goodness - he would be able to pay.
Once he was at home he carefully opened the book. He turned each page, not reading it yet, simply savouring this memento of Daniel da Silva. When he did read the poems the images had not lost any of their power to disturb.
The man at the shop had given Archie his card, and Archie looked at it now: Jonathan Margolis, proprietor Margolis Books, Dedicated to the Poetic Arts, written in a surprisingly plain font. Perhaps he could go back, the man had seemed friendly, perhaps if he learned enough, Archie might fit into da Silva’s world.
After his days at the gym, Archie no longer varied his route, he always walked by Margolis’s shop and went in whenever it didn’t seem busy. He asked Margolis for books by other poets who wrote like da Silva. He talked honestly about finding his way through The Fish-pond. Margolis was happy to talk to him and to explain some of the concepts. Archie enjoyed the conversations and felt like he was making progress albeit slow.
“Don’t worry, my friend,” Margolis reassured him, “understanding the intellectual theories isn’t the most important part of poetry. It is the emotion the words create in you. When you read Mr da Silva’s work, do you feel an emotion?”
Archie nodded.
“Then you are appreciating his work and that is all that is needed. Perhaps you would like to talk to the poet directly?”
Archie stopped. “Directly?” he echoed weakly.
“Why yes, there is to be a reading, several of the new fragmentalists in Bloomsbury. Mr da Silva will be there. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to meet someone so interested in his work.”
“When…” Archie swallowed and started again, “When will this be happening?”
Margolis walked back to the counter and brought Archie a postcard, “Here are the details. All are welcome. You should attend, you’ll enjoy it, I’m sure.”
Archie couldn’t focus on the card, “Ah… thank you… yes, I shall,” he stumbled through the words, tried his best to say a normal goodbye and left the shop, he remembered none of the journey home, his mind was spinning with the idea of meeting Daniel at a poetry reading!
He could go, and introduce himself to Daniel as a reader just like any other attendee. He could actually do this.
His confidence and decision lasted until the evening of the day before the reading. He was lying in bed, dreaming about meeting Daniel again, but something felt wrong, he looked into the eyes of his dream-Daniel and knew. This wouldn't become real, it was just another dream. His dream-Daniel was smiling in welcome, his eyes full of the desire Archie hoped he’d seen in Peakholme. The real Daniel da Silva would not reveal those feelings so openly, he held things inside behind his armour of pride. Even if da Silva did care for Archie, he wouldn’t want him showing up at a poetry reading. Archie would be a veritable bull in a china shop. Da Silva would be annoyed, worse he’d be embarrassed, and his pride would make him attack.
Archie knew he couldn’t cope with that and so it was simple, he wouldn’t go to the reading. The next day he stayed late at the boxing club and intended to go straight home. But the itch to see Daniel once more was too great. He hailed a cab that took him to Bloomsbury and walked towards the shop that was holding the reading. Perhaps he’d be able to see Daniel through the shop window. He knew he was making a fool of himself, but it was winter, he was well wrapped up, there was little chance of him being recognised.
He slowed as he got to the shop. Light was streaming out through the windows. Archie moved up slowly, aiming to see without being seen. And there he was, Daniel da Silva, poet, in full flow, talking to a group of admirers. The reading must have finished, and now he was holding court. He looked animated and free in a way Archie had only glimpsed briefly that time in the library when Archie had made him laugh. Archie stood transfixed; he was beautiful.
Archie sighed a breath of deep longing, if only he could be a part of that group. But even through the glass, Archie could see that the group all carried the confidence of academic intellectuals. That was not and could never be his world. He felt embarrassed at himself for ever thinking he could be part of it.
His heart ached but he knew walking away was the correct decision. For all that Margolis said emotion was most important for the appreciation of poetry, it wouldn’t pass muster in that group.
Archie stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and walked home through the cold.
When he reached home, he put The Fish-pond and the other books he'd purchased away on a high shelf so no-one could see them and wonder why good old Archie had books of poetry of all things!
After that, Archie didn’t walk home by Margolis’s shop. He had enjoyed the man’s company but couldn’t face it any more. He kept working at the boxing club, but no more poetry, that wasn't his world.
A week before Christmas, Archie was throwing cold ashes on the steps of the gym building to keep them from getting slippery. That final task done, he buttoned up his coat and started on his way home. He debated summoning a cab to drive him, but couldn’t see any around and if he was going to walk to find one, he might as well walk in the direction of home. So he turned his collar up and started walking.
He wasn’t even aware of someone walking next to him until he heard the voice speaking. The voice, familiar, oh so familiar from his dreams. He spun around, “da Silva?”
And there he was, wrapped in his fur-collared overcoat. His eyes were wary but there was a small smile that gave Archie hope.
“Jonathan Margolis has decided I must have done something to annoy you.” Da Silva announced breezily, “There is an implicit 'as usual' at the end, you understand.”
Archie just stared, unable to believe his eyes or his ears.
“Curtis? Curtis!” Daniel’s voice grew sharp and cut through Archie’s amazement.
“Da Silva!”
“Yes, thank you! Covered that.” Daniel said waspishly, “Could we start moving again do you think? Preferably in the direction of somewhere warm and inside?”
“Oh! Yes, yes of course,” Archie started walking, he wasn’t sure where.
They walked in silence for a while before Daniel asked abruptly, “So why didn’t you come to the reading? Margolis said he thought you would.”
Archie looked over, but Daniel was staring straight ahead in that tight armoured way that Archie remembered from the early parts of their second conversation in the folly.
“I… I thought you’d be embarrassed.” he said softly.
Daniel stopped and looked at him in surprise. “Me embarrassed by you?” he questioned, evidently this was not the answer he expected.
Archie shrugged, “Boys’ Own Paper and all that.”
“Huh."
They continued walking.
“Jonathan is quite taken with you. He’s enjoyed having a student again.”
“I feel like a duffer when I try to explain what I think.”
“He said he’d take your uncertainty over a room full of intellectuals spouting the latest phrases.”
Archie was surprised and pleased.
They walked along in comfortable silence, each working with their own thoughts.
After a while, Daniel spoke again, in a tone of amused disbelief, “Did you really walk in off the street and ask for a copy of my poems?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I wanted a copy of my own.”
Archie looked at Daniel and his heart leapt at the look of genuine surprised happiness on Daniel’s face. He smiled. They stood gazing at each other, not moving for a moment, until Archie remembered how cold Daniel probably was.
“Oh,” he said, looking around he could see hansom cabs up ahead and lifted his arm to summon one.
As a cab pulled up to the kerb, Daniel chuckled, "The power of that military bearing! I can tell you, cabs don’t react so quickly to me.”
Archie opened the door of the cab and swept his arm out in invitation, ”Happy to be of service.”
They looked at each other again, each careful, not sure how to build on the beginning.
Archie decided to leap, “Could we meet? Tomorrow? For lunch?”
Daniel nodded, still careful.
“How about I meet you at Margolis Books at 1 o’clock? We can go somewhere from there?” Archie tried to keep his tone light.
Daniel let go of a pain he’d been holding in his heart since leaving Peakholme, “Yes. Tomorrow at one.”
He climbed into the cab and Archie closed the door behind him. Daniel sank back into the seat overwhelmed with the feeling of the Curtis-shaped hole in his heart suddenly being filled. He had been tying himself in knots trying to forget Curtis, and then Margolis had told him about his new student. Daniel tried to convince himself that he was better off not following that lead but he couldn’t resist it. He tracked Curtis down to the Hackney Young Men’s boxing club.
And now a lunch meeting for tomorrow. Daniel wasn’t sure he was making sensible decisions but Curtis’s firmness of purpose was intoxicating to him after so much doubt.
He closed his eyes, holding on to the memory of Archie gazing at him, his eyes shining with happiness.