Fic: The oldest, yet the latest thing (Part 1) III

[sagestreet]

🚬

Mrs Petersen’s tired expression is the first thing Jimmy sees when the door swings open, the lines on her round, grandmotherly face even deeper than usual, her grey brows furrowed.

“Thank God you’re here, Mr Kent,” she exclaims, her thick Danish accent making it hard to discern the consonants. She tucks a once-ginger, now-mostly-grey strand of hair behind her ear and adds, “I was so worried. I had no idea what to do.”

And then Jimmy hears it, that long-awaited sound that he hasn’t heard in over a fortnight: a loud, boisterous voice and the pitter-patter of tiny feet running towards him. “Daddy!”

A knot of worry and love explodes in his chest once again as the small figure throws itself in his arms, two tiny fists holding on to his lapels with a surprisingly fierce grip.

From the corner of his eyes, Jimmy can see that Barrow is still standing on the threshold, mouth agape, for once absolutely stunned.

‘Yes, I know what you’re thinking: A child! And he looks exactly like me,’ Jimmy thinks, helplessly hugging the little blond boy to himself as he lifts him up in his arms.

The four-year-old is getting heavy, Jimmy registers absently. But something else is more important right now.

He presses a kiss to Eddie’s little forehead, noticing immediately how warm the boy’s skin feels against his cool lips. “God, Eddie. you’re burning up. Let’s get you back to bed,” he mutters uncertainly.

“It was even worse earlier,” Mrs Petersen’s concerned voice chunters somewhere in the background. “I was so worried, Mr Kent. I’m sure it’s that dreadful flu again. It looks just the same as back then.”

She then proceeds to throw a questioning look at Barrow from behind her pince-nez. The man is still standing there like a pillar of salt, unmoving, eyes tracking Jimmy’s every move, taking in the small room, the slanted walls where the roof angles down to the floor, the dusty, half-blind skylights that serve as tiny windows, the yellowing floral wallpaper … and, of course, the frail, fair boy who looks like a miniature figurine of his father.

Jimmy knows that; he’s been told many times that Eddie resembles him. Not that he knows what to do with this particular piece of information. (Be proud? Laugh? Cry? … Most of the time, he feels like doing all three of those things at the same time. And he has got no idea if that’s normal or if it is just because he is so clueless about the whole concept of fatherhood.)

He carries the protesting boy across the room like the precious jewel that he is - all under Barrow’s scrutinising gaze - and places him carefully back on the rickety metal-frame bed in the corner, untangling himself from his short arms with difficulty and covering him with the sheet and the scratchy old blanket lying on the bed, then sits down on the mattress beside him.

“Missed you so much, daddy,” Eddie pouts in protest. His cheeks are even rosier than usual, his blue eyes glowing with fever; it’s obvious he’s overexcited for now, but getting weaker again already.

“You’re very ill, Eddie,” Jimmy says quietly, smoothing back his son’s unruly golden locks and feeling absolutely powerless. ‘God, I’m such a failure at this,’ he thinks distraught. ‘You deserve an older, more mature father, Eddie. One who actually knows what he’s doing. Not one who could easily be mistaken for a clueless, good-for-nothing brother.’

When he turns, Mrs Petersen looks as if she is about to cry any minute. “I would have taken him to see a doctor, but you know we can’t afford it, Mr Kent. If only they would consider introducing some sort of national health programme so that the lower classes could-”

“Pha! As if that’s ever going to happen,” Jimmy snorts, feeling a surge of helpless anger.

It’s at this moment that Barrow finally breaks his silence, having apparently regained the power of speech. “I might not be a doctor,” he offers quietly, “but I’m the next best thing.”

Surprised, Jimmy glances back at the man over his shoulder, seeing Mrs Petersen’s eyes widen with curiosity. “I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten to introduce you,” he finally remembers his manners. “This is Mrs Petersen, my son’s nursemaid … And this is Mr Barrow, my … my-”

He is about to say ‘superior’ when Barrow interrupts him in a low voice. “We work together,” the man states matter-of-factly, thus implying to her that they are on the same rung of the social ladder (which, clearly, they are not).

Mrs Petersen shakes Barrow’s hand politely. “How do you do, sir?”

But Jimmy interrupts them impatiently. “So, how exactly are you the next best thing to a doctor, Mr Barrow?”

“I’ve had several years of medical training. Served in the Royal Army Medical Corps during the war,” the man replies calmly, finally pulling the door shut behind himself and crossing the small room in a few purposeful strides.

‘Well, there's something I didn't suspect,’ Jimmy thinks. ‘The man is full of surprises, isn't he? Didn’t think him the caring sort.’

He watches as the former medic pulls the only chair in the room over to the bed with one sure movement of his arm, wooden chair legs scraping against the worn-out timber floor. “Usually, I’m more one for cleaning bullet wounds and changing bandages, but I think I’ll manage,” Barrow continues, hooking the handle of his umbrella on the back of the chair and sitting down.

Eddie is watching the strange man sitting next to his bed through heavy-lidded eyes, but it’s obvious that he is not frightened. He has never been shy with strangers. Whomever his father brings home can’t be a baddie; that seems to be the boy's philosophy. Jimmy gets his confirmation when, a second later, Eddie’s trusting eyes fix on Barrow’s face and he asks in a subdued, yet curious voice, “Who are you, mister?”

“I’m Mr Barrow, Edward.”

“I like your ears!” the boy blurts out so randomly that it catches all three of them off guard. “They’re … te-rri-fic,” he intones enthusiastically.

Barrow laughs. It’s a genuine, honest laugh, that transforms his face, breaking his usual mask of carefully cultivated detachment and making him look younger somehow, smoothing out the tension around his eyes. There is a softness and warmth to his gaze now that Jimmy wouldn't have believed possible mere moments ago, and that little mischievous dimple in his cheek makes an appearance when he replies, “Why, thank you. I’m rather attached to them myself.”

Eddie looks as if he hasn’t really understood Barrow’s response, but he smiles back up at the man, anyway. (Not that Jimmy has really grasped what’s so ‘terrific’ about Barrow’s ears; they look perfectly normal from where he is sitting. But then, it’s probably a fruitless endeavour to try and follow the thought processes of a four-year-old.)

“You don’t look like a doctor,” Eddie observes, suddenly a bit more wary. (Because if this stranger is, in fact, a paediatrician, this would be the perfect time to hide under the blanket … or perhaps wail. Better safe than sorry.)

“Nah,” Barrow replies with a wink and a throw-away gesture of his hand. “They look so silly in their white coats, eh?”

Eddie giggles in relief.

“And all they ever do is prod you with their stupid stethoscopes and force bitter medicine down your throat … I haven’t got any medicine. See?”

“Well, I sort of wish you had, though,” Jimmy hears himself mutter before he can stop himself.

“I wasn't talking to him, was I?” Barrow whispers conspiratorially in Eddie’s direction.

“Nah,” Eddie replies enthusiastically and does a spot-on Mr Barrow impression by making the exact same throw-away gesture the man has made just moments before. It looks rather comical, as the boy’s hands are so much smaller than Barrow’s, and Jimmy feels himself smile again despite the knot of worry that is still clenching in his chest.

Meanwhile, Barrow has shifted forwards in his chair a bit, extending his right hand and placing it tenderly on the boy’s forehead.

To Jimmy’s surprise, Eddie doesn’t scream blue murder, his eyes fluttering shut instead, trust written all over his face. “Feels nice,” he mumbles quietly.

“Well, that’s ‘cause my hand is cool and you’ve got a fever, matey,” Barrow explains quietly, then tears his hand away and, in the same breath, extends it towards Jimmy (who is still sitting on the side of the bed) placing his palm flat against his forehead as well.

Jimmy freezes, willing himself not to recoil from the touch once he has realised what Barrow is doing and forcing himself to keep still. ‘He’s simply comparing Eddie’s temperature to mine because he hasn’t got a thermometer,’ he tells himself. ‘But, God, his cool hand does feel rather nice, doesn’t it?’ It takes all of Jimmy’s willpower not to close his eyes as well.

“Is daddy ill too?” a small voice asks from the direction of the pillow.

“I don’t think so,” Barrow replies, and Jimmy feels almost bereft when the man withdraws his hand.

“He is not ill, but … he might be a bit cuckoo if you ask me,” Barrow stage-whispers in Eddie’s direction, tapping himself on his forehead. “But let’s not tell him, all right? He’d just get cross with me.”

Eddie gives another happy giggle at the tapping motion, proceeding to mimic that one as well.

“I don’t think his temperature is that high at the moment,” Barrow says in a more serious tone as he turns to face Jimmy. “It’s just a touch of fever.”

“It was really high yesterday evening, you see,” Mrs Petersen interrupts them. “That’s why I decided to send you that telegram in the morning, Mr Kent … Ever since that awful flu epidemic, I keep thinking it'll come back. What if there is some new strain going around this year?”

“How did it all start, Mrs Petersen?” Barrow enquires, all business now, half turning in his chair to face her.

The woman wipes her hands on her old apron. “The day before yesterday he was complaining about a sore throat, you see? Then, yesterday, he started running a fever. And ever since then, it has all got progressively worse.”

“Any other symptoms? Muscle pains? Nausea? Vomiting? Coughing?”

Mrs Petersen just shakes her head. “No. He's just been feeling weak and tired and has lost his appetite.”

From the corner of his eye, Jimmy can see that Eddie is, once again, eyeing Barrow - and particularly his ears - with a look of open-mouthed curiosity and an avid fascination that is one of the great gifts of childhood.

“Are you an elephant?” the boy suddenly demands to know in what must be the world’s most bizarre non sequitur.

Barrow whirls around in his chair again. “What? … No, no, I'm not an elephant, I'm afraid,” he laughs, subconsciously touching one of his ears as if to check that it hasn't somehow grown without him noticing.

Eddie looks rather crestfallen at that.

“Wouldn't it be brilliant if I were an elephant, though?” Barrow asks. “Just imagine how I could roar at everyone.”

But the boy is already shaking his blond curls vehemently. “Not true,” he points out in a serious four-going-on-forty voice. “Elephants don’t roar; they trumpet. Lions roar!”

“You don’t say!” Barrow looks honestly surprised now; the tiny little twinkle in the corner of his eye is probably only obvious to the grown-ups in the room.

‘How does Barrow even do that?’ Jimmy wonders, increasingly amazed at how naturally all of this seems to come to the other man. ‘Is it just the medical training? Or why is he so good at this?’ The underbutler doesn't seem to find it very hard to connect with a child. Four years of fatherhood and still Jimmy hasn’t managed the sort of easy conversation that Barrow is currently having with Eddie.

To Jimmy, it all still feels like having a younger brother. A little baby brother, that he has to look after, not even knowing how that’s done, conscientiously trying (and oftentimes failing) to work it out along the way … and always, always worrying about the little one, with a sort of rib-clenching, throat-constricting love that he would have thought impossible if it weren’t for the boy’s sweet and sunny soul …

Meanwhile, Eddie has sat up in bed and announced, “I can roar like a lion if you like, Mr Barrow,” his voice as serious as the King’s at the State Opening of Parliament.

“Really?” Barrow asks, raising his eyebrows and acting sceptical. “Nah, I don’t believe that,” he adds with overly dramatic, put-on arrogance.

“I can too!” Eddie pouts. The boy has never been one to pass up a challenge, which is probably why he suddenly opens his mouth as wide as he can, tilting his head comically to the side, his small face almost splitting in half. “Raaaaawr!”

Barrow is quick, very quick, as he ducks his head a bit, squinting his eyes and peering into Eddie’s mouth in the faint light filtering in from outside, all without the boy even taking note of it.

‘Sneaky,’ Jimmy thinks, smiling inwardly at Barrow’s underhand way of examining Eddie’s sore throat.

“Did you see that?” the boy calls out excitedly. “I’m a lion. I could’ve devoured all three of you.”

At that, Barrow gives a very convincing, contrite sigh. “All right, you can roar; you’re a lion,” he admits, adding, “Oh, but wait … To hunt for his prey, a lion has to be able to run across the savannah and pounce-”

“What’s a savannah?” Eddie’s high-pitched voice pipes up from the pillow, where he is, once again, resting his little head. It's funny how easily children can get sidetracked by the smallest details, such as unfamiliar words or concepts, Jimmy thinks.

“Just a whole lot of grass and sand,” Barrows replies and, extending his arm, lets his fingers gallop along the edge of the mattress. “But that’s how fast a lion’s got to run in order to chase and devour his prey,” he demonstrates. “And that’s not going to happen if the lion’s paws are hurting and-”

“But my paws aren’t hurting!” Eddie protests louder than Jimmy would have thought possible considering the boy’s state of exhaustion. “See?” Eddie holds out his little white arm for Barrow to inspect.

“Not even a little?” Barrow marvels, mock-stunned.

Eddie shakes his head vehemently again.

“What about the legs, er, hind paws?”

“Not one bit,” Eddie announces proudly.

“Astounding!” At that, Barrow takes hold of the boy’s forearm, gently turning it to examine it from all sides, clearly checking the boy for signs of a rash.

‘He’s checking for measles and such,’ Jimmy realises, watching Barrow playfully ruffle his son’s hair and, at the same time, squint at the top of the boy’s head and the back of his ears.

Finally, Barrow sits back, giving Eddie a very impressed look. “Well, as it turns out, I was wrong and you were right: you truly are a lion, and all I can do is bow before the king of beasts,” he says very seriously and actually gets up from his chair for a moment to give his best underbutler bow. “We will have to tell Mrs Petersen to look out, or else she might end up getting devoured one fine day.”

The boy giggles again, a bit tired from all the games, eyes already drooping again.

“James, I don’t think it’s the flu,” Barrow finally states in his usual adult voice, sitting down again.

The relief flooding Jimmy at that feels like a tall wave crashing over him, warm, strong and overwhelming. And yet, there are still a few icy undercurrents raging in the depths of those waters: he should be stronger, he knows, stronger for his child. A real father. A proper man. But no one has ever shown him how that’s done, how one is supposed to take responsibility for a child when one isn’t even really able to take care of oneself. He is a helpless and desperately overtaxed father, unable to cope and guilt-ridden about it. That’s what he is.

“Are you certain of it?” he whispers in Barrow’s general direction.

“With the flu, the fever would be much higher,” the man nods calmly. “And his body temperature would spike and drop several times during the day, not just rise in the evening. He would experience muscle pain in the limbs and chills all over. And it would have started suddenly, abruptly, almost out of the blue. Wouldn’t have progressed like it did. From what I can tell, it’s none of the other serious infectious diseases either. No, no, no, first a sore throat, then the fever … and no aches, pains or nausea … This is a common cold.”

“But he’s had colds!” Mrs Petersen argues. “None of them this bad … well, apart from the last one, I suppose … and the one before that, perhaps … and …” Her voice trails off uncertainly.

“It’s important to remember that he’s a child,” Barrow reminds her softly. “With small children, every cold is different, and symptoms can be more severe than in adults.”

“I’m not small,” Eddie mumbles tiredly in protest.

“Of course, you’re not!” Jimmy and Barrow reply in unison, then smile at each other awkwardly once they realise they have both said it at the same time.

Behind them, the dear old Mrs Petersen is wringing her hands. “If it’s not the flu, then I’m dreadfully sorry to have bothered you, Mr Kent. Perhaps I shouldn’t have written to you quite so quickly.”

But before Jimmy can reassure her that everything is, in fact, all right, Barrow jumps to the rescue and says, “It’s none of your fault, Mrs Petersen. I suppose the horrors of the Spanish flu are still so fresh on all our minds that we’re prone to jumping to the wrong conclusions … But if I’m not very much mistaken, this one here will be up and about again in no time.”

“You think?” Jimmy hears himself rasp out, shocked at how small and afraid his own voice sounds.

Barrow nods again. “The fever will break by tomorrow, and then he’s going to start sneezing a lot and get a runny nose … and come tomorrow morning, he’ll be in the whiniest mood you can imagine.”

“Oh, yes, I think I can picture that,” Jimmy whispers with a warm smile, looking down at his son, who’s about to doze off. For a second, it feels as if something inside of him is breaking - but not in a bad way.

“Oi, Lion?” Barrow says softly.

“Hm?”

“You haven’t got a mane, you know?” Barrow points out quietly.

“I have too,” Eddie fights sleep one last time to protest. “Look!” He clumsily shakes his blond curls again.

“But a lion’s mane extends down to the neck, you see?” Barrow explains seriously. “That’s why lions never ever get a sore throat.”

“Oh …” Eddie’s little face falls at that. “I wish I was a lion.”

“I think we could do something about that.” With these words, Barrow opens the top button of his coat and takes off his scarf.

It’s a very nice scarf, soft and warm, and Barrow looks rather dashing in it, actually. It has a tartan pattern and is just the right shade of warm beige for a lion’s mane. It’s the sort of scarf that Jimmy has never owned in his life, a piece of clothing that shows that Barrow pays close attention to his appearance, as if attempting to prove that, even on a relatively small salary, a man can strive to dress elegantly. It's not exactly Savile Row tailoring, but it is a look that is handsomely debonair.

“Let’s make you a nice lion’s mane,” Barrow says in a soft voice and puts the scarf around Eddie’s neck, wrapping it around once, twice, three times. “It’s not scratchy, is it?”

Eddie shakes his sleepy head. “It’s soft.”

“Good.” And Barrow smiles a quiet, private smile that Jimmy has rarely ever seen on the man’s usually sullen face.

It’s stunning, actually, how good he is at all of this, how naturally it seems to come to him, as if he doesn't even need to think about it, as if that’s just what he is: good-natured and friendly and secretly even a bit childish on the inside, letting some inner boyish light-heartedness shine through for once.

Yes, Barrow seems much more in touch with his inner child … with his entire inner self, as a matter of fact. It’s a task that only a man completely at ease with himself can master, Jimmy realises, a man who feels completely comfortable in his own skin and is enough of an adult to not think it threatening to his self-esteem to let himself be playful and even gentle in a way that Jimmy would never dare to consider.

And it’s obvious that Eddie is responding to it in kind, lying there with a content smile on his little face that makes Jimmy’s heart break and mend at the same time.

“However did you do that, Mr Barrow?” Jimmy hears himself whisper, trying very hard but failing to keep the awe out of his voice.

“Hm? What do you mean?” For once, Barrow seems honestly stumped.

“Never mind.”

‘Is it really just the medical training?’ Jimmy wonders.

Continued here