Lessons and Carols (U)

Lessons and Carols

There is nothing quite so daunting as approaching a group of cheerful revelers, when you yourself wish you could crawl back between the sheets, put the blankets over your head, and wish the world away. The past six months had made for a steep learning curve for me in the art of grief, but rarely did I feel my losses keener than when I was expected to conform to a sugary picture of happiness. Happy, I was not.

I paused at the street corner, looking out across the untidy Christmas market that had sprung up in the square, and steeled myself against the ebb and flow of the crowd. In a gathering such as this, and with a social profession such as mine, there would no doubt be one or two acquaintances to whom I must lift my hat, and wish the best of the season. Still, as needs must. I took a deep breath, and strode through the crowd, and between the rows of brightly lit stalls.

I passed through the aisles of covered tables with their brightly coloured goods. At one stall a man was preparing a strong kind of mulled wine, pouring rum over a sugar cone, and lighting it with a flourish. He tried to push a small wax-paper cup into my hands, but I shook my head, and moved onwards. At the next stall a woman was selling marchpane fruit, painted in cheerful colours, but badly misshapen and squashed. I walked on before she could speak to me, and found myself at the next table staring bitterly at a row of gleaming tin soldiers. Just like the fairy tale, there was one soldier reduced to balancing precariously on one leg. I felt a ridiculous pang of sympathy for the poor sod, whose steadfast nature in the lines of battle had clearly paid him no favours. For a moment I morbidly wondered if I had taken a tumble over those ill-fated cliffs, whether they would have found a little tin heart in the murky depths to mention on the coroner’s report…

I gave a start. I should have known I would not be able to stay within my own thoughts for long – I had not yet been walking through the market for five minutes, and already I felt the weight of an arm on mine. I sighed inwardly, and forced myself to be glad for the interruption away from such dark musings. I turned, pasting on my best innocuous smile, but it faded from my lips when I realised I did not recognise the young man before me.

“Hello, doctor.”

I peered at him. He was a patient of mine then? From his brilliant radiating smile, to his perfectly straight back, I had rarely seen such an excellent example of sound health. His eyes danced in amusement in response to my obvious confusion. Was he perhaps a relative of someone I had treated?

“I’m sorry sir,” I eventually said “I’m afraid you have the better of me.”

“Are you so sure?” he replied with a grin, and pointed at the Cavendish bag I clutched in my hands. “I can see your initials, but I haven’t your name, although I dare say I could guess it.”

“I see.” I replied, feeling annoyed that I could have been caught by so simple a trick. How my late friend would have laughed. “Should I take it from your American accent that you are one of that continent’s many fans of my writings? Well, I am sorry disappoint you sir, but you shan’t be hearing any more from me on that account…” I turned away, suddenly unable to continue.

“Easy! Easy now.” the young man had clearly heard the crack in my voice, and he took my elbow and gently but firmly steered me away from the crowds. Once we were free of the press of bodies, I snatched my arm out of his grip, and stared determinedly in the opposite direction. I was unnerved by the experience of almost losing my cool in front of a stranger. No doubt my dark trail of thought was to be blamed.

“I’m sorry.” The young man said, after an uncomfortable pause. “I realise that it must be a difficult time for you at the moment. But in fact, that’s why I wanted to speak to you.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, and took in a deep breath, closing my eyes.

“I thank you for your sympathies concerning Mrs. Watson. But I really must be on my way.”

“I wasn’t talking about your wife’s illness, doctor. Although – I am sorry for that too.”

That gave me a pause for thought, and I turned and looked at the man. He stood, frankly returning my gaze, arms folded across his chest, but a look of concern on his face. His black hair was cropped oddly, and he wore a grey greatcoat that appeared to be regimental, but I found I couldn’t place it. The more I looked, the stranger he appeared, if his existence was… well, if not ‘wrong’, at least unlikely. Looking at him was giddying, as though I was staring at the young immortal hero of Wilde’s imaginings.

“Do I know you?” I asked stupidly.

“No,” he replied kindly enough. “Although I feel like I know you very well.”

“Who are you then?”

“My name?” the young man grinned “Is Captain Harkness.”

I sensed the pseudonym, but let it pass.

“Captain of…?”

“My ship.” He replied with a smile, although it faded quickly. “But I lost the old girl years ago.”

“You can’t be as young as you look, then.” I replied, bemused.

“You don’t know the half of it.” He replied. There was a joke in that tone of voice, but his face was serious. “Listen doctor, I didn’t stop you on the street corner just to swap compliments.”

“I have a name, you know.” I cut in. “John Watson. You don’t have to call me ‘doctor’ like that.”

“Sorry, Dr. Watson. John.” He flashed me a smile. “Old habits die hard.”

I gave a sigh. I must confess by this stage I was very confused. I have met a few fans of my little stories, and they do persist in acting as though they actually know myself and my former colleague, despite my making it quite clear I have made many changes and omitted plenty of details. This man acted after this fashion, but there was something else queer about him layered on top.

“Do you have somewhere quiet we might talk?”

I looked at him askew.

“Talk? I was meant to be out Christmas shopping.”

“Well, it didn’t appear you were getting much done. You’re not engaged at the moment. Perhaps you could take me to your consulting room…”

I was suddenly filled with a strange sort of fear at the thought of this unnerving young man in my home.

“If you have anything to say to me, you can say it here.”

Captain Harkness threw a worried glance about the square, as though he feared being watched. He put a hand to my back, and ushered me down a small backstreet, and linked arms with me, so that we might talk in private. I was all ears with curiosity, but for a moment he didn’t speak.

“Well?” I eventually demanded.

The young captain had the grace to look embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” he apologised. “I was always so sure what I would say to you if I ever met you during the hi… hum. But seeing you face to face, I’m suddenly not so sure. As though, err… I have a conscience whispering in my ear, telling me to walk away.”

“A conscience?”

“A friend of mine.” He clarified. “He would know what to say, and what he would say would be to leave you alone.”

“Why would he say that?” he replied, humouring him.

But instead of replying, he just flashed a smile full of twinkle, and patted my arm.

“But he isn’t here. And God only knows when I’ll see him again.”

This didn’t seem to be a particularly cheerful thing to say, and I frowned.

“I’m sorry.” I replied, uselessly, more confused by this strange encounter than ever.

“Don’t be.” He replied. “I’ve all the time in the world, and I’ve already been looking thirty years for him. Good times are a-coming up. Well.” He made a face. “Some pretty horrific times too, but I’ve always been fairly good at getting out of a tight spot. I’ll find some way of staying put.”

“You are talking in riddles.”

He sighed.

“Am I? OK then, let me make it clear. I’m waiting for my friends to find me. Or to not find me, as the case may be. They think I’m dead.” He suddenly turned, and looked me evenly in the eye. “But I’m not dead.”

“So it would appear.” I could hear a mixture of worry and amusement tingeing my voice. I was beginning to fear the poor chap had escaped from a sanatorium.

“Look Dr. Watson.” There was warmth in his voice. “We’re both waiting for people to return. We could carry on dwelling on the… well, the past. Or we could take what we have now, and make the most of it.”

“I do wish you would speak plainly.” I replied in frustration. “You appear to have heard of my friend’s death. On that point, I shall dwell on the past, as much as I like. My friend did not die…” I gave the captain’s youthful appearance a doubtful glance “… thirty years ago as yours did, but only a handful of months ago. I cannot even bring myself to write how it happened yet. Now my wife is dying. Please, I have enough to dwell about thank you, without every Tom Dick and Harry coming up to give me advice.”

The captain shook his head, and looked sad, as though I was missing some essential point.

“My friend didn’t die. I lost him because he believes me to be dead.”

I glanced at him, to see him looking at me eagerly, as if he expected me to find some significance in his words that I did not comprehend.

“I’m sorry,” I began slowly “But I am afraid I don’t quite understand what you are talking about.”

The man rolled his eyes, muttered an expletive, and scuffed up the snow on the cobbles as we walked.

“Forget it then. But don’t say I didn’t try and warn you.”

“Warn me of what?”

The young man changed tack, and gave me a flirtatious smile that completely caught me off guard.

“I think we’ve got off on a wrong foot.” He winked at me. “How about I call you John, you call me Jack, and we head back to your surgery for a glass of port?”

I wanted to tell him I wasn’t much in the practice of bringing home confused and delusional young men, much less offering them alcoholic beverages, when I realised that perhaps that was a very good idea indeed. It wasn’t much in my line, but no doubt I could find someone to refer him to who would be able to help him.

“Very well.” I said gently. “Perhaps we can help you find your friend.”

A look of delight cracked across Captain Harkness’s face.

“That’s the spirit!” He enthused. “And you can bet your bottom dollar that I can make you forget your friend for a while too.”

“Oh I doubt that.” I replied, again getting the feeling that I had missed some double-entendre, and yet still feeling very confident in my answer. “I doubt that very much indeed.”

And we turned about, and headed for home.