Charles by Con Riley

 

 

1

Charles Heppel only got to his knees for one of two good reasons.

The first was his vocation, where telling stories to young children meant getting down on their level.

The next came a close second, dropping to his knees in strangers’ bedrooms for a different kind of happy ending.

But on Friday morning, Charles found a third and final reason, falling to his knees and praying his brother hadn’t heard him drop his wash bag outside his study.

The marble floor of the great hall did him no favours. The clatter of toiletries echoed, suits of armour worn by his ancestors seeming to judge him as he scrambled after fallen bottles.

“Hello? God? Are you there?” Charles whispered, knee-walking away from the closed door. “It’s me, Charles Heppel. Quick favour, okay? Don’t let George have heard that. I know I haven’t been to church since….” He shoved back the same bone-straight hair worn by a relative in a portrait beside him, and squinted. “Okay, okay, so I haven’t darkened your door since prep school, but if you could let me get away from Casterley without George knowing, I will owe you big time.”

He crossed himself as if that might help.

A faint creak stilled his hand, mid-motion.

George’s desk chair creaked like that. Had done for as long as Charles could remember. Used to creak the same way when it had been their father’s, until George had taken over the running of Casterley as earl-in-waiting. Before then, he’d been a bossy, but fun, big brother. Now…. Well, lately, the bossy part seemed to have consumed him, and not in a way that made George happy.

“I promise I’ll do something good if I can get away without a lecture,” Charles prayed, chasing a stray bottle of lube. “I mean, I’d stay if he really needed my help.” His eye caught on the portrait of another past earl who not only looked like Charles from his straight blond hair to his neat beard, but, according to George, made equally rash decisions. Like building the folly across the lake from the house.

Useless, George had called that single castle wall covered in ivy.

All show and no purpose, like Charles, he’d said last night over dinner.

“But that’s where he’s wrong, isn’t he, God? Just because my purpose is different to his, doesn’t make it pointless, does it?”

He continued his prayer, scooping up the bottle. “I really would work on being more serious.” Although Charles wasn’t sure seriousness would ever be his skill set, not when playing was what he’d trained for—what he lived for—the only work he valued. “But I disagree with what he said about me being childish. I’m child-led, and that’s different.”

And that was another sore point Charles brought up with his maker as he reached for condoms, which had scattered like confetti. “I can’t help thinking that’s what you made me for. Fun, I mean, and not just professionally. Personally, too. I’m talking about sex,” he said, as if a reminder was needed. “Surely it would be a sin not to make the most of where you put my prostate?”

That creak came again.

Louder.

Charles knee-walked faster, putting one of Casterley’s huge pillars between him and the study doorway. “So, God, in summary,” he prayed faster, “I’ll try harder to be more serious if you can help George lighten up, okay? I hate that he’s not happy, but me hanging around isn’t helping.” He got to his feet, eyeing the front door, calculating whether he could make it.

The study door opened before he found out.

George stood on the far side of the column, his bellow echoing. “Charles? Where the devil are you?” The click of his footsteps followed, circling towards him.

Charles weighed his options: stand still and face the music, or match George step-for-step around the pillar, keeping a safe distance between them. It was a game they’d played since he’d been little, decades of hiding-and-seeking in this mansion built in the 1700s that used to end in laughter—a sound that had been absent lately.

Before he could choose an option, the squall that was George in a foul mood blew out as fast as it had blown in. Charles heard the gust of his resigned exhale, and his footsteps fading, as though he was leaving.

George giving up the chase so fast surprised him. It was uncharacteristic. Unusual enough that Charles asked, “Are you really giving up already?” He stepped out, then leant on the pillar, aiming to appear as innocent as the cherubs painted on the great hall’s ceiling. “Sorry, Georgie,” he said to his brother’s back. “Did you need me for something, only I’m—”

“Leaving,” George said flatly. He turned, his hold tightening on an envelope he clutched. “I guessed as much. And no, I don’t have time to play games with you. We’re not kids, Charles. You’ve got to grow up sometime. And don’t call me Georgie. I know you’re challenged by spelling, but how hard is George to master?” He came back, seeming harried, which wasn’t usual for him either.

Bossy? Yes.

Domineering? Absolutely.

But creased with concern, like now?

“Something is wrong,” Charles stated. His desire to hide ebbed. Worry flowed in to replace it. “I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong. I could help you.”

“Nothing’s wrong.” George’s next huff came out as a sigh. “And I’ve already told you how you can help me.” He tipped his head back, seeming to stare at the ceiling, but Charles guessed he didn’t focus on the fresco above them. It was far more probable that he pictured the roof, next on his list for renewal. “You could help with the estate repair programme, Charles. Take on the one renovation project I asked of you so I don’t have to. Or at least spend today with the adviser when he arrives, cataloguing what he finds in the attics.”

So, he still wasn’t about to share what had him frowning. Charles held in a sigh. Taking on a project that he’d screw up would only lead to more fall-outs between them. “Sorry. I do have an appointment, so I need to leave now to keep it.”

“Really?” George scrutinised his face as if in search of a lie. “What is it this time? Another urgent callback from the STI clinic?”

“What do you mean, ‘another’?” Charles acted affronted. “I’ve never had an STI.”

George arched an eyebrow.

“Crabs don’t count.” Charles ignored that brow arching even higher. “And that was only one time. I was nineteen.” Ten years later, he could almost look back fondly on a holiday that had come with non-stop itching. “Apart from the crabs, Ibiza was magic.”

George lost his patience. “I don’t want the gory details of your love life. I want you to stop being a work-shy bugger.”

Charles had one last try at teasing George out of his foul mood. “That’s where you’re wrong, George. When it comes to buggery, I’m the opposite of work-shy. I never turn that work down. Tell me more about this adviser. Is he my type?”

“You mean, is he breathing?” George said, but at least he now wore the ghost of a smile, a sign that somewhere, under all of his moods and bluster, he might still have a fun side. “He’s a historical expert, Charles, not an afternoon-delight distraction for you. Listen.” He scrubbed a hand through the same straight hair they shared. “Can’t you at least fetch and carry for him today while I take Felicity up to town?”

“I really can’t. Not today.” Charles felt a pang then. George’s wife had also seemed blue at dinner last night. A day in London might help cheer her. Cheer them both. “Can it wait until tomorrow? I could come back—”

“From where?” George asked, tone abrupt again, humour dissipated.

“I left you a note to explain.” One that he had hoped George wouldn’t find until he’d made it safely away.

“You mean this?” George shoved his envelope under his arm and pulled a note from his pocket, squinting as he read it. Or tried to read it, at least. “Your handwriting is a disaster. A drunk spider could do better. And to think you went to one of the top schools in the country.” He shoved the note back into his pocket. “Text me next time, will you, so I have a hope of reading what you’ve written?”

If he’d texted, Charles knew this confrontation would have come much sooner. “I’m going to a job interview,” he said, planting his feet like the marble pillars beside them, unmovable no matter how hard George tried to bulldoze him. “If I get it, I’ll need to live-in there.” Some distance might help them get back to being both friends and brothers.

“A job?” George narrowed his eyes, then bent to snatch something from the floor, presenting Charles with another of his fallen condoms. “I know you’re prolific, but don’t they have machines to test these? I’m sure they don’t need your services at the condom factory.”

“Hilarious.” Charles stifled a smile, glad he’d held it in, because George’s next comment would have squashed it.

“Well, what other actual job are you qualified for?”

Charles lifted his chin, defensive. “An important one.”

“Oh, really? How important, Mr I-left-school-with-zero-qualifications?”

“Very.” A small voice inside Charles told him to keep quiet—George didn’t mean to sound so judgemental; this was another sign of him hiding something, surely? Charles promptly ignored it. “And I do have a qualification, thank you.” A sole one he treasured.

“A certificate in play, Charles, which is hardly rocket science. It’s paint and glue and glitter.” George frowned. “Hang on a minute.” He came close enough that Charles saw some new grey silvering his temples. “Tell me you’re not interviewing at another school.”

“Um….”

“No,” George said, dismissively. “I thought we agreed after the last debacle? You’re too old to act like Peter Pan. No more playing with kids and pretending it’s work. There’s a word in front of your name for a reason.”

“You mean honourable?” A prefix that came with Charles being an earl’s third son. One that mattered to other people more than it mattered to him.

“Yes,” George insisted. “Where’s the honour in aiming low with child’s play? Aim high with work that matters. There’s plenty of that here at Casterley to keep you out of trouble, like I said last night. I even have a project for you to restore the folly—”

“No,” Charles echoed. “I don’t want your project, and my last job wasn’t a debacle. I took it because—”

“You wanted to live with Keir.” At last, George seemed to soften, the sharp line of his jaw easing. “He’s your best friend. Almost a brother to you.” His jaw firmed once more; a clue he’d reached his limit. “But you can’t live in his pocket forever. He moved on, and so should you.”

“You make it sound like Keir’s an ex-boyfriend,” Charles said, puzzled. “We’re friends, not some old married couple.”

He couldn’t help shuddering at the thought of being tied down when the world was full of men he hadn’t met yet. Hadn’t blown yet. Hadn’t added to a one-and-done list he saw no point in ending. “Not everyone wants a ball and chain, you know. Some of us are free spirits.”

“Freeloaders, you mean.”

“Did you ever think that looking for a job might be a clue that I want to pay my way? And anyway, this job interview has nothing to do with Keir.” Charles couldn’t help wincing. “Well, not much to do with him.”

George raised an eyebrow again, a skill Charles would hate him for if blood wasn’t thicker than water. “Explain.”

Charles capitulated. No point in resisting when George jutted his jaw. “Okay. The job is at the private school next door to where Keir works.”

“In Cornwall?” George said, as if it was on another planet instead of only an hour or so away.

“Yes. They need a play assistant.”

“Charles….” George’s tone gentled so much it alarmed him. “You’ve got to let him go.”

“This isn’t about Keir.”

George held up a hand. “No. Listen. He’s been a huge part of your life. I get that. I knew from the moment you brought him home to live here. How old were you both?”

“Seven.”

“That’s over twenty years ago, Charles. I understand that’s why you’re close. But you took your last job in a school to be near him, and that was a disaster. You even lost the children.”

“I did not.” That stung. “I lost sight of them for a few moments.” But hadn’t it seemed like hours? He still woke reliving a near-miss that gave him palpitations.

“It might be different if you were an actual teacher,” George insisted. “But a play assistant, Charles? It’s hardly real work, is it?”

Charles reached behind the pillar and grabbed the handle of the suitcase he’d stuffed too full to fit the wash bag sitting atop it. Charles rammed in his fallen toiletries and zipped it. Better to do that than let George see his hands shake with….

With what?

Anger?

No.

With disappointment that, yet again, his brother couldn’t see the point in work that Charles loved. Child’s play made him happy, gave him purpose, made him feel competent instead of stupid, unlike every teacher who had ever taught him. “I have to go.” He headed for the tall front doors, feeling small, like usual, whenever he was reminded of a limitation he had no control over, and wouldn’t wish on another human being.

“Charles!” George followed him outside, perhaps realising he’d poked a sore spot. He joined him at the top of sweeping steps that led to the driveway, the view as stunning as ever. The lake glinted in late spring sunshine. Beyond it, the folly that George had said was pointless stood like a partial fortress.

Charles ignored him; ignored the Latin spelling out perseverance, loyalty, and service carved over the doorway too, but he couldn’t ignore George following him down the steps, crunching over the gravel to an old Land Rover Defender.

“Bit presumptuous, aren’t you?” George asked as Charles opened the Defender’s back doors and hefted his case between the benches. “Not even interviewed yet, but you’ve packed already? What are you going to do if you don’t get the job?”

“I’ll stay with Keir for a while.” Anything rather than come back here to feel worthless, or to lose his temper with someone who hadn’t been themselves lately. Someone he loved, but couldn’t work with.

“And he’s okay with that?” George demanded.

“Of course.” Charles got in and busied himself with his seatbelt rather than let George notice that lie. Staying with Keir would be fine. He’d call him when he got there.

He started the engine, only rolling down the window after George rapped on the glass.

“Listen,” George said, that harried expression back again. “You don’t want this job, Charles. It can’t be much more than minimum wage, which is ridiculous when we’ve got…” He glanced at the house, beautiful in sunshine that painted its Bath stone golden. “You don’t want it,” he repeated. Then he seemed to sag, the strain he carried slipping, the brother Charles had once idolised, back again for a moment.

George passed over the envelope he’d come out of his office clutching. “If you’re really going, at least take this.”

“What is it? Oh—” Charles saw the return address and didn’t need George to answer. “It’s from Miss Godalming.” Miss Godawful was a more apt name for the head teacher at his last temp job. He thrust it back at George. “You open it. She won’t have anything nice to say. Maybe it’ll cheer you up to read that other people think I’m as stupid as you do.”

“No, it won’t,” George said. “And you’re not stupid,” he admitted. “You’re severely dyslexic. That’s different.”

He tore into the envelope and pulled out a handful of drawings, their crayoned colours cheery.

“Oh,” Charles said, reaching for them, surprised into smiling.

George scanned a note while Charles sat with a lap full of images drawn by the last children he’d worked with. “Jamie,” he said under his breath. “Look at how well you stayed inside the lines. And Alexander.” He swallowed, his eyes blurring. “You wrote your own name so beautifully.” He showed his brother, remembering Alexander’s frustration. “I spoke with his parents. Made them promise to take the pressure off, and now see the smile he’s drawn here.”

George looked up from the note, his face hard to read for once.

“What is it?”

“This note…” George met his eyes, his own full of something Charles didn’t have a name for. “It’s a thank you. From your old class. Their new play assistant says they all miss you. That you left huge shoes to fill, but she’s trying her best with your children.” He glanced down again, checking. “That’s what she’s written. Your children.”

“That’s what they felt like.” Charles shrugged. “That’s what they all feel like to me.” And was why leaving every temp job hurt him.

“But you call them maggots. I’ve heard you.”

“Because they can be. But with care, and time, they grow wings.” He took the note, but couldn’t read it while his eyes blurred. Charles couldn’t speak either, his throat thickening with no warning. He gathered the pictures and put them into the glove compartment in silence.

“I… I didn’t know,” George said.

Charles kept his eyes fixed on the steering wheel.

“So you won’t come back if you get the job?”

“No.” Charles cleared his clogged throat. “Not until the summer. Sorry.”

“That long?”

Why did George sound gutted?

Charles compromised. “Maybe in the half-term break. Until then, you’ll have to find someone else to help with your folly project.”

“Listen,” George said. “Take this too.” He fished some more papers from his pocket.

“What are they?”

“Letters,” George said as Charles peered at a bundle of small envelopes tied with a black ribbon. They were so old they’d yellowed, the copperplate handwritten address smudged and faded.

“Is this your idea of a joke?” Charles asked, more stung now than he’d felt during this entire exchange. “You know the type of dyslexia I have.” He wondered what he’d done in a past life to deserve a double whammy, foxed by a brain that couldn’t be trusted with either words or numbers. “It makes reading this kind of swirly writing—”

Impossible.

So much more than his usual challenge.

A mountain he’d never summit.

“Take them, Charles,” George ordered. “They’re addressed to you. Or to your namesake, rather. I expect the adviser would like to see them, but they’re personal, I think. Private letters about the folly. You always loved it best,” he admitted. “Played around it for hours with Keir. That’s why I wanted you to handle its renovation,” he said, as if Charles could manage more than pouring glue and sprinkling glitter. “So if you get the job, definitely come home in the half-term hols. That way you can start planning before the summer. But…”

For a moment, all the determination George usually wore fell away, and Charles saw a version of their middle brother Oliver instead, who was as soft as butter.

“…if the interview doesn’t go well, come back right away, will you?”

He sounded so unlike his usual bombastic self that Charles nodded, but as he drove away with George and Casterley shrinking behind him, he shook his head, determined.

Come home before he had to?

Wild horses couldn’t make him.