Charles by Con Riley
10
Charles spent his first weekend at Glynn Harber in a perpetual orbit between the pre-prep classroom and the stables.
“You don’t have to keep coming back to check up on me,” Hugo said at one point on Sunday from his place on the sofa, his knee still propped by cushions. He pointed at it, exasperated. “The peas are right where you left them. What would I even get up for?”
“I don’t know.” Charles scanned the room, gaze landing on a bookshelf that also housed some board games. “Maybe I’m worried you’ll get a wild urge to play Twister. Wait for me, if you’re going to do that, will you? It’s the one game I always win. I’m very bendy. Look.”
He demonstrated, almost dropping the armful of folders he’d come back from the classroom holding. He also watched for Hugo’s reaction, pleased when he stopped pretending to be exasperated. Because it had been a pretence, Charles was almost certain.
Hugo liked him coming back so often. He must have done, because he’d looked up from his book each time with a smile he couldn’t keep hidden.
“I think Twister’s beyond me,” Hugo admitted. “And I’m not about to get up to do the hokey-cokey the minute you leave, I promise. You don’t have to keep tabs on me. There are plenty of other people around here at the weekends. No need for you to be bored too.”
Now that sounded more honest.
“Plus, I’ve just taken some of my old painkillers.” He didn’t seem too happy about that.
“You really don’t like taking tablets, do you?” Without thinking, Charles teased. “Do you have trouble doing it? Swallowing’s never been a problem for me. I can show you my technique, if that helps. It’s the other thing I’m good at.”
Hugo’s eyes dropped to his throat, then shot away. “I imagine you’re good at a lot more than that, Charles. I don’t like the way they make me fuzzy,” he admitted. “But more rest does mean I’ll be back to normal sooner. But seriously, there’s no need for both of us to be bored until I’m more mobile.”
“I’m not bored,” Charles said, dumping his armful of folders to the table already littered with Hugo’s journals and letters. He made space, pushing some of Hugo’s stuff to one side, then sat down to look through what he’d brought back from the classroom. “There’s nothing boring about getting to know my new maggots.” He patted the pile. “I’m going to look through all of their learning journeys. Might take me all afternoon and evening.” Especially as so many of the journal notes were handwritten.
“Why do you call them that?” Hugo asked from his place on the sofa.
“Learning journeys? Because that’s what we go on together. Me and the children.” He opened the first folder full of notes and photos. “From now on, I’ll add to these. Stick in examples of their work. List what they like, and where they struggle. But first, I need to know where each of them is on their journey.” He flipped a few pages full of scrawled notes. “Might take me a while to get through them.” It would also give him a banging headache.
“No,” Hugo said. “I meant maggots. You’ve said it a few times now, but you like them, don’t you?” He tilted his head, seeming to study him closely. “You do, Charles. You like children Tor’s age a great deal.”
“Yes,” Charles said, plain and simple. “Especially the four-year-olds. It’s a great age. One I’d go back to in a heartbeat.” Running free at Casterley before leaving for prep school had been blissful. “I call them maggots because that’s exactly what they’re like. Maggoty. Think about it. They’re wriggly little buggers who smell of wee, aren’t they?”
Hugo chuffed on laughter.
“They do,” Charles insisted, pleased to see some of the strain on Hugo’s face slipping away, and for one confusing moment, was reminded of his eldest brother. Bizarre when Hugo couldn’t be more dissimilar—he was accepting where George was pig-headed; ready to listen where George almost always went off like a rocket. George called him Peter Pan as if loving to play was a bad thing.
Hugo seemed to like it. He even said, “You’re still in touch with your fun side.”
“I’m still childish, you mean?” Again, George came to mind. “I wish everyone could be,” Charles said, remembering the years before Keir’s arrival, when the best part of living at Casterley had been having George to shadow. Climbing trees, paddling in the knee-deep lake, or playing hide-and-seek behind towering columns, George had always been there. Always had time for him, even though there were almost fifteen years between them.
When had that changed?
A twinge of worry must have shown on his face.
Hugo noticed. “I think it’s a good thing, Charles,” he said softly.
“What is?”
“Seeing the brighter side of life.” Hugo shrugged. “Maybe I needed reminding.” He set aside the book he’d been reading. “How else are they like maggots? Tell me.”
Charles brought the folders over to the sofa, and sat on the floor beside him. His thoughts turned to Tor, who he used as an example. “Well, like maggots, they can move much faster than you’d think. Slip through the smallest gaps when you’re not looking.” He flashed a glance at Hugo, expecting him to…what? Look bored? Be irritated?
Hugo was neither of those.
His rapt attention spurred Charles. “Their interests are slippery too. If you notice what they’re into, you can build a whole classroom around it. Fill their world with learning that feels like play to them. But if that moment slips past, all that potential gets lost.” The journal he held fell open on a page showing a butterfly’s lifecycle that Ruth had helped someone to label. “Maybe caterpillars describes them better than maggots.”
“Because?”
“Because this is the year they’ll change. They’ll—” He frowned, the word escaping him until Hugo said it.
“Metamorphose?”
“Yes. I mean, I know maggots do that too, but I want children to grow wings like”—he checked the name on the front of the folder—“Maisie Dymond has painted here. She’ll fly with them later, if her play is supported. Her friendship-making skills too. None of her problems will be too big if she has friends to share them,” and God, didn’t he know that truth? “If I do my job right, they’ll all be ready for next year when they’ll move up to a proper classroom. There will be less free play there. More sitting and listening.”
“Is that what you do then? Train them to sit and stay?” Hugo asked. “Maybe you should call them puppies.”
Charles looked up from the folder, aghast. “That’s the very last skill I’d teach them. They’ve got the rest of their school lives for that—” he omitted the word hell. “But if I can help them get excited about learning they’ll acclimatise with less trouble.” And with any issues noted before they could crush them like… His throat constricted. “Play is more than fun,” he said, his voice a touch gritty. “It’s vital.”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way,” Hugo said, a smile lurking. “Although, to be fair, I don’t spend that much time with the little ones. They’re…”
“Scared of you,” Charles said, wishing he could haul the words back as soon as he’d said them, because Hugo nodded, any sign of that smile gone.
“Yes,” he admitted. “They must be. To be fair, I don’t blame them. I still scare myself some mornings.” He touched his cheek again. “This has calmed down a lot since I first arrived here, but yes, I think I did scare them. Still do, probably.”
“They’re only maggots in some ways,” Charles promised. “They’re also the most amazing, accepting creatures, once they get to know you. You should come and spend some time with them.”
“Maybe,” Hugo said, not sounding convinced. If anything, he sounded exhausted.
That was another fleeting reminder of home—of a time he’d almost forgotten, when George had a broken leg in plaster. Charles pulled out his phone and sent a quick text before he could second guess it.
Charles: Remember when you broke your leg and spent weeks on the sofa in Father’s study?
George must have been between shouting sessions. He replied right away.
George: You mean when I tried to teach you how to play Scrabble?
Charles didn’t remember that part. What had lingered was the novelty of having his oldest brother home from university. Clearly it had lingered for different reasons for George.
George: What a disaster.
Charles put his phone face down on the floor.
“Charles?” Hugo sat up straighter, wincing with the movement. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Charles said brightly. “Nothing.”
“Is….” Hugo’s gaze darted between the phone and the folders. “Did you read something upsetting?”
“No. Not at all,” Charles said. He turned a journal page, but saw nothing, that barb from George still stinging.
“Well, your face just did something very strange.” Hugo somehow managed to make half of his face appear constipated, surprising Charles into a snort of laughter, which felt a whole lot better.
“You say ‘strange’,” he joked back. “Plenty of other men say pretty.” He flipped a page only to notice Hugo’s expression shift in the periphery of his vision. “What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Hugo said quickly, picking up his book again before changing his mind. “Actually, not nothing. You are. Pretty, I mean.”
Charles watched colour creep above his collar just as Hugo found more to say.
“But you’re more than a pretty face, aren’t you?”
Why it was impossible to maintain eye contact then, Charles couldn’t have put into words. Thankfully, Hugo wasn’t done yet.
“You’re here, when I’m sure there must be easier ways for someone like you to earn a living, if you even need to.” He managed to pick the one characteristic that mattered to Charles. “You must be a good friend too. I’ve only met Keir a few times, but he seems a fair judge of character. I’m glad for the chance to get to know you better,” Hugo said, his voice firm, as if he meant it.
Why did such a simple statement warm him? Or make picking up his phone to read George’s texts easier? Charles didn’t have an answer, but somehow it steeled him.
“It’s my brother. He doesn’t have high hopes for me.” He snorted. “And he wonders why it would take wild horses to make me go home and work for him.”
He turned over the phone, expecting more of the same needling messages only to find that George had changed tack. The next texts didn’t sting half so much.
George: But yes, I do remember being stuck on the sofa forever.
George: Scrabble was only a nightmare because you kept knocking the board over.
George: You were actually very entertaining.
George: For a maggot.
George using that word struck him. Charles had forgotten it had come from him in the first place. A volley of texts arrived faster than he could read them.
George: Why’d you ask?
George: You’re not hurt are you?
George: I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes. I can cancel.
George: You don’t have to be hurt to come home, Charles. Come home now if it’s not working out there.
Charles must have been surprised into a smile because Hugo murmured, “That’s better.”
Charles glanced up from his phone to see Hugo watching. For once, he didn’t know what to do next. This situation was unlike any other where a man had stared at him with interest, Hugo now gazing at his mouth like he had on Friday, right before he’d kissed him. He’d told Hugo they could forget it, but he hadn’t. Not for a moment.
“Can I?” Hugo asked, leaning towards him.
Could he?
Charles nodded, leaning towards him too, as if a magnet tugged him. “Yes,” he said, but Hugo only reached for the folder.
“Can I?” Hugo repeated, pulling lightly on it.
“Oh.” Charles loosened his hold. “Yes. Of course.”
“How about I read and you listen,” Hugo suggested. “Then neither of us needs to be bored.”
It was an offer Charles didn’t know what to do with either. One he felt he should turn down. “I can—”
“Read?” Hugo nodded. “Of course you can.” He scanned the folder pages. “Anyone who can tell the difference between ibuprofen and Viagra has to know what they’re doing.” He continued before Charles knew whether to laugh or feel embarrassed. “‘Maisie worked hard with her counting this week’,” Hugo read aloud. “‘But she had a sad week’.” His brow furrowed. “‘She spent more time alone than usual’.” He glanced up. “Ruth’s written that Maisie might need gentle handling until she finds out what’s wrong.”
“Is there a photo?” Charles knelt up, nodding when Hugo showed him one of a child curled in the book corner, her thumb in her mouth. “I’ll look out for her.”
Hugo took the next folder, sitting up a bit straighter and opening it with interest. “‘Asa counted confidently up to twenty’,” he read. “’He used the counting bears, but then he threw them at Billy who wanted to play with him. Billy kicked him’.” He snorted. “I had no idea the pre-prep class was so violent.”
“Oh, it’s non-stop action, but they’re just figuring out how to be human. I’ll set up lots of turn-taking games for him next week. Help Asa with sharing. What does he look like?”
Hugo showed him. “Ah,” he said. “That’s what Ruth’s written too. Turn-taking games. And she’s written that Asa has a new baby brother.”
“Lots of having to share at home too then,” Charles noted. “I was the baby of the family, so I never had that issue. Spoiled rotten to the core.”
“And yet you seem to have turned out….” More of that colour from earlier crept over Hugo’s collar.
Charles asked, “How about you?” instead of waiting for him to finish. “Any brothers or sisters?”
“No. I’m an only.” Hugo glanced at the table strewn with letters. “Maybe that’s what makes keeping in touch with friends feel important. Email, letters, phone calls. They’re all worth making time for.” He turned back to the journal and read more while Charles listened, his first Sunday afternoon at Glynn Harber passing in a to-and-fro of information that ended when Hugo’s reading slowed and faltered.
He fought a doze until Charles took the journal from him and added it to an almost complete pile, a task he’d thought would take all day, nearly finished.
When Charles turned back, Hugo’s eyes had turned heavy-lidded, the stronger painkillers kicking in perhaps, because he both looked and sounded hazy, picking up from where he’d left off earlier. “You can’t have been spoiled, Charles.”
“No?” Charles pulled the blanket from the back of the sofa over Hugo’s legs. “You only think that because you haven’t met my oldest brother. George has a different opinion.” He gathered up the folders.
“You’re very….”
Charles turned back to see that his eyes were closed, sleep coming with a sigh and his shoulders losing their tension.
Very what, he wondered. Smiling, Charles picked up his phone to find more messages had arrived.
George: Hello? Still waiting to hear if you’re dead or alive here.
George: Am I coming to get you?
Charles replied, feeling the truth as he typed each message.
Charles: Sorry. I was busy reading about my new maggots.
Reading. Read to. For once, he didn’t mind that difference. Couldn’t when Hugo had seemed to enjoy sharing the process—had peered just as closely at the photos as him, linking each child with their worries or their successes, learning more about them, and nodding at the plans Charles made as if he agreed with his judgement.
Charles: Don’t come.
Charles: I’m not hurt.
Charles: I think I’ll be fine here.