Charles by Con Riley

19

The next week saw Hugo doing much better. And not just with his knee, which had improved so much that he’d stopped needing his stick. He also spent less time at the stables during the day, and more time over in the main school building. Charles even saw him in the dining hall one lunchtime, like he’d suggested, noticing how he visited the different year group tables with a clipboard in hand before joining the lunch queue.

“Who thinks Mr Heppel must be hungry?” Ruth asked from her spot at the head of the table. “It looks like he’s seen something delicious. He even might be drooling.”

The children giggled, and Charles looked sharply away from Hugo to find Ruth watching, her tongue firmly in her cheek.

“I can’t say that I blame you,” she whispered across the table. She seemed about to say more, but Hugo chose that moment to leave the queue, Finn carrying his lunch tray for him.

“Padre,” Ruth called out. “Come and sit with us! There’s space next to Mr Heppel. Finn, you come and sit with me.” She dropped her voice again. “You can thank me later.”

Hugo settled on the bench seat beside Charles, their legs pressing together.

“Sorry,” Hugo shifted as if trying to make room. “It’s a bit of a squeeze, isn’t it?” He glanced over his shoulder. “I could always go—”

“No.” Charles laid a hand on his thigh. “It’s fine.”

It was their sitting so close that made warmth wash through him, not Hugo covering his hand for a moment, or Ruth grinning across the table at them. He heard Hugo say his usual quiet grace and start eating, and then pivoted back to his own plate, aware that he’d been staring. For a glorious thirty seconds the table was quiet, apart from the clink of cutlery on china. Then Ruth asked a question that opened a floodgate.

“What’s that for, Padre?”

“This?” Hugo tapped the clipboard. “It’s a wish list.”

Maisie spoke up, saying more than she had unprompted all week. “Is it for your birthday? I had a wish list for my presents.”

“Ah. That sounds exciting.” Hugo paused, perhaps remembering the comments about her being withdrawn he’d read aloud from her learning journey. He asked a gentle question to coax out some more detail. “Did you get some nice things, Maisie?”

She blinked at him. “You know my name.”

“Of course I do. I know that you like the book corner in your classroom too.” He winked at her and whispered. “Books are my favourite.”

She nodded, animated. “Mine too. I had three on my wish list. My daddy sent them to me. Is your wish list for presents?”

“No.” Hugo lifted the clipboard to show them its pages. “This one’s for all of you. I’m asking everyone here what they’d like my room to be used for. You know the one?”

Maisie shook her head, joined by the other children. Another sign, if needed, that Hugo’s closed door needed to be propped open.

“It’s next to the trophy cabinet by the front door, and it could be a good place to come and talk, or to be quiet. That’s why I’ve got this wish list. To find out what all of you wish you could do in my room. Or for you to tell me whatever else you wish I could do, while I’m here.”

“I wish you would come and play with the cars again,” Tor said around a mouthful.

“And I wish you would chew and swallow before speaking,” Charles said. “It’s like watching a great big cement mixer going around, only one filled with spaghetti.”

Once Tor swallowed, he giggled, which set off the table. Asa sounded wistful, “I wish I had a cement mixer.”

“I do have one,” said Maisie. “Or my daddy does. He mends old houses.”

“Maybe when you go home tonight, you could ask him to bring it in to show us?” Charles suggested.

Her face fell. “He doesn’t live at my house anymore.”

Charles cursed himself, but Ruth gave him a look that suggested it was news to her as well. She said, “Maybe he could take some photos for you, Maisie?” and Charles let out a breath when she brightened.

“What else is on your list?” Charles asked as the children got back to eating.

“Take a look.” Hugo pushed it towards him, but then angled himself to hold it nearer instead, one arm around the back of the bench, the press of it bringing them closer. He spoke quietly. “It’s quite a surprising selection. I left the clipboard over at the boarding house last night. Look at what the boarders added.”

He flipped back a few pages, then he waited, not rushing. And without pressure, Charles could decipher the handwriting.

“Careers advice?”

“Yes. It comes up more than I expected. That must mean the summer exams have got them thinking about the future.” For a moment, Hugo turned rueful. “Not sure how much support I can give them there, but I’ll talk to Luke. See if we can set up some talks with local professionals.” He touched another entry. “The exams must be on their minds too. Anxiety comes up almost as often.”

Charles felt a clench of empathy for whoever had written that word. “Exams were never my favourite either.” He scanned the table where the biggest challenge most of the children around it faced was twirling their spaghetti around their forks, and wished more than anything else in the world that he could shield them all from it. Build a wall as high as Casterley’s folly if that meant they’d get to play instead of worry.

“They’ll be okay,” Hugo said so softly Charles was sure no one else heard him. “Sounds as if you’ll teach them how to weather all those bumps in the road in the future.”

Yes, but I won’t be here for much longer.

Hugo must have seen that flash across his face too. Under the table, Hugo’s hand found his and curled around it, his hold snug and steady. It couldn’t have lasted longer than a few seconds, but if Charles had ever felt more understood, he couldn’t have said when.

Hugo squeezed his hand once more, and then let go, picking up his cutlery and getting back to eating just as Ruth asked, “So how is sharing the stables going?”

“Do you really live in a stable,” another boy asked, awestruck. “Like a pony?”

Charles stifled a chuckle. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d worn a bridle.

“No, not like a pony.” Hugo said, “I actually live with Mr Heppel.”

“With my Charles Heppel?” Tor asked as if there might be more than one of him. “You share a bedroom like brothers?” If he heard Ruth snort, it went over his head.

Charles avoided Ruth’s eye. “No we don’t share a room like brothers.” He was about to explain the word housemates, but another child interrupted.

“Like two daddies, then?”

“Out of the mouths of babes,” Hugo murmured.

“Not helping,” Charles muttered while scrambling for an answer. Again, someone else spoke before he could.

“My cousin has two daddies.”

Then Maisie spoke up again without prompting, her face crumpling. “I don’t want a wish list. I want my daddy back.”

Tor had something to offer. Charles watched his brow furrow from across the table. “Don’t cry, Maisie. When I miss my daddy I—”

Ruth turned to hush him, maybe to stave off upset, but he wouldn’t be silenced. He jerked away from her and spoke fast.

“When I really miss my daddy, I wish and wish and wish.” He hadn’t only screwed his face tight—his whole body shook, his narrow shoulders vibrating. Then he let out a long breath, sagging. “That’s like a wish list too, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think so.” Maisie sounded dubious. “Mine’s on Amazon.”

“Mine’s in here.” Tor drew a cross over his chest, X marking a spot where he locked away his feelings. “Padre told me. That’s as good,” he insisted, but to Charles, he sounded doubtful.

Hugo’s leg pressed harder against his, comfort in that steady pressure that Charles wished he could do more with. Would have shared with this small boy who contained enormous emotions, if he knew how.

“How about you finish your lunch,” Charles finally said. “Then when you come in after playtime, we could make some wish lists together. With pictures.”

“Of bicycles?” Tor asked. “Red and silver ones?”

“Yes, if that’s what you want to put on your list. I’ll get the art area ready.”

“Good idea,” Ruth said. “Could you also refill some of the paint pots? We’re low on red and white and yellow.”

The conversation around the table moved on and plates were cleared, almost everyone done with a meal that Charles could barely choke down, too full of feelings that weren’t his but made each swallow catch on the way to his stomach.

And that was the thing about working with young children, for every moment of joy—every second chance that he got to see a child flourish—there were also these tough moments. Ones that eased, he hoped, once a child verbalised them, but that Charles couldn’t let go. Couldn’t make himself ignore either. Kept tasting their salt for ages after they’d shared them.

Maybe actual teachers learned how to box up the problems children spilled instead of carrying their load for them like Charles did, unable to ignore them.

He set his cutlery down.

Hugo noticed. “Not hungry?”

“Lost my appetite.” That came out sounding feeble.

Hugo shifted slightly, closing the gap between them, and gave Charles something to lean on.

* * *

After lunch,Charles saw the children back to the playground, Hugo still beside him. “Eating lunch with us isn’t always like that.”

“Like what?”

“An emotional minefield.” He ran a hand through his hair. “This is the part of the job my brother has no clue about. He really believes that it’s easy.”

“But it’s not feeling like that today?”

“No, it really isn’t.” Charles gathered himself. “I need to go back to the classroom.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

Charles noticed that Hugo’s walking pace was faster. “How’s the knee?”

“Almost back to full strength. Good thing, if we’re still going out tomorrow.”

“Out?” Charles drew a blank for a moment. “Oh, is it really Friday?” The week had flown past. “Perfect timing. Getting out will actually be good.”

Hugo walked with Charles along the side of the building, the sound of children playing filling the valley basin that Glynn Harber sat in. Today, the sun shone, but the shadows of the woods seemed to touch him, and Hugo noticed.

“What the children said at lunch involved much bigger feelings than I expected. I mean, I understand about Tor’s situation, but is it often like that for you?”

“For me?”

“Yes. For you. How do you manage them?”

“Manage what they tell me?” Charles recalled the policies and procedures Ruth had walked him through on his first day. “Well, obviously if I was worried that the children weren’t safe, I’d report it, but Ruth was there and—”

“I don’t mean how do you manage the safeguarding procedures, or who you’d report to.” Hugo followed him into the classroom. “I mean, how do you manage handling all of their emotions without soaking them up like a sponge?”

And that was how Charles felt at that moment, like the children’s worries might seep out if someone squeezed him.

Hugo trailed a fingertip along the spines of books with the kind of fairy-tale endings Charles wished he could magic into existence for Tor and Maisie.

“I….” Charles didn’t have an answer. “I’m fine. I know I can talk to Ruth.”

“She’s a good listener,” Hugo agreed. “I imagine she’s got a lot on her plate so close to her maternity leave starting. Must be tricky balancing looking after the children’s wellbeing with your own too. For both of you.” Hugo pulled out a book, examining its cover rather than looking at him.

He’s doing that so I can talk about it.

So I can confess my worries, if I need to, only without a curtain between us this time.

Hugo slid the book away, selecting another. “Since coming here, I’ve found that putting what’s on my mind down on paper helps. Anything that lingered after…. Well, the things I couldn’t fix—that would have been impossible for anyone to put right. I’d put it all in a letter, and send it.” Hugo caught his eye, a glimmer of a smile there. “Writing it down makes me feel a little bit naked, to be honest, but it stops me from limping round in the same old circles.”

Of course, he’d confess first. Make himself vulnerable right here, right now, if that’s what it takes to help me.

“You mean when you write to your friend?” That explained why they wrote instead of messaged.

Hugo nodded. “The time that the post takes to arrive means there’s time for our thoughts to settle. And then we talk it over. How do you let it go, Charles? Whatever the children tell you that lingers? All their little hurts and worries have to stack up, surely?”

“I usually talk to Keir.”

“Who’s away?”

“Yes. Or I go out and let my hair down.” Fucking a sad week out of his system always gave him respite, at least until the next morning.

Hugo smiled. “Not much opportunity to get on your knees for someone bossy lately though.”

Why him remembering that from their first conversation cheered Charles was a mystery, but he felt the start of a smile of his own as he backed into the art-supply closet in his classroom; found that he could feel some of the weight of Tor and Maisie’s own confessions lifting. Not gone, but somewhat lighter. He scrubbed at his face. “Ugh. I always take it too much to heart.”

“What, Charles?”

“Whatever slips out when they play. The stories they tell while processing what’s happening at home. They act it out to feel better.”

“Well, you should know how acting out works.” Hugo mimed pulling on a pair of gloves.

Charles rolled his shoulders, more weight lifting from them. “I should toughen up, I know.”

“No, you really shouldn’t.” Hugo rested a hand on his shoulder, heavy and somehow confirming. “Toughening up is the opposite of what makes you….”

Charles watched him rethink, caught by Hugo studying him so closely, but not in the same way his last boss had, judging him as too soft.

Hugo seemed to wrestle with words, finally saying, “They open up to you because you listen. What you might want to consider, Charles, is having someone to regularly share with, that’s all. Not what the children tell you exactly, but what it does to you. In here.” Charles felt the slide of Hugo’s hand from his shoulder to the centre of his chest, touching the same spot that Tor had crossed, as if marking buried treasure.

“Regardless of anything else between us,” Hugo said, “I’m here, Charles. Here to listen to you for as long as I’m still at Glynn Harber.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Charles couldn’t believe he couldn’t see how well he fit here.

“Still listening, remember?” Hugo said, his smile still there when he leaned against the closet doorway, if fainter. “Still gathering information. Like all that talk of two daddies at lunch. Is that the kind of thing they regularly tell you?”

“About their families?” Charles shuffled through a box of paint pots and lids, lining them up ready to fill them for that afternoon’s play session. Hugo came closer, watching. “Yes,” Charles said. “They’re like these paints. You think you know what you’re getting”—he squeezed some yellow paint from a bottle, adding a splodge of blue to the same pot—“but all of a sudden, you’re faced with something different.” He stirred and the same shade of green as the trees outside the window appeared.

“Did you know about that?”

“About Maisie’s family breaking up? No. I’ll talk to Ruth about contacting whoever it is that she lives with. Let them know she might need some TLC later.” He paused, looking at the paint pots he’d filled, and letting out a huge huff.

“What’s that big sigh for?” Hugo asked.

“It’s nothing important.”

“Really?” Hugo tilted his head, perhaps noticing that Charles had pressed his lips together. “If something’s bothering you, I’ll listen.”

“That’s just it. I didn’t. Listen I mean. Or my dyslexia didn’t.” Charles grabbed some more empty paint pots. “I know Ruth asked me to top up some of the colours.” And his next admittance never failed to make him feel anything other than stupid. “I can’t remember which ones.”

“Red and white and yellow,” Hugo said, no problem with his working memory, which Charles so often struggled to access. “You record things on your phone to remember,” Hugo said. “I’ve seen you do it.”

“I don’t ever use my phone around the children. No cameras allowed, apart from the classroom one. Safeguarding rules,” Charles reminded him. “I should have written down what Ruth said.” It was no big deal, he told himself. At least Hugo had remembered. He busied himself pouring the right paint colours, not making eye contact while still embarrassed.

Hugo didn’t seem to notice. He set down his clipboard next to the paint pots. “You were right, by the way.”

“Me?” That surprised Charles into looking at him. “What about?”

“About asking for their opinions.”

“Well I had meant asking them about whether you should have beanbag chairs and some posters on the wall to make your room more appealing, not”—Charles studied the clipboard pages—“does that really say they want relationship advice from you?” He squinted, thinking. “Although that does actually make sense. You’d be pretty good at that too.”

“Me? Hardly.”

“Well me either, but I just mean that you are a good listener, and not just about paint colours.” It was another reminder of their first meeting. “Not just today. You listened the first time we met as well. I was having the worst day.” Maybe that showed on his face because Hugo let out a small sound. The way he cupped his chin so Charles met his gaze had started to feel familiar. Welcome. Comforting.

“And yet you made it all sound comedic in the chapel,” Hugo said. “Right up until you got honest. And that’s when I knew….”

“When you knew what?”

“That you were someone I wished I could listen to for longer. Didn’t think I’d get the chance to. Can’t quite believe the way things worked out. Even without what we’ve done together…”

Charles wondered if Hugo pictured the same moments as him—Hugo grinding against him, heavy and hot; pinning him down while finally taking what he needed; what Charles was happy to give him—and maybe he did because his voice dropped.

“…even if that hadn’t happened, I’d still feel more than lucky that I walked into the chapel at exactly the right moment. Do you even know why I was there?”

Charles shook his head, which brushed the palm Hugo still had on his chin. The movement brought Hugo’s thumb to the edge of his mouth, dragging across his lips, which Charles opened on some kind of reflex, his tongue finding it and tasting.

Hugo stopped speaking.

Seemed to stop breathing too.

Stopped everything before pressing Charles against the counter, paint pots toppling behind him.

Hugo’s mouth almost met his. They could have been kissing, only Hugo pressed their foreheads together, and said, “I went there to make a confession of my own. To admit that I shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?”

“In case nothing I did here made a difference either. Just like I made no difference in Syria with Nathan. I went to confess that I needed to go. That I had nothing to offer.”

“But you do—”

Hugo cupped his face with both hands, and Charles braced against the counter, spilled paint slick under his fingers. “Charles…” Hugo found his forehead again with a kiss, his next finding his temple, his cheek, the hinge of his jaw, Hugo’s voice so hoarse it sounded painful. “I went to the chapel to lay it all out. To ask for help, like I have ever since I’ve known how to pray. To be brutally honest, and then hope for some guidance. I didn’t expect….”

Hugo’s mouth finally met his, his kiss as rough as his words, and just as consuming.

“I didn’t expect you as my answer.”