Charles by Con Riley

25

For the first time since leaving his last job, Charles found that time flew too fast to capture, but he would have if that were an option, he knew. Just like he knew that he should have answered Keir’s he thinks he’s your boyfriend text to clear up that misapprehension. But here they were, the Friday before the half-term break started, and he still hadn’t done so.

Instead, he threw himself into his work, glue and glitter making everything better, even during the day’s more difficult moments.

Ruth found him leaning on the fence dividing the outdoor classroom from the school grounds—a spot that had a clear view of the car park where Hugo and Luke loaded minibuses with camping equipment. “I’m surprised you’re not going with them tomorrow,” she said.

“Me?” Charles asked with a shudder. “You couldn’t pay me to spend a whole week camping. Besides, I’ve no sense of direction, remember? Give me a group of students to look after and you might as well assume we’d never get back. Plus, I have no idea why people like the idea of roughing it. I mean, where do you plug in your hair straighteners?”

She stifled laughter. “No one cares about looking good on the moors. I’d go, if it wasn’t for this getting in the way.” She rubbed a belly that Charles was starting to worry might pop at any moment. “I’m so round I could roll all the way down Whisper Tor and end up in the quarry.”

“When can you start maternity leave?”

“I could have started it already.” She surveyed the class, all busy with tasks of their own choosing. “But I didn’t want to. Not until I knew they were in safe hands.” She ducked her head. “Silly, I know.”

“It’s not silly.” Charles cast an eye over the class, all of them busy and happy. Or, nearly all of them, apart from one, he noticed. “You’d only worry about them.” Like he worried about how quiet Tor had grown this week despite his trying to engage him.

“I would have,” she agreed. “Until you got here.”

Charles nudged her shoulder with his. “If you’re trying to butter me up so I run the rest of the day while you put your feet up, you’re out of luck.”

“I wouldn’t waste my own time,” Ruth said. “No point when everyone knows there’s only one person’s butter that you’re interested in spreading.”

Charles pulled a face. “That sounds disgusting.” Then he frowned, not sure why he denied the tug in his chest that pulled at him. “I have no idea who you could possibly mean.”

Ruth inclined her head in the direction of the car park, and Charles saw Hugo who stood with his arms crossed and legs apart, facing their way. Both his gaze and his stance were steady. He had no need for a stick today. Hadn’t really for weeks. And there was also no need for that tug in his chest to get stronger. “I’m just doing my job,” he said faintly, lifting a hand to return Hugo’s wave, helpless not to.

He cast around for another subject. “Would you really want to go with them? Up on the moor for a whole week? I mean, it doesn’t sound very restful. Is there even a Nando’s? And I heard there’s virtually no phone signal. How do you stream Love Island?”

She snorted. “I don’t, and that’s why it’s brilliant. It’s just camping and chatting, and sharing great views with people I like spending time with. You should go too.” She nudged him again. “Besides, who will Hugo share his tent with if you don’t come with him?”

“I promised to go home.”

“You know what they say about promises.” She went to help Maisie fill a bucket with water. When she came back, she said, “It isn’t too long after half-term break before the summer holidays start. Can’t you go home then instead?” She rubbed her belly. “Got to admit, Mark is a bit worried about going without me. He might ease up if there was an extra adult to keep up the numbers if he had to come home quickly.”

That was all the excuse Charles needed, and he’d been searching for one he realised, even though the idea of using a map and compass didn’t thrill him.

But that’s where Hugo will be.

“On the other hand,” he said, “Maybe I should go. All that’s waiting for me at home is a week of my brother trying to make me take on a renovation project.” He shrugged at her raised brow. “I know. Me organise something complex? Putting it off would be a blessing. George can wait.” His gaze caught on the cornsilk fluff of Tor’s hair in the far corner of the outdoor classroom. “But I’m not sure Tor can. Wait for news, I mean. Is there any?”

“No,” Ruth said, her answer coming with a sigh. “I have no idea how his mother is coping. She must be on her knees with worry.” She shielded her bump with her hands as though the child she carried needed protection. “But back up the truck a minute. What do you mean you can’t take on a project? What do you think you’ve done with Tor since you got here? You’ve impressed me, Charles,” she said, surprising him into silence. “You made him your main helper with that hallway poster project. Gave him a clipboard and made him feel so important. And all of the other extra time you’ve given him? All of the extra planning? Like the new stories you’ve chosen. I noticed that they were about loss. About leaning on other people.” Her face tightened, her forehead creasing. “I don’t want to think—”

“But he does,” Charles said. “He needs to know that other children have been through it too. He needs to be allowed to think about the worst, I mean, and know that it’s okay to worry. Just like he needs to know we’ll understand and listen, when…. If….”

She nodded, her eyes bright, her chin trembling. “I’m usually stronger. It’s my hormones.”

Charles rested a light hand on her shoulder until she steadied. Then he took one last, quick look at Hugo, soaking up the sight before turning away to focus on Tor. “You okay with the others if I concentrate on him for the rest of the session?”

Ruth nodded again, and Charles dodged happily playing children to find Tor sitting behind a row of planters, peering through the mesh of the fence at the car park.

He’s still watching for his father.

Hoping he’ll turn up with no warning.

Whatever had tugged in his chest earlier now yanked. He folded to his knees. “Hey,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “Do you want to dig in the sand with me?”

Tor shook his head, not ceasing his vigil.

“I could get out the cars you like—”

Tor turned to him, and Charles caught one of those magical glimpses of who Tor would be as an adult. Not what he’d look like, but the essence of someone stronger than he should be while child-sized. “When he comes home,” Tor said. “That’s when I’ll play with cars again.” He set his jaw in a way Charles found familiar, thrown back to a time when he was taught to clench his in the same way. To hold back instead of feeling. To repress what needed sharing.

What good had it ever done him?

“Tor,” he said quietly. “If you’re feeling scared, you can always tell me.”

“I’m not scared,” Tor said, but his chin trembled like Ruth’s had. “I’m a very brave boy.”

“You can be scared and brave at the same time,” Charles promised as a shadow fell across them, the sun going in just like the light had gone from Tor’s eyes lately.

“No I can’t,” Tor spat, and this was better, Charles decided. Much better some raw emotion than this week’s subdued version of him. “Scared people can’t ever be brave,” Tor insisted.

A voice from the other side of the fence surprised them both. “I’m not sure that’s always true, Tor.” Hugo leant on the fence, looking down at him and saying, “It wasn’t for me the last time I was very scared. Plus, I’ve seen you be scared and brave before, do you remember?”

Tor frowned but nodded. “When I lost my wellie?”

“Yes. And now something much more important of yours is lost.” Hugo crouched. “It’s okay to be scared. That just shows how strong your hope is. And your love. When I was scared, love kept me going. It still does.” His gaze found Charles, as soft as his voice, a caress Charles felt before Hugo spoke to Tor again. “I know a story I could tell you about being lost and then found. I thought about it when I saw the sheep you glued onto that long poster that makes the hallway and my office look so much nicer these days. Or maybe you could show me how you made them?”

Tor nodded, getting up and scurrying inside with far more motivation than he’d showed all day. All week, if Charles was honest.

Charles watched him go and then stood so he faced Hugo. “You have got to stop kidding yourself that you’re not cut out to work with children.”

“Maybe I’m picking up some new tricks lately. Apparently I learn by doing—kinaesthetic.”

“Bless you.”

“No, bless you, Charles,” he said, his voice a stroke of velvet. He walked with Charles, only a waist-high fence between them, Charles skimming the top of it with his fingers until they got to the gate. Hugo’s hand landed on his then. Charles glanced up from the latch, caught by an expression he didn’t know what to do with, something inside him warming; melting; wanting to spread, which brought back what Ruth had said about butter, and he snorted.

“What’s so funny?” Hugo murmured on his way in. Charles shut the gate behind him, about to answer but Ruth beat him to it.

“Padre! How surprising to find you here.” She softened her teasing with a smile. “Has he told you his good news?”

“Who?”

“Mr Heppel.”

“No,” Hugo met his gaze again, quizzical. “What good news?”

Ruth answered for him. “He’s going to come on the High Tors training tomorrow so Mark can quit worrying about dropping out if I need him.”

“Really?” And if Charles had been pleased to see Tor brighten, it had nothing on the shift in Hugo’s expression, delight making him more handsome. “You’re really coming with us?”

“Maybe,” Charles hedged. “I need to check-in with George first, but—”

Tor came back, tugging at Hugo’s pocket. “I’ve got the sheep stuff for you.”

“Tell me later?” Hugo asked, dragged away by Tor, who seemed more willing to talk now than he had in ages. But Charles understood. Spending time with Hugo did the same to him too, drawing out more than he’d ever share with someone casual.

You’re so far from the casual path now it would take more than a shepherd to find you.

He followed Hugo inside where Tor cut out more sheep with Hugo’s help, offering advice about cotton wool that stuck to both of their fingers.

“It sticks, but Charles Heppel showed me how to peel it off.”

“Charles Heppel sounds like a very helpful person.”

“He is,” Tor said, tip of his tongue peeking. “And he has googly eyes.”

Hugo let out a laugh that attracted every child in the room, abandoning their work, drawn to the sound.

Like I am.

Drawn to him despite not having a clue why.

Only he did have a clue. More than one, Charles admitted as children gathered to squish more cotton wool balls onto card, helping themselves to the packet of googly eyes Charles had brought for this art project.

It’s because I’ve fallen for him.

“How am I doing?” Hugo asked, holding up his sheep for inspection, a half smile aimed at Charles.

Charles somehow unfurled fingers that had gone numb, and gave him a thumbs up, unable to speak, but it didn’t matter while that half smile was still aimed at him. One that no one else would notice. One that he’d never wanted, but would do anything to keep now.

He had no way to articulate those feelings, fragile, like he’d felt as a child, when spelling the simplest of words had foxed him. Now, as the sounds of the classroom faded, what had once been brittle strengthened.

I’ve fallen for him.

Head over fucking heels.

How the hell did that happen?

Charles watched Hugo’s half smile spread into a whole one for him.

That’s how he makes me feel.

Whole instead of not nearly enough.

Hugo’s smile didn’t just spread then. It splintered, turning brilliant in a way Charles hadn’t imagined he’d ever witness, so full of love, Hugo must have known what Charles was thinking.

Oh God. He feels the same way about me.

Good.

That last thought was somehow vicious. No, vicious was the wrong word. Righteous fit much better.

This thing between them was right.

Charles returned Hugo’s smile, which had somehow lit him. Hugo started to stand, his artwork abandoned, cotton balls scattering as he lurched upright.

Thank God I’m the one who makes him look this happy.

Charles lurched too, drawn closer by a smile that so transformed the man he’d first encountered, only to realise with a sickening jolt that it wasn’t aimed his way at all.

That look full of love was for another person.

The sound of the classroom rushed back—the children chattering, Ruth arbitrating, and Hugo saying a name that Charles should have guessed would come next.

Hugo called out, “Nathan!” and that fragile place inside Charles shattered.