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Reginald Bright carefully re-arranged the glass figurines on the mantle with one shaking hand, and with the other he brought his cigarette up for a final draft. After a moment, he flicked the cigarette butt into the warm fire, and moved to the sideboard to get another.
“Damn!” he hissed. He was out. The very thought made his hands shake more than ever as he poured himself a drink. Something caught in his throat and he began to cough, his little frame shook with the violence of it. He slammed his hand down on the sideboard, held his breath for a moment, and calmed his cough with sheer willpower.
“Damn cold,” he mumbled, taking out his handkerchief to blow his nose. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this ill. Generally he’d been quite good at avoiding colds. He wouldn’t have taken time off at all if higher up had not forced him to after Thursday had found him in a feverish daze in his office, fairly burning up and having a coughing fit every few minutes.
He knew it wasn’t good for him; he knew he ought to be resting, but he couldn’t stop pacing. It just didn’t seem right, nothing had since his wife had gone. Especially at this time of year. He looked at the half unpacked box of Christmas decorations in the middle of the room. He’d given up on it two days ago and hadn’t touched it since. Perhaps it would give him something to do to get his mind of his cold. He moved over to the box and knelt beside it, digging out a beautiful wood carved nativity. He blew off the dust, sneezed, and lifted it over to the side table. He was carefully arranging it when he heard a knock at his door.
“Who could that be?” he wondered to himself. He got up off his knees, which was a harder action than it used to be, and made his way to the door.
“Good heavens, Strange!” he said in surprise, looking up at the big man who stood before him, wrapped in a thick scarf almost up to his ears.
“Hello, Sir,” Strange said, hopping a little on his heels.
“Well, em… come in, come in,” said Bright quickly, attempting to get over his shock and be a polite host.
He took a step back and Strange stomped his feet on the mat, knocking off the excess snow. With a motion of Bright’s hand, he followed his superior into the sitting room.
“Nice place you got here,” he said, glancing around.
“Thank you,” Bright said hesitantly. “May I… take your coat?”
“Oh, uh, I was just dropping by to, well, here you go.” He held out a brown paper bag. “When I heard you’d taken poorly I thought this might help.”
Bright took the bag, quite surprised, and opened it to find a bottle of pills.
“What’s this?” he asked, a bit confused.
“Newfangled cold medicine,” Strange nodded. “Took care of my sister’s cold like that, apparently. Thought you might like to try them. Can’t have you here all alone for too long, you know.”
“Oh, well, thank you.” Bright raised an eyebrow at the bottle.
Strange sniffed and nodded, and for a moment the two of them stood in silence.
“How are you feeling?” Strange said at last.
“Oh, alright,” Bright lied.
“That so?” Strange sniffed.
“A bit tired, perhaps.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to rest then.” Strange took the opportunity to break the awkward moment and headed to the door.
“We all miss you down at the station,” he said as he stepped back into the snow.
Bright fairly blushed. “I appreciate the sentiment, Sergeant.”
Strange nodded. “Well, Merry Christmas, then.”
“Merry Christmas.”
And with that, Strange gave a half smile, and turned away and left.
Bright closed the door behind him and moved back into the sitting room. How very odd, he thought to himself. He was just going to sit down when he heard another knock on the door. What on earth…? With a slight cough and a sniffle, now somewhat irritated, he made his way to the door again.
“Thursday!” he gasped, hardly able to believe his yes.
“Good evening, Sir,” Thursday said with a smile. “When Win heard you were doing poorly she wanted me to bring over a few things, so here I am.”
“Oh, well, come in,” Bright said, hardly able to believe his ears. “Here, let me take your coat and hat.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
Bright took the jacket and hung it up next to his own on the peg on the wall, and the hat beside.
“It’s all in this bag,” Thursday smiled. He plopped it down on the side table next to the little wooden nativity. “Nice little thing, this,” he said, pointing at the nativity.
“I acquired it in India,” Bright supplied this much information, but no more.
Thursday noticed the way the other man’s eyes rested on the little ornament, and how his voice shook at the mere mention of it, but he said nothing about it. Not his place, he didn’t think.
“Here we are,” he continued, pulling out the contents of the brown paper bag. “She’s always took care of me and the kids very well, my Win, and now the kids are gone, well…” he trailed off for a moment. “She likes having someone to help. Here we go, a mug of lemon tea.” He held up a large thermos. “And this,” he lifted a little brown package. “It’s a mustard poultice goes on your chest to stop the coughing.” He pulled out a similar brown package, but this one had a blue strong. “Apparently this one goes on the soles of the feet. Not sure what it does, to be honest. And then she’s packed a few sandwiches as well. Gotta be sure you keep your strength up.”
Bright looked meekly, with wide eyes behind his thick-rimmed spectacles, at the spread before him. “Well, goodness,” he said, “Do tell Mrs. Thursday thank you for me.”
“There’s one more thing,” Thursday said, reaching into his jacket pocket. “Not sent by Win, she doesn’t approve, but I didn’t want you to have to go out in this weather to get any more, so I brought you these, just in case.”
He held out a packet of cigarettes. Bright was almost ashamed at how quickly he took the pack and lit a cigarette, drawing deeply of its smoke.
“Thank you, Thursday,” he nodded sharply.
Thursday took out his own pipe and lit it, sitting down on the sofa beside the table. “Well come on then,” he said, nodding at the empty space of the sofa beside him. Bright stared at him, blankly. “You don’t think I’m going to leave this here without you putting it all on then, do you? Win’d have my hide! She knows how we men get, won’t take care of ourselves unless someone makes us.”
“I – I’m not sure,” Bright started, but was stopped by a sudden coughing fit. Thursday jumped to his feet and was at the side of his superior in a moment, leading him to the sofa.
“We need this poultice, for the chest, open your shirt up then.”
Thursday has snapped into the mode of a father with his child, as he often did, and Bright was startled to hear the command in his voice which usually was masked quite well when he spoke to anyone higher up the ladder than he was. But the little man was far too weak to argue the point now. He allowed himself to be guided to the sofa by Thursday’s large, fatherly hands, propped up by the pillow the other man had placed at the small of his back. Bright hesitated, though, when Thursday started to prepare the mustard poultice for his chest. He had not been comfortable with his own body for as long as he could remember, and did not find the idea of unbuttoning his shirt in front of another man a very appealing idea. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been in any sort of state of undress around anyone but himself and his cats. Somehow he even minded a bit when he undressed at night and his cats would stare at him. But this was altogether another thing. But he didn’t know how to get out of it, so he followed commands. His fingers shakily fumbled with his shirt buttons, taking much longer than he would have needed to. Thursday turned round with the poultice.
“Have you got a rag I can use? It helps keep the mustard from getting on your shirt.”
“Y-yes, in the kitchen, I’ll go –” Bright started, but Thursday cut him off.
“You stay where you are, I’ll go get it. Down the hall then, by the door?”
Bright nodded, and watched after Thursday as he left the room. He could hardly believe what was happening. The kindness of Fred’s wife notwithstanding, he couldn’t imagine why Thursday would want to do all this for him. He had learned to value their friendship several years ago, but this, this seemed above and beyond. Not that deep down, he had to admit, he particularly minded.
In a moment Fred was back with a warm rag and slathered the mustard mixture over it. He turned to Bright, who, though he had unbuttoned his shirt, still had it held tightly around his chest, so no amount of skin was exposed.
“If you don’t mind, Sir,” Thursday said gently, “I’ll need you to open your shirt up so I can put this on your chest.”
Bright very hesitantly pulled back his shirt. Thursday couldn’t help but notice the great scar that started in his arm and spread onto the left side of the chest. Bright blinked and looked away as Thursday placed the poultice gently on his chest.
“Hold it there for about a quarter of an hour to twenty minutes,” Thursday nodded, pulling back. “I’ll pour you a bit of this lemon tea. Care for a sandwich?”
“Thank you,” the little man said gently, as Thursday handed him the mug of tea and the wrapped sandwich. “You really didn’t need to do all this…”
“Nonsense, we’ve got to take care of our own. Can’t have you wasting away to nothing. We need you back at headquarters.”
Bright looked down, unable to find the words to respond. Though he never would have said a word about it, Thursday was sure he could see tears rise in the other man’s eyes.
“Now, for this other thing then,” Thursday unwrapped the other package. Bright could smell a strong scent of mint and lavender come wafting over to him. “This one’s for the soles of the feet.”
Before Bright could open his mouth to protest, a knock sounded at his front door. He could hardly believe his ears.
“Who on earth could that be?” he murmured.
“I’ll get it,” Thursday volunteered, pushing himself up from his seat and moving to the front door.
“Morse!” Bright heard Thursday say.
“Sir!” the young man’s voice sounded equally surprised.
Bright sat up in is seat. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had so many visitors. Thursday lead Morse into the red painted room. Morse had been there once before, he remembered, and things were much the same, aside from the few Christmas decorations which had replaced some of the Indian relics he had noticed on his last trip.
“It’s Morse, Sir,” Thursday smiled. “He’s come by to see how you were doing.”
“Please, under the circumstances, Reginald is quite alright,” Bright smiled.
“Oh, right, er…” Thursday looked uncomfortable.
“I brought this, Sir,” Morse said a bit awkwardly, holding out what looked like a bottle in a brown paper bag. “I remembered that you liked gin, so I thought I’d pick you up a bottle.”
“Thank you, Morse.” Bright took the bottle and looked at it. It was a good brand. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”
Morse shrugged uncomfortably. “How are you feeling?”
“Alright,” Bright sighed, “Better now than I did. I believe the fever is gone. Mrs. Thursday was kind enough to send over a few things that are quite helpful.”
Morse smiled. He couldn’t help but cast his eyes at the photos in the corner. Dulcie, Bright’s daughter, was featured in more than one. He couldn’t imagine –
“Do sit down, if you’d like to,” Bright offered, breaking Morse’s train of thought.
“Oh, right, thank you.” Morse found a seat on an arm chair. "Doctor DeBryn sends his well wishes."
Bright smiled. "Thank him for me the next time you see him, will you, Morse?"
Morse nodded, and the three men sat quietly together.
Bright held up the bottle when the silence became too much to bare. “If anyone would like a drink?”
Thursday jumped to his feet, thankful for the break. “I’ll pour,” he said. He moved over to the side table and got out three glasses, pouring them each a drink. He passed them out and looked around the room. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any Christmas music around? No good sitting here in the quiet.”
“Oh, yes, as a matter of fact I picked up a new record the other day. A young American singer, something or other Williams. Apparently he’s quite popular over there.”
Bright pointed out the cabinet with the records inside, and Thursday put on the new record.
“Not bad, this,” he said after a song or two.
“No, not at all. Quite pleasant actually,” Bright agreed. “Not quite your style, aye Morse?”
Morse shrugged. “Oh, I don’t mind,” he smiled. “I’ve been thinking, this nativity, it’s very unique.”
Bright looked at the floor. “I picked it up while I was in India,” he said with a shaking voice. “Well, I was given it, actually. A friend of mine, a local, she…” his voice trailed off a moment, and Morse and Thursday couldn’t help but notice. Morse looked closely at Bright, whose eyes seemed to have gone damp. Bright brought his cup up to his lips with shaking hands. “She was a very skilled carpenter, made her living doing it as a matter of fact. Little figurines, boxes, statuettes, a few tables and chairs and things. Many of the soldiers bought her wares, including myself. This one was a gift, though, one Christmas, after… after Dulcie…”
“Terrible thing to lose a child,” Thursday said quietly.
“Yes, yes indeed,” Bright responded, bringing his drink to his lips again. “We moved out of the area not long afterwards. My wife, you see, she didn’t like being reminded, so I requested a transfer.”
The silence fell over the little group again, only this time the Christmas carols filled it, not unpleasantly. Morse leaned back in his chair, sipping at his drink. Bright lit a cigarette, and Thursday smoked at his pipe. None of them were quite sure how long any of them ended up staying.