OMG LIEK HET
Feb. 8th, 2004 10:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kribbanYes I stole the Subject line from a LJ icon! You know, that fic-to-do-list on my refridgerator is getting shorter every week... Anyway, this is a story that I started writing on almost one year ago. It's been left half-finished for several months until inspiration struck me... (yeah that sounds fancy doesn't it?) This is my first Het story, or my First Non-Pairing story, depending on how you read it. Enjoy! Or uhh...
Title: Scarred
Author: Kristina [k7@telia.com]
Status: Finished, 1/1
Pairing: Not really a pairing story but there’s Ian McKellen/OC, slight Orlando Bloom/Sean Bean.
Rating: R
Summary: Some wishes are never granted.
Archive: LFSI, Of Elves and Men, my LJ. Nowhere else.
Feedback: Yes.
Warnings: Angst. Drinking. Cursing. Heterosexual sex. If any of this bothers you, don’t read this story.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. The only thing that’s true is that Ian McKellen was single in 1972 (or so he says) – every thing else is completely made up. The author has no affiliation with any of the actual individuals who are mentioned here. The one Original Character, Claire, is completely made up and not meant to parallel any living person. Any similarities to actual events are purely coincidental. No profit has been made on this story.
Author’s Notes: This is inspired by an interview with Ian McKellen in Guardian Unlimited entitled “One of them” and my friends who always inspire me with their thoughtful conversation. Oh yeah, this story has het content, but don’t throw rocks at me because it isn’t what you think.
Thanks to Nefertiti for the beta, Silver for the suggestion and Joanne for the encouragement.
For Lennie
He’s been told he has the kindest eyes. Benevolent and wise with a certain sadness lingering deep underneath the gentle surface. He has taken it as a compliment, remembering how his mother used to say that the eyes are the windows of the soul. He knows the saying to be true, to a certain extent anyway.
He has no regrets, of course. Not besides the occasional cruel word uttered in the heat of the moment. He mourns the end of his relationships, but blame has given way to acceptance a long time ago. In a way he regrets that he waited so long to speak his mind, that he was never truly honest with his parents, but this is really more sorrow that circumstances weren’t different than anything else.
All in all, the unshakable, irrepressible Ian McKellen has no regrets in life, none that could have caused the sadness in his eyes.
He does have his scars, though.
He’d known her for years, Claire. She was well-rounded, brought up well, hilarious… and bitter. She was like him in many ways, stuck in a time and place that stifled her and confined her natural life to stolen moments in secrecy. British society was like that: out of sight, out of mind.
She was far less timid than he and sometimes shocked him with her candour and wicked tongue when they were in the company of friends and she could drop the act of a respectable lady.
There’s all that talk about options nowadays, opportunities for gays and lesbians. He should know; he’s one of the main advocates. For him and Claire however, there had been no other option.
He had felt the years creep up on him in a way he never has since, every one of his thirty-three weighing heavily on his mind. He was free as a bird, having left both flat and lover, but he didn’t feel very free. In weak moments he would wish that his life was different, that he was different, but to no avail. He would never try to fight his nature and found it best not to fight the world either.
He can’t remember now whose idea it was, but he can remember his longing growing.
She set up the date, marking her calendar with black ink.
He booked the hotel room in the name of Sutcliffe and paid for it in cash.
They both resented what they were doing but they had no other choice.
They’d tried the more innovative use of the turkey baster several times, but it hadn’t worked.
They met for a drink in the lobby. He had dressed sharply and made sure to comb his black hair neatly. It’s not everyday that one procreates, after all.
She had raised an eyebrow when he ordered a whiskey but hadn’t said anything.
It didn’t feel like a first time encounter. In the eyes of society they were both virgins, but he didn’t feel like one. He felt sullied and flawed, like a tool in the hands of some cruel and wicked god.
He did his best. He ejaculated inside her, and he was gentle. He didn’t have to break her hymen, and for that he was grateful.
It was still painful for her. She cried afterwards but turned away as he offered her a hug. She didn’t have to explain. He understood.
He walked her to her taxi.
***
A few weeks after his arrival, Orlando seeks his company for the first time. He is surprised at how much they have in common despite the difference in age and interests. He likes how the younger man brings out the wicked in him, challenging him to ever raunchier and seedier jokes. They wind up spending a lot of time together, and he is secretly flattered by Orlando’s attentions.
Although they are all close to one another, the cast is naturally divided into factions. The hobbits, the manly men, the assorted rest. But not Orlando. Some natural talent for adapting has him dividing his time amongst the factions. He spends most of it with the hobbits, of course, but he drops by Ian’s every chance he has.
Sometimes those chances come in the middle of the night, and Ian should be annoyed, but he isn’t. Instead he finds himself happily abandoning his bed to fry up some vegetables while Orlando perches on the counter. He makes sure to complain loudly about these late calls, but secretly they warm his heart.
***
To his great relief Claire treated him the same way she always had. There seemed to be an unspoken understanding between them. Neither of them brought up what had happened.
They went on with their lives and friendship in pretty much the same way as before, sharing restaurant tabs and snuggles before the fireplace.
Life seemed to heal itself, the sting and the shame fading away with time. He pushed all thoughts of the future away, not daring to guess the answer they were both waiting for.
Her voice had sounded frail over the telephone, making him hold his breath in the darkness of his London bedroom.
“I’m not pregnant.”
All sleep drained from his head as his mind processed the message. He searched for the right words, but his eloquence failed him and all that came out was a tentative: “Are you sure?”
He could hear a shaky breath being drawn on the other end of the line.
“I wish I wasn’t, but I am.”
He couldn’t tell if she was crying.
There was no use for formality the second time. No hotel reservation, no dressing up, no chivalry. Neither of them felt there was anything to celebrate.
Instead, he’d hosted a party to warm the new house. After denying all requests of sleep-overs and locking the door after the last guest, he tidied up while she sat on the sofa. She offered to help him, but he refused.
They did it in his bedroom. He was drunk – he had made sure of it.
She wanted to be on top this time, and he was content just to lie there while she took care of business.
He was looking at her face as she did it. She was beautiful. He’d always thought so. They had shared a lot of laughs over the years. A lot of pain as well.
They both needed it to be over quickly, and so he filled his mind with images of old flings. But suddenly it wandered, and a most unexpected thought struck him like a lightening bolt straight out of the sky.
Maybe he could learn to be content with a woman?
Maybe with Claire.
It would be a sacrifice, of course. [Settling] for someone.
But he would be spared so much. No more loneliness, no guilt, no carrying around a secret that felt like a boulder at best.
He’d finally have someone to bring home to his family for holidays.
He could even pass on his father’s ring.
He’d never have to feel like a stranger again. No more worrying about not fitting in.
Absolution through marriage.
But as he climaxed convulsively and the pleasure-induced heat abandoned his body to the cold he knew the truth as surely as the light of day.
He’d never settle.
***
It was an hour later when she found him in the living room, sitting in the dark with a bottle of Glenmorangie. To his relief she didn’t question his behaviour. She simply flicked the switch and sat cross-legged in front of him.
“Let´s drink to our doom.”
As the alcohol poured into his system he felt all his frustration and anger resurface like fresh blood to an old wound.
He took another sip and handed her the bottle.
“To our doom.”
They were drinking and he suddenly couldn’t see straight. Through the daze he thought she looked proud and defiant, as if she’d take on the world in a heart beat. He realised he was laughing.
“We should have a queer christening. Really, we should cross-dress, shouldn’t we, luv? Fucking give these people something to talk about, like ‘oh god, they’re breeding now’ and we’d go ‘Why, yes, Mr. Vicar, it’s our plan for world domination. Reproduce ourselves and brainwash the lot of you ‘til the whole world is bent.’ Really we should, Claire. That ought to shut them up, nasty buggers. We should give the baby a fucking queer name too… like… like Clarence or Julian or Jamie or fucking Constance if it’s a girl. What are you dykes called, anyway?”
Claire tried to swallow but failed, spitting out saliva-blended whiskey. “Prrr… Pru-dence!” she managed between giggles. “Bloody telling, isn’t it?” She lay down on her side, enthusiastically telling her story between sips of whiskey.
“Us English dykes are all good girls, you see, Ian. We’re all yessir and no, ma’am and don’t stay up late and keep our legs crossed.” She hiccupped. “And I haven’t met the right man yet, mother, and I know I ain’t getting any younger and I’m just [praying] that some kind, proper fellow would just please [please] take pity on poor little desperate me, then I’ll be a good Mrs. Dyke and I won’t ever cause no trouble, no, no.”
She’d run out of energy sometime during her rant, and she sat up abruptly. Ian thought he could see her eyes glaze, but she didn’t cry. Claire never did.
“I want a family.” Her voice sounded broken, desolate, much like its owner. “I just… I want to be a mother so badly I… I don’t think I’ll find someone… Sarah’s…” She turned her head away, shaking it slowly and sniffling. “I want a family.”
Ian felt his eyes burning, but fought to keep his cool, just as Claire had. He reached out to pat her hand gawkily.
“Well, we might already be on our way to getting one.”
She met his gaze and he nodded, reconnecting to her earlier statement. “So do I, Claire. So do I.”
He was starting to get teary-eyed as the anger and frustration gave way to sorrow and grief. She wiped his nose with a magically appearing handkerchief. “There, there Mr. McKellen. No use letting them get to you.”
He leaned forward and gave her a kiss, not a passionate one, just a sweet, chaste peck between friends. He wanted to say “thank you for understanding” but in his despair it came out as “want to make sure?” She didn’t nod, just extended her hand and pulled down his zipper.
“Ah. One final ride on the merry-go-round,” he said in an attempt to lighten the mood, but the time for humour was over, and she didn’t laugh.
He figured she was about as dry as he was soft so he went to the bathroom and fetched his moisturizer. He helped her apply it, but shook his head when she wrapped her fingers around his penis. “You need to… uhm… squeeze it a little harder. And, uh, touch the head.”
She looked about as miserable as he felt, obviously having neither skill nor desire to masturbate a man. He smiled awkwardly. “I’ll do it. You just lie back.”
It was desperation and not desire that made him squeeze some life into his sagging member. As he made love to her, for that was what it was after all, love, he thought of Clarence or Constance and knew that despite it all they had made the right choice.
***
Orlando has the habit of getting into trouble. Not serious, real life trouble, thank God, but the messy kind that leaves him miserable and pained.
“I’m so confused,” he will say, whatever the trouble, and Ian will listen, sucking in smoke and taking it all in. [His] standard line is “water under the bridge, dear boy, it’s water under the bridge,” which makes him feel wise and sage-like to a satisfying degree.
***
Claire had outright refused any financial help from Ian other than alimony for the baby.
“I won’t be your kept woman, Ian.”
“I’m not expecting you to! I simply want to make sure that you’re comfortable, is all.”
He returned to picking at his dinner with the salad fork. “It’s going to be hard for both of us.”
“Both of us?” She stared at him. “This will be hardest for me, you know. You’re getting off easy compared to me. Never mind the queer thing, being an unwed mother is not exactly accepted in this country. Granted it will be difficult for you as well, but at least you won’t have strangers looking at you like you’re a tart.”
He’d taken her hand under the table and squeezed it as reassuringly as he could. “I’ll go with you,” he whispered. “To the doctor. To the nursery. Everywhere.”
She’d looked up from her asparagus. “I’m four days late.”
***
Orlando’s affair with Sean Bean ends as it started, abruptly and unexpectedly. Ian is hardly surprised but doesn’t say “I told you so”. Orlando doesn’t perch on the counter, but sags in Ian’s only armchair like a sack of potatoes. “He told me it wasn’t wise of us to continue, that he had some shit to handle.”
“Then it probably wasn’t.” Ian has abandoned his usual line for the day and pours some tea for the miserable young man. “Look,” he offers as he sits down in the sofa, placing one hand on Orlando’s knee, “if there is one thing my experiences have taught me, it’s that it’s always better to end a bad relationship sooner than later. He’s a good man, but he obviously isn’t ready for a relationship so soon after his divorce. He can’t give you what you want.”
He watches Orlando sigh deeply as he surrenders to the concept. “I guess so,” he admits. “It just hurts like a motherfucker.”
“I know, sweetie. It’ll get better. Drink your tea.” Ian rubs Orlando’s knee and watches the kid sink into himself as he sips the Earl Grey.
“Aren’t you supposed to say it’s water under the bridge soon?”
“I should think so.” Ian smiles at the sniffling young man and to his surprise Orlando launches forward.
“Thank you, Ian. You’re a doll.”
Ian is squeezed into a bear hug, strong, warm arms wrapping around him. He is suddenly at a loss for words so he can only hug back and hope the message will come across anyway. Apparently it does because Orlando suddenly, casually says “Love ya, Ian.”
***
He had gone with Claire to the nurse’s office, just as he promised. They held hands in the waiting room which probably was the reason no one stared at her. He insisted on following her when she was called in. The nurse had been impersonal, not cold but utterly professional in that stressed-out way of medical practitioners.
“You do realise you won’t know today, Ms…?”
“[Mrs.] Sutcliffe,” Ian answered quickly. “Why won’t we know today?”
“Well, we have to send the urine sample to the laboratory. We will have the results tomorrow.”
Ian had waited outside while Claire left the sample, and then he drove them to her home.
They’d both been in a good mood, initial disappointment giving way to hopeful anticipation. They’d cooked dinner together and sat down in the drawing room afterwards, enjoying the company and nearness of each other.
“Are you nervous?” She smiled warmly, and he realised he hadn’t seen her this happy in a long time.
“Yes. Aren’t you?” She laughed.
“That’s not what I mean. Of course I am anxiously awaiting the news, and I am quite sure you are as well.” She grinned. “But what I meant with my question was this: Are you nervous about having a baby?”
Ian furrowed his brow and lit up a cigarette. “I was rather under the impression that biology had spared me that task. Ouch!” He rubbed his kicked shin with his other foot. “Your hormones are already kicking in I see.”
“Not any more than yours are.” Claire rolled her eyes. “Really, Ian, act your age, will you?”
“Why should I? My age is no fun whatsoever.” He took another slow drag on his cigarette, pondering on how to pout most effectively.
“I’m wondering if you’re nervous about having a child with me, raising it, being a father. I’m only asking because you’ve been chain smoking the whole evening. You do realise you’ll have to give that up eventually don’t you?”
He glared as meanly as he could. “I don’t realise that, and to answer your question, I am not nervous about having this child.”
“Really?” she raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not nervous, I’m terrified.” He rubbed out his fag in her porcelain ashtray and released a shaky breath.
“I haven’t got the first clue as to how to do it! I was the youngest child, I never had to baby-sit! Really, what do you do when it won’t stop crying? Or when it refuses to listen and screams at the top of its lungs when you try to discipline it? What do you do? Do you smack it? I can’t smack it, Claire, that’s not the way I was brought up! What do you do really? When it starts coming home drunk and cutting classes and running off with hoodlums on motorbikes? Really, Claire, this isn’t funny!”
She was laughing so hard she looked about to collapse, had she not been sitting down. “You crack me up, Ian!” she said when she had calmed down enough to speak. “You’re getting way ahead of yourself. It’s not even born yet! I suggest this: we wait until there actually is a baby, and [then] we worry about how to raise it. All right? And once there is a baby I can guarantee it won’t run off with any hoodlums until both you and I are old and grey.”
“All right.” He pouted like a five year old and yawned. “That sounds like a good plan.”
Her suggestion that he should stay the night had also sounded like a good plan, and that was how he winded up in her bed, wearing an oversized shirt of hers as pyjamas. He had chivalrously offered to sleep on her couch but she had outright refused and turned off the lights.
“We’re going to be united by blood throughout eternity, and you’re worried about lying across from me in a king-sized bed while we are both dressed? Don’t be silly.”
He kissed her hand chastely and closed his eyes, realizing how tired he was. Suddenly he felt Claire stir and the room was flooded with light. He groaned painfully and was about complain when he heard her gasp.
She was sitting up in bed, with her back against him. She didn’t meet his eyes when he spoke her name, just held up her hand which was streaked with blood.
Neither of them spoke as she turned off the light.
They were quiet the next morning while they prepared for their appointment with the nurse. They exchanged pleasantries during the drive, pretending to be anxious, though they already knew what the results would be.
The professionally impersonal nurse delivered the news in an un-dramatic fashion. “Anxiety has a way of disturbing the menstrual cycle. Once the lady is at ease, it usually starts up again. Nothing uncommon at all. You weren’t hoping for a baby, were you?”
They waited until they were in the car before either of them spoke.
“It’s not fair,” she said flatly as her eyes were spilling over with tears.
He had never seen Claire cry before and found he couldn’t stand the sight of it. He stared out through the windshield and wrapped his fingers hard around the steering wheel.
“We did it. We fucking did it. Three times. It should have worked. I let you fuck me.”
She practically whispered it, but he could still hear the accusation and shame in her voice.
He watched his knuckles whiten as he dug his nails into the steering wheel.
“I… I’m sorry I put you through this, Ian.”
He met her beautiful eyes and saw the guilt and despair there.
“It’s all right, Claire. I wanted …”
But he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t say it, because saying it would make the loss real, and that was something he couldn’t face just yet.
Maybe someday he could.
His voice sounded broken as he delivered the line that would close one of the most important chapters of his life.
“I – I think we shouldn’t see each other for a while.”
There was no doubt that her loud exhale was of relief and not disappointment. She nodded.
“I think that would be best.”
***
He found the doctor through a friend in the theatre. He didn’t share the details with his friend but mentioned he had ‘intimate problems’ he didn’t want his GP to know about.
The physician was understanding in a man-to-man fashion that made Ian feel comfortable. He had explained that these investigations took time and often required numerous tests before any conclusions could be drawn. Therefore Ian was surprised to be called back after only one week.
Immediately after he sat down he saw the box of tissues placed in front of him.
The doctor had smiled and taken a deep breath. “I'm very sorry, but the test indicates that your sperm count is virtually nil. I'm afraid that means that you are incapable of fathering children – sterile, in other words.” Ian found himself once more speechless, asking the same stupid question he had asked Claire so many months ago.
“Are you sure?
The doctor had looked pained and pushed the box of tissues towards him.
“I’m afraid so.” He placed his hand on top of Ian’s as if desperate to reassure him.
“This doesn’t rule out happiness, you know. You’re a very healthy young man. You’ve your entire life ahead of you.”
“It’s all right,” Ian said, not caring for being comforted. “I’d better get back to work.”
The doctor stood up, not yet giving up on the consoling.
“There are other ways of having families, you know. Why don’t you look into adoption, Mr. McKellen? You and your wife.”
***
The grief and hopelessness dulled over time, as the years washed over him, rewarding and challenging him in equal portions. He branched out in his career, fell in love and out. His heart kept breaking but always healed.
He was committed and single, working and resting.
He grew used to living alone.
Recognition had come to him, bringing respect, and later in his life, something surprisingly akin to fame. It amused him, and he accepted these side effects of success without getting used to them.
The years rolled by, and he saw the markings on his face, as his hair became grey and his skin laxer. He didn’t seem to lose his appeal among the talented young, and he seized each opportunity, without expectations but refusing to give up hope.
He made peace with dying alone.
His life was busy and full, and whatever it lacked was compensated for by family and god-children, with activism and friends and with working, always working. He wrote his will and stuck it in the back of his safety vault with his father’s wedding band.
It was thirty-one years until he saw her again.
He recognized her instantly, as he spotted her, standing out from the crowd in her bright scarlet overcoat and waist-length hair, which, as usual, she hadn’t bothered to brush.
It was thinner than he remembered, and its black had been replaced by grey, but her back was still straight and she stood as tall and proud as ever.
She noticed him before he had made a move, and by the time he had walked up to her, her lip was quivering slightly.
“I’ve dreaded this moment for thirty years,” she said in the remarkable melodic voice she obviously still possessed. He felt drained of all strength and nodded because it was all he could do.
“Yet now, I’m glad it has come.” She was clutching her bag with both hands, as her widening eyes took him in.
He nodded once more, finally finding himself able to speak through the lump in his throat. “I am too.”
She seemed to be composing herself, because she stopped quivering and let go of the bag with one hand.
“I’m so happy things have turned out so well for you, Ian. I want you to know that. I’ve read about you. I’ve… you’re a movie star for crying out loud.”
“Thank you. I’ve been…” he bit back the emotions that were threatening to well up. “I’ve been lucky. You?”
She nodded. “Good. I finally sold the firm last year. Got a very nice offer from Crookshanks. Ltd. I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking you if you’re planning to retire?”
He smiled because it felt as though he ought to. “I don’t suppose so.”
“You’ve always been a careerist, Ian. I’m terribly glad you got you wanted.” She let out a small laugh. “My grandson absolutely adores you.”
“So you…?”
She nodded and said softly: “I’m here with my daughter.”
“I’m happy for you,” and though the grief felt like a knife dragged across his throat, it wasn’t a lie.
She smiled hesitantly, and prodded: “You?” It was barely whispered, as if she knew the answer but was reluctant to hear it anyway.
He drew in a shaky breath and shook his head. “It was me all along.“
“Oh Ian…”
“It’s all right, really, I’ve… I’ve got many other abilities. Being able to give life isn’t really something you put on your résumé.” He nodded to reassure himself more than her. “I’ve been compensated.”
“You have that dish though, don’t you? The one you took to that award show?”
He coughed slightly. “That’s come to an end I’m afraid.”
“Oh.”
He straightened himself. “It was to be expected.”
She seemed to sink in on herself and looked very disappointed. “Don’t worry,” he smiled and this time it was genuine. “I’m quite all right. I am happy.”
She straightened up again and took a deep breath, fidgeting with her handbag.
“Yes, well, certainly. One can’t pick up a newspaper on the weekend without finding your name in it! You’re… you’re quite successful, you know. And not just with acting, either. You’re one of the most famous queers in the country!” She sobered and leaned forward, a look of resolution on her face.
“I can’t tell you how terribly glad I am for you, that you finally came out of that closet.”
He nodded. “You?”
“Oh, since 1985. Gave ol’ mum quite a shock, I’m afraid.”
He couldn’t help but utter a “Good riddance.”
They nodded in agreement, and then silence settled between them.
“So, how… do you have other grandchildren?”
“Just the one. I also have a son.”
He couldn’t help himself. “Who’s the father?”
She smiled. “No one as famous as you.”
“Is your grandson with you?”
“No, he’s…he’s with my girlfriend.”
She looked almost guilty, and he felt strangely uncomfortable.
“Oh. Uhm, I’m happy to hear that. Is it… is it permanent, do you think?”
She furrowed her brow as if she was thinking hard of what to say. “I’ve been with Molly for, oh, twenty-five years now,” she finally said.
He swallowed and shifted his weight onto his other foot. “Oh… well she’s a very lucky woman. Your children… are very lucky. [You’re] lucky.” She nodded, and he saw that her eyes were glazing over.
Something inside him broke then, and he couldn’t help himself.
“Claire, I never really told you… I don’t think you knew how much you mattered to me, what a wonderful, wonderful person you are.”
“Ian, I am sorry that it didn–” Her voice faltered and she suddenly closed the distance between them, embracing him so tenderly that it felt as though his heart would stop by the mere shock of it. When she pulled back to look at him she had tears in her eyes. “I would have loved… to have a child with you.”
They both stood quiet for a long time, her still holding him at arms length. Finally he cleared his throat.
“It’s… it’s always pained me that we never really said goodbye, you and I.”
She smiled at him through her tears and he realised the truth, but she was the one who said it.
“I think we have now.”
He nodded and felt himself choking up, so he went for humour as he gave the parting line he should have given her thirty years ago.
“Good luck, Claire Truman, remarkable artisan and lesbian extraordinaire.”
Before he had a chance to react she had leaned forward and pressed her lips against his in a soft, chaste kiss mirroring the one he had given her in his living room. When she pulled away her eyes were full of love. “Good-bye, Ian.”
She turned, and not quickly as in movies, but slowly, moved away from him until she had been swallowed up by the crowd.
***
They’re in the kitchen in his house by the river, and Orlando is drinking Earl Grey with milk and sugar.
The films are finally over, and the air is full of relief and grief. It’s only been three years since it started, but they feel as long as the thirty that passed between his meetings with Claire. It’s an older, wiser Orlando who stirs his tea cup as the rain pours down on the deck outside.
“I’ve never really known my father. It’s hard... I… He always paid for things, he always drove me places, but I never… I never knew him, you see? As a father, I still don’t know him. It’s… there’s nothing I can do, really… I know he loves me… I…I just don’t think he wants to be my dad.”
Ian takes his hand across the table, feeling the soft skin against his palm.
“I think I’m getting married.”
“To whom?”
Orlando grins. “Does it matter? Some guy, some girl… Someday. I don’t ever want my kids to say they don’t know me.”
It takes a moment and then the truth dawns on Ian, and it’s more obvious than anything he’s ever realized. He gets up from the table, almost knocking over his tea cup as he does so.
“Wait here, I…I’ve got something for you.” He returns out of breath and there’s a look of bewilderment in Orlando’s eyes as he takes the box from Ian’s hand.
“I was meant to give it to you,” Ian blurts out, and he realises at once it is the truth. “A wedding ring or commitment ring or whatever you want to use it for.” The back of his eyelids burn, and he smiles apologetically. “I was never lucky.”
He squeezes Orlando’s hand across the table. “You’ll be lucky, Orli.”
Outside the rain has stopped. Orlando holds up the ring in the light for a moment and then he puts it back into the box.
Ian nervously rubs the hand he is holding. “You see… it was my father’s.”
Orlando simply nods and pockets the box. He smiles warmly and it’s like a wave, filling Ian’s void and washing away all that was bitter.
The End.
Notes:
1. From what my research has taught me, instant pregnancy tests only became available after this story took place. In 1972 you still had to wait a couple of days while the urine was tested.
2. Sutcliffe was Ian’s mother’s name and the name he originally planned to use as a stage name.
3. On Ian’s website it says that when his relationship ended in 1972 he “bought his first house at 17, Camberwell Grove where he lived alone for eight years.”
Title: Scarred
Author: Kristina [k7@telia.com]
Status: Finished, 1/1
Pairing: Not really a pairing story but there’s Ian McKellen/OC, slight Orlando Bloom/Sean Bean.
Rating: R
Summary: Some wishes are never granted.
Archive: LFSI, Of Elves and Men, my LJ. Nowhere else.
Feedback: Yes.
Warnings: Angst. Drinking. Cursing. Heterosexual sex. If any of this bothers you, don’t read this story.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. The only thing that’s true is that Ian McKellen was single in 1972 (or so he says) – every thing else is completely made up. The author has no affiliation with any of the actual individuals who are mentioned here. The one Original Character, Claire, is completely made up and not meant to parallel any living person. Any similarities to actual events are purely coincidental. No profit has been made on this story.
Author’s Notes: This is inspired by an interview with Ian McKellen in Guardian Unlimited entitled “One of them” and my friends who always inspire me with their thoughtful conversation. Oh yeah, this story has het content, but don’t throw rocks at me because it isn’t what you think.
Thanks to Nefertiti for the beta, Silver for the suggestion and Joanne for the encouragement.
For Lennie
He’s been told he has the kindest eyes. Benevolent and wise with a certain sadness lingering deep underneath the gentle surface. He has taken it as a compliment, remembering how his mother used to say that the eyes are the windows of the soul. He knows the saying to be true, to a certain extent anyway.
He has no regrets, of course. Not besides the occasional cruel word uttered in the heat of the moment. He mourns the end of his relationships, but blame has given way to acceptance a long time ago. In a way he regrets that he waited so long to speak his mind, that he was never truly honest with his parents, but this is really more sorrow that circumstances weren’t different than anything else.
All in all, the unshakable, irrepressible Ian McKellen has no regrets in life, none that could have caused the sadness in his eyes.
He does have his scars, though.
He’d known her for years, Claire. She was well-rounded, brought up well, hilarious… and bitter. She was like him in many ways, stuck in a time and place that stifled her and confined her natural life to stolen moments in secrecy. British society was like that: out of sight, out of mind.
She was far less timid than he and sometimes shocked him with her candour and wicked tongue when they were in the company of friends and she could drop the act of a respectable lady.
There’s all that talk about options nowadays, opportunities for gays and lesbians. He should know; he’s one of the main advocates. For him and Claire however, there had been no other option.
He had felt the years creep up on him in a way he never has since, every one of his thirty-three weighing heavily on his mind. He was free as a bird, having left both flat and lover, but he didn’t feel very free. In weak moments he would wish that his life was different, that he was different, but to no avail. He would never try to fight his nature and found it best not to fight the world either.
He can’t remember now whose idea it was, but he can remember his longing growing.
She set up the date, marking her calendar with black ink.
He booked the hotel room in the name of Sutcliffe and paid for it in cash.
They both resented what they were doing but they had no other choice.
They’d tried the more innovative use of the turkey baster several times, but it hadn’t worked.
They met for a drink in the lobby. He had dressed sharply and made sure to comb his black hair neatly. It’s not everyday that one procreates, after all.
She had raised an eyebrow when he ordered a whiskey but hadn’t said anything.
It didn’t feel like a first time encounter. In the eyes of society they were both virgins, but he didn’t feel like one. He felt sullied and flawed, like a tool in the hands of some cruel and wicked god.
He did his best. He ejaculated inside her, and he was gentle. He didn’t have to break her hymen, and for that he was grateful.
It was still painful for her. She cried afterwards but turned away as he offered her a hug. She didn’t have to explain. He understood.
He walked her to her taxi.
***
A few weeks after his arrival, Orlando seeks his company for the first time. He is surprised at how much they have in common despite the difference in age and interests. He likes how the younger man brings out the wicked in him, challenging him to ever raunchier and seedier jokes. They wind up spending a lot of time together, and he is secretly flattered by Orlando’s attentions.
Although they are all close to one another, the cast is naturally divided into factions. The hobbits, the manly men, the assorted rest. But not Orlando. Some natural talent for adapting has him dividing his time amongst the factions. He spends most of it with the hobbits, of course, but he drops by Ian’s every chance he has.
Sometimes those chances come in the middle of the night, and Ian should be annoyed, but he isn’t. Instead he finds himself happily abandoning his bed to fry up some vegetables while Orlando perches on the counter. He makes sure to complain loudly about these late calls, but secretly they warm his heart.
***
To his great relief Claire treated him the same way she always had. There seemed to be an unspoken understanding between them. Neither of them brought up what had happened.
They went on with their lives and friendship in pretty much the same way as before, sharing restaurant tabs and snuggles before the fireplace.
Life seemed to heal itself, the sting and the shame fading away with time. He pushed all thoughts of the future away, not daring to guess the answer they were both waiting for.
Her voice had sounded frail over the telephone, making him hold his breath in the darkness of his London bedroom.
“I’m not pregnant.”
All sleep drained from his head as his mind processed the message. He searched for the right words, but his eloquence failed him and all that came out was a tentative: “Are you sure?”
He could hear a shaky breath being drawn on the other end of the line.
“I wish I wasn’t, but I am.”
He couldn’t tell if she was crying.
There was no use for formality the second time. No hotel reservation, no dressing up, no chivalry. Neither of them felt there was anything to celebrate.
Instead, he’d hosted a party to warm the new house. After denying all requests of sleep-overs and locking the door after the last guest, he tidied up while she sat on the sofa. She offered to help him, but he refused.
They did it in his bedroom. He was drunk – he had made sure of it.
She wanted to be on top this time, and he was content just to lie there while she took care of business.
He was looking at her face as she did it. She was beautiful. He’d always thought so. They had shared a lot of laughs over the years. A lot of pain as well.
They both needed it to be over quickly, and so he filled his mind with images of old flings. But suddenly it wandered, and a most unexpected thought struck him like a lightening bolt straight out of the sky.
Maybe he could learn to be content with a woman?
Maybe with Claire.
It would be a sacrifice, of course. [Settling] for someone.
But he would be spared so much. No more loneliness, no guilt, no carrying around a secret that felt like a boulder at best.
He’d finally have someone to bring home to his family for holidays.
He could even pass on his father’s ring.
He’d never have to feel like a stranger again. No more worrying about not fitting in.
Absolution through marriage.
But as he climaxed convulsively and the pleasure-induced heat abandoned his body to the cold he knew the truth as surely as the light of day.
He’d never settle.
***
It was an hour later when she found him in the living room, sitting in the dark with a bottle of Glenmorangie. To his relief she didn’t question his behaviour. She simply flicked the switch and sat cross-legged in front of him.
“Let´s drink to our doom.”
As the alcohol poured into his system he felt all his frustration and anger resurface like fresh blood to an old wound.
He took another sip and handed her the bottle.
“To our doom.”
They were drinking and he suddenly couldn’t see straight. Through the daze he thought she looked proud and defiant, as if she’d take on the world in a heart beat. He realised he was laughing.
“We should have a queer christening. Really, we should cross-dress, shouldn’t we, luv? Fucking give these people something to talk about, like ‘oh god, they’re breeding now’ and we’d go ‘Why, yes, Mr. Vicar, it’s our plan for world domination. Reproduce ourselves and brainwash the lot of you ‘til the whole world is bent.’ Really we should, Claire. That ought to shut them up, nasty buggers. We should give the baby a fucking queer name too… like… like Clarence or Julian or Jamie or fucking Constance if it’s a girl. What are you dykes called, anyway?”
Claire tried to swallow but failed, spitting out saliva-blended whiskey. “Prrr… Pru-dence!” she managed between giggles. “Bloody telling, isn’t it?” She lay down on her side, enthusiastically telling her story between sips of whiskey.
“Us English dykes are all good girls, you see, Ian. We’re all yessir and no, ma’am and don’t stay up late and keep our legs crossed.” She hiccupped. “And I haven’t met the right man yet, mother, and I know I ain’t getting any younger and I’m just [praying] that some kind, proper fellow would just please [please] take pity on poor little desperate me, then I’ll be a good Mrs. Dyke and I won’t ever cause no trouble, no, no.”
She’d run out of energy sometime during her rant, and she sat up abruptly. Ian thought he could see her eyes glaze, but she didn’t cry. Claire never did.
“I want a family.” Her voice sounded broken, desolate, much like its owner. “I just… I want to be a mother so badly I… I don’t think I’ll find someone… Sarah’s…” She turned her head away, shaking it slowly and sniffling. “I want a family.”
Ian felt his eyes burning, but fought to keep his cool, just as Claire had. He reached out to pat her hand gawkily.
“Well, we might already be on our way to getting one.”
She met his gaze and he nodded, reconnecting to her earlier statement. “So do I, Claire. So do I.”
He was starting to get teary-eyed as the anger and frustration gave way to sorrow and grief. She wiped his nose with a magically appearing handkerchief. “There, there Mr. McKellen. No use letting them get to you.”
He leaned forward and gave her a kiss, not a passionate one, just a sweet, chaste peck between friends. He wanted to say “thank you for understanding” but in his despair it came out as “want to make sure?” She didn’t nod, just extended her hand and pulled down his zipper.
“Ah. One final ride on the merry-go-round,” he said in an attempt to lighten the mood, but the time for humour was over, and she didn’t laugh.
He figured she was about as dry as he was soft so he went to the bathroom and fetched his moisturizer. He helped her apply it, but shook his head when she wrapped her fingers around his penis. “You need to… uhm… squeeze it a little harder. And, uh, touch the head.”
She looked about as miserable as he felt, obviously having neither skill nor desire to masturbate a man. He smiled awkwardly. “I’ll do it. You just lie back.”
It was desperation and not desire that made him squeeze some life into his sagging member. As he made love to her, for that was what it was after all, love, he thought of Clarence or Constance and knew that despite it all they had made the right choice.
***
Orlando has the habit of getting into trouble. Not serious, real life trouble, thank God, but the messy kind that leaves him miserable and pained.
“I’m so confused,” he will say, whatever the trouble, and Ian will listen, sucking in smoke and taking it all in. [His] standard line is “water under the bridge, dear boy, it’s water under the bridge,” which makes him feel wise and sage-like to a satisfying degree.
***
Claire had outright refused any financial help from Ian other than alimony for the baby.
“I won’t be your kept woman, Ian.”
“I’m not expecting you to! I simply want to make sure that you’re comfortable, is all.”
He returned to picking at his dinner with the salad fork. “It’s going to be hard for both of us.”
“Both of us?” She stared at him. “This will be hardest for me, you know. You’re getting off easy compared to me. Never mind the queer thing, being an unwed mother is not exactly accepted in this country. Granted it will be difficult for you as well, but at least you won’t have strangers looking at you like you’re a tart.”
He’d taken her hand under the table and squeezed it as reassuringly as he could. “I’ll go with you,” he whispered. “To the doctor. To the nursery. Everywhere.”
She’d looked up from her asparagus. “I’m four days late.”
***
Orlando’s affair with Sean Bean ends as it started, abruptly and unexpectedly. Ian is hardly surprised but doesn’t say “I told you so”. Orlando doesn’t perch on the counter, but sags in Ian’s only armchair like a sack of potatoes. “He told me it wasn’t wise of us to continue, that he had some shit to handle.”
“Then it probably wasn’t.” Ian has abandoned his usual line for the day and pours some tea for the miserable young man. “Look,” he offers as he sits down in the sofa, placing one hand on Orlando’s knee, “if there is one thing my experiences have taught me, it’s that it’s always better to end a bad relationship sooner than later. He’s a good man, but he obviously isn’t ready for a relationship so soon after his divorce. He can’t give you what you want.”
He watches Orlando sigh deeply as he surrenders to the concept. “I guess so,” he admits. “It just hurts like a motherfucker.”
“I know, sweetie. It’ll get better. Drink your tea.” Ian rubs Orlando’s knee and watches the kid sink into himself as he sips the Earl Grey.
“Aren’t you supposed to say it’s water under the bridge soon?”
“I should think so.” Ian smiles at the sniffling young man and to his surprise Orlando launches forward.
“Thank you, Ian. You’re a doll.”
Ian is squeezed into a bear hug, strong, warm arms wrapping around him. He is suddenly at a loss for words so he can only hug back and hope the message will come across anyway. Apparently it does because Orlando suddenly, casually says “Love ya, Ian.”
***
He had gone with Claire to the nurse’s office, just as he promised. They held hands in the waiting room which probably was the reason no one stared at her. He insisted on following her when she was called in. The nurse had been impersonal, not cold but utterly professional in that stressed-out way of medical practitioners.
“You do realise you won’t know today, Ms…?”
“[Mrs.] Sutcliffe,” Ian answered quickly. “Why won’t we know today?”
“Well, we have to send the urine sample to the laboratory. We will have the results tomorrow.”
Ian had waited outside while Claire left the sample, and then he drove them to her home.
They’d both been in a good mood, initial disappointment giving way to hopeful anticipation. They’d cooked dinner together and sat down in the drawing room afterwards, enjoying the company and nearness of each other.
“Are you nervous?” She smiled warmly, and he realised he hadn’t seen her this happy in a long time.
“Yes. Aren’t you?” She laughed.
“That’s not what I mean. Of course I am anxiously awaiting the news, and I am quite sure you are as well.” She grinned. “But what I meant with my question was this: Are you nervous about having a baby?”
Ian furrowed his brow and lit up a cigarette. “I was rather under the impression that biology had spared me that task. Ouch!” He rubbed his kicked shin with his other foot. “Your hormones are already kicking in I see.”
“Not any more than yours are.” Claire rolled her eyes. “Really, Ian, act your age, will you?”
“Why should I? My age is no fun whatsoever.” He took another slow drag on his cigarette, pondering on how to pout most effectively.
“I’m wondering if you’re nervous about having a child with me, raising it, being a father. I’m only asking because you’ve been chain smoking the whole evening. You do realise you’ll have to give that up eventually don’t you?”
He glared as meanly as he could. “I don’t realise that, and to answer your question, I am not nervous about having this child.”
“Really?” she raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not nervous, I’m terrified.” He rubbed out his fag in her porcelain ashtray and released a shaky breath.
“I haven’t got the first clue as to how to do it! I was the youngest child, I never had to baby-sit! Really, what do you do when it won’t stop crying? Or when it refuses to listen and screams at the top of its lungs when you try to discipline it? What do you do? Do you smack it? I can’t smack it, Claire, that’s not the way I was brought up! What do you do really? When it starts coming home drunk and cutting classes and running off with hoodlums on motorbikes? Really, Claire, this isn’t funny!”
She was laughing so hard she looked about to collapse, had she not been sitting down. “You crack me up, Ian!” she said when she had calmed down enough to speak. “You’re getting way ahead of yourself. It’s not even born yet! I suggest this: we wait until there actually is a baby, and [then] we worry about how to raise it. All right? And once there is a baby I can guarantee it won’t run off with any hoodlums until both you and I are old and grey.”
“All right.” He pouted like a five year old and yawned. “That sounds like a good plan.”
Her suggestion that he should stay the night had also sounded like a good plan, and that was how he winded up in her bed, wearing an oversized shirt of hers as pyjamas. He had chivalrously offered to sleep on her couch but she had outright refused and turned off the lights.
“We’re going to be united by blood throughout eternity, and you’re worried about lying across from me in a king-sized bed while we are both dressed? Don’t be silly.”
He kissed her hand chastely and closed his eyes, realizing how tired he was. Suddenly he felt Claire stir and the room was flooded with light. He groaned painfully and was about complain when he heard her gasp.
She was sitting up in bed, with her back against him. She didn’t meet his eyes when he spoke her name, just held up her hand which was streaked with blood.
Neither of them spoke as she turned off the light.
They were quiet the next morning while they prepared for their appointment with the nurse. They exchanged pleasantries during the drive, pretending to be anxious, though they already knew what the results would be.
The professionally impersonal nurse delivered the news in an un-dramatic fashion. “Anxiety has a way of disturbing the menstrual cycle. Once the lady is at ease, it usually starts up again. Nothing uncommon at all. You weren’t hoping for a baby, were you?”
They waited until they were in the car before either of them spoke.
“It’s not fair,” she said flatly as her eyes were spilling over with tears.
He had never seen Claire cry before and found he couldn’t stand the sight of it. He stared out through the windshield and wrapped his fingers hard around the steering wheel.
“We did it. We fucking did it. Three times. It should have worked. I let you fuck me.”
She practically whispered it, but he could still hear the accusation and shame in her voice.
He watched his knuckles whiten as he dug his nails into the steering wheel.
“I… I’m sorry I put you through this, Ian.”
He met her beautiful eyes and saw the guilt and despair there.
“It’s all right, Claire. I wanted …”
But he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t say it, because saying it would make the loss real, and that was something he couldn’t face just yet.
Maybe someday he could.
His voice sounded broken as he delivered the line that would close one of the most important chapters of his life.
“I – I think we shouldn’t see each other for a while.”
There was no doubt that her loud exhale was of relief and not disappointment. She nodded.
“I think that would be best.”
***
He found the doctor through a friend in the theatre. He didn’t share the details with his friend but mentioned he had ‘intimate problems’ he didn’t want his GP to know about.
The physician was understanding in a man-to-man fashion that made Ian feel comfortable. He had explained that these investigations took time and often required numerous tests before any conclusions could be drawn. Therefore Ian was surprised to be called back after only one week.
Immediately after he sat down he saw the box of tissues placed in front of him.
The doctor had smiled and taken a deep breath. “I'm very sorry, but the test indicates that your sperm count is virtually nil. I'm afraid that means that you are incapable of fathering children – sterile, in other words.” Ian found himself once more speechless, asking the same stupid question he had asked Claire so many months ago.
“Are you sure?
The doctor had looked pained and pushed the box of tissues towards him.
“I’m afraid so.” He placed his hand on top of Ian’s as if desperate to reassure him.
“This doesn’t rule out happiness, you know. You’re a very healthy young man. You’ve your entire life ahead of you.”
“It’s all right,” Ian said, not caring for being comforted. “I’d better get back to work.”
The doctor stood up, not yet giving up on the consoling.
“There are other ways of having families, you know. Why don’t you look into adoption, Mr. McKellen? You and your wife.”
***
The grief and hopelessness dulled over time, as the years washed over him, rewarding and challenging him in equal portions. He branched out in his career, fell in love and out. His heart kept breaking but always healed.
He was committed and single, working and resting.
He grew used to living alone.
Recognition had come to him, bringing respect, and later in his life, something surprisingly akin to fame. It amused him, and he accepted these side effects of success without getting used to them.
The years rolled by, and he saw the markings on his face, as his hair became grey and his skin laxer. He didn’t seem to lose his appeal among the talented young, and he seized each opportunity, without expectations but refusing to give up hope.
He made peace with dying alone.
His life was busy and full, and whatever it lacked was compensated for by family and god-children, with activism and friends and with working, always working. He wrote his will and stuck it in the back of his safety vault with his father’s wedding band.
It was thirty-one years until he saw her again.
He recognized her instantly, as he spotted her, standing out from the crowd in her bright scarlet overcoat and waist-length hair, which, as usual, she hadn’t bothered to brush.
It was thinner than he remembered, and its black had been replaced by grey, but her back was still straight and she stood as tall and proud as ever.
She noticed him before he had made a move, and by the time he had walked up to her, her lip was quivering slightly.
“I’ve dreaded this moment for thirty years,” she said in the remarkable melodic voice she obviously still possessed. He felt drained of all strength and nodded because it was all he could do.
“Yet now, I’m glad it has come.” She was clutching her bag with both hands, as her widening eyes took him in.
He nodded once more, finally finding himself able to speak through the lump in his throat. “I am too.”
She seemed to be composing herself, because she stopped quivering and let go of the bag with one hand.
“I’m so happy things have turned out so well for you, Ian. I want you to know that. I’ve read about you. I’ve… you’re a movie star for crying out loud.”
“Thank you. I’ve been…” he bit back the emotions that were threatening to well up. “I’ve been lucky. You?”
She nodded. “Good. I finally sold the firm last year. Got a very nice offer from Crookshanks. Ltd. I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking you if you’re planning to retire?”
He smiled because it felt as though he ought to. “I don’t suppose so.”
“You’ve always been a careerist, Ian. I’m terribly glad you got you wanted.” She let out a small laugh. “My grandson absolutely adores you.”
“So you…?”
She nodded and said softly: “I’m here with my daughter.”
“I’m happy for you,” and though the grief felt like a knife dragged across his throat, it wasn’t a lie.
She smiled hesitantly, and prodded: “You?” It was barely whispered, as if she knew the answer but was reluctant to hear it anyway.
He drew in a shaky breath and shook his head. “It was me all along.“
“Oh Ian…”
“It’s all right, really, I’ve… I’ve got many other abilities. Being able to give life isn’t really something you put on your résumé.” He nodded to reassure himself more than her. “I’ve been compensated.”
“You have that dish though, don’t you? The one you took to that award show?”
He coughed slightly. “That’s come to an end I’m afraid.”
“Oh.”
He straightened himself. “It was to be expected.”
She seemed to sink in on herself and looked very disappointed. “Don’t worry,” he smiled and this time it was genuine. “I’m quite all right. I am happy.”
She straightened up again and took a deep breath, fidgeting with her handbag.
“Yes, well, certainly. One can’t pick up a newspaper on the weekend without finding your name in it! You’re… you’re quite successful, you know. And not just with acting, either. You’re one of the most famous queers in the country!” She sobered and leaned forward, a look of resolution on her face.
“I can’t tell you how terribly glad I am for you, that you finally came out of that closet.”
He nodded. “You?”
“Oh, since 1985. Gave ol’ mum quite a shock, I’m afraid.”
He couldn’t help but utter a “Good riddance.”
They nodded in agreement, and then silence settled between them.
“So, how… do you have other grandchildren?”
“Just the one. I also have a son.”
He couldn’t help himself. “Who’s the father?”
She smiled. “No one as famous as you.”
“Is your grandson with you?”
“No, he’s…he’s with my girlfriend.”
She looked almost guilty, and he felt strangely uncomfortable.
“Oh. Uhm, I’m happy to hear that. Is it… is it permanent, do you think?”
She furrowed her brow as if she was thinking hard of what to say. “I’ve been with Molly for, oh, twenty-five years now,” she finally said.
He swallowed and shifted his weight onto his other foot. “Oh… well she’s a very lucky woman. Your children… are very lucky. [You’re] lucky.” She nodded, and he saw that her eyes were glazing over.
Something inside him broke then, and he couldn’t help himself.
“Claire, I never really told you… I don’t think you knew how much you mattered to me, what a wonderful, wonderful person you are.”
“Ian, I am sorry that it didn–” Her voice faltered and she suddenly closed the distance between them, embracing him so tenderly that it felt as though his heart would stop by the mere shock of it. When she pulled back to look at him she had tears in her eyes. “I would have loved… to have a child with you.”
They both stood quiet for a long time, her still holding him at arms length. Finally he cleared his throat.
“It’s… it’s always pained me that we never really said goodbye, you and I.”
She smiled at him through her tears and he realised the truth, but she was the one who said it.
“I think we have now.”
He nodded and felt himself choking up, so he went for humour as he gave the parting line he should have given her thirty years ago.
“Good luck, Claire Truman, remarkable artisan and lesbian extraordinaire.”
Before he had a chance to react she had leaned forward and pressed her lips against his in a soft, chaste kiss mirroring the one he had given her in his living room. When she pulled away her eyes were full of love. “Good-bye, Ian.”
She turned, and not quickly as in movies, but slowly, moved away from him until she had been swallowed up by the crowd.
***
They’re in the kitchen in his house by the river, and Orlando is drinking Earl Grey with milk and sugar.
The films are finally over, and the air is full of relief and grief. It’s only been three years since it started, but they feel as long as the thirty that passed between his meetings with Claire. It’s an older, wiser Orlando who stirs his tea cup as the rain pours down on the deck outside.
“I’ve never really known my father. It’s hard... I… He always paid for things, he always drove me places, but I never… I never knew him, you see? As a father, I still don’t know him. It’s… there’s nothing I can do, really… I know he loves me… I…I just don’t think he wants to be my dad.”
Ian takes his hand across the table, feeling the soft skin against his palm.
“I think I’m getting married.”
“To whom?”
Orlando grins. “Does it matter? Some guy, some girl… Someday. I don’t ever want my kids to say they don’t know me.”
It takes a moment and then the truth dawns on Ian, and it’s more obvious than anything he’s ever realized. He gets up from the table, almost knocking over his tea cup as he does so.
“Wait here, I…I’ve got something for you.” He returns out of breath and there’s a look of bewilderment in Orlando’s eyes as he takes the box from Ian’s hand.
“I was meant to give it to you,” Ian blurts out, and he realises at once it is the truth. “A wedding ring or commitment ring or whatever you want to use it for.” The back of his eyelids burn, and he smiles apologetically. “I was never lucky.”
He squeezes Orlando’s hand across the table. “You’ll be lucky, Orli.”
Outside the rain has stopped. Orlando holds up the ring in the light for a moment and then he puts it back into the box.
Ian nervously rubs the hand he is holding. “You see… it was my father’s.”
Orlando simply nods and pockets the box. He smiles warmly and it’s like a wave, filling Ian’s void and washing away all that was bitter.
The End.
Notes:
1. From what my research has taught me, instant pregnancy tests only became available after this story took place. In 1972 you still had to wait a couple of days while the urine was tested.
2. Sutcliffe was Ian’s mother’s name and the name he originally planned to use as a stage name.
3. On Ian’s website it says that when his relationship ended in 1972 he “bought his first house at 17, Camberwell Grove where he lived alone for eight years.”
