“Objection! Your Honor!”
It took every ounce of willpower Antony possessed not to groan and smash his face against the table in front of him. At best, that would earn him a reprimand from Barrister Edmund Hightower; at worst, it would earn him a censure. Neither of which would get him out of here any faster.
He sneaked a glance at the clock on the wall. The short hand was on the wrong side of the five for how close the long hand was to the seven, and still there was no ending in sight. Damn it all, he knew Hightower and the judge both wanted to get this over with today rather than have to come back on Monday, but up against this pettifogging, pompous, litigious moron, it would be more cost effective by far not to eat into the weekend. Their hourly rates didn’t change after normal working hours, but surely they could finish it faster on Monday morning when they were all fresh. There ought to be a law…
“Overruled.” In the judge’s defense, he sounded at least as bored and impatient as Antony felt. “Continue, Barrister.”
Antony tried not to visibly bounce his leg as he willed his superior to get to the point already. Barrister Hightower, however, hurried for no man nor beast, and continued gently, slowly leading the witness on an amble down Primrose Lane, taking time to stop and smell every flower on the path. Christ Almighty, Antony loathed this on a good day, but today of all days, he had next to no time for it.
Why hadn’t he listened to Gillian? Yes, she’d been quite hormonal at the time, what with the illness and the high blood pressure and the small matter of her creating an entire human inside her body, which was a marvel and a miracle Antony couldn’t even begin to comprehend, but she’d also been absolutely correct: a man who would put a case with a five hundred pound payout above a family member going into actual surgery was not a man with the best interests of his subordinates at heart. He ought to have put in his notice, found another practice, and left this one in the dust at least six months ago. Or, truthfully, gone into self-employment like most other barristers did. By rights, he shouldn’t even have had to work this week, but no, he wasn’t needed, he could delegate perfectly well to his aunts and just go up for the actual burial on Saturday. He might have got more of a response if he’d told Hightower how the old man had died, it being a highly publicized incident and all, but knowing Hightower he’d have dismissed it as a mere attempt to capitalize on a tragedy to obtain some personal time.
“Your witness, sir,” Hightower said at last, bowing stiffly to the opposing counsel, who eagerly bounced to his feet, prepared to cross. Antony bit back a sigh and glanced at the clock.
“Impatient, Barrister?” Hightower whispered in his ear.
“I have an appointment…Barrister,” Antony muttered back. And I’m already going to be cutting it fine.
The jury foreman beckoned to the bailiff, then leaned over and whispered in his ear. The bailiff nodded, then turned to the judge. “Your Honor, the jury requests a recess due to the late hour.”
The judge frowned and glanced at the clock. Antony mentally crossed his fingers. “Mrs. Caldwell, I had hoped to finish your testimony today…”
“I don’t mind waiting, sir,” Mrs Caldwell said timidly.
“Objection, Your Honor,” protested the opposing counsel, rising to his feet. “To require my client to wait a whole weekend in order to get answers—”
Antony shot to his own feet before Hightower could, secure in the knowledge that this part was technically his role. In his clipped, careful RP accent, he interjected, “Your Honor, it would be more prejudicial to the case to force the jury to make a decision based on information they obtained so late in the evening after a very long day. For both sides, and for Mrs Caldwell’s sake, we move to recess for the weekend.”
The judge stared at Antony. His gaze dropped briefly to his tie, then back to his face before nodding and reaching for the gavel. “Motion sustained. This court is adjourned until eight o’clock Monday morning.” He banged the gavel twice.
“All rise!” the bailiff bellowed.
There was a general rustling as the court rose, and the judge left the chambers; the jury filed out next, and the defendant was led away, leaving only the barristers. Hightower gave Antony a disappointed look, but said only, “See you on Monday. Sharp, mind.”
“Of course, Barrister,” Antony said crisply.
Hightower nodded and left; the opposing counsel swept out after him, leaving Antony to gather the last of his papers along with the opposing second. The other man, whose name totally escaped Antony, met his eyes and nodded at his neck with a wry grin. “Old school tie, eh?”
“Always know your audience.” Antony grinned back as he shoved the papers haphazardly into his briefcase. “I reckoned he’d be more likely to listen to a fellow Etonite if it came down to it.”
“Of fucking course you went to Eton,” the other barrister mumbled, then cleared his throat. “Sorry, that was—”
Antony snorted and let a little of the West Riding back into his voice. “I’ve for sure heard worse, mate. Have a good weekend.”
“You, too.” The other barrister grinned. “Got a hot date, have you?”
Antony, who was halfway out the door, turned around and hopped backwards a few steps as he called back, “It’s my kids’ first birthday.”
It was a cold and rainy day; people shuffled along the sidewalks under black umbrellas or covering their heads with newspapers. Antony had forgotten his umbrella in his hurry that morning to get to the bakery and confirm their order before he had to be in court, and he wasn’t particularly keen on sheltering himself under That Bloody Woman wittering on about Hillsborough or whatever else she’d decided was more important, so he turned up the collar of his coat and hurried down the steps, careful not to slip. Last thing he wanted was to fall and break his neck, today of all days.
A battered estate wagon in a riot of colors that they affectionately called the Harlequin pulled up alongside the steps as he reached the bottom, and the window rolled down. “Get in, mate, it’s pissing out there.”
“Ta.” Antony yanked the passenger side door open and threw himself into the seat, tugging his tie off as he did so. “What are you doing here?”
“Picking your ungrateful arse up.” Paul smiled to take the sting out of his words and waited for Antony to wrestle the belt into submission before pulling away from the curb. “Just got done myself, so I thought I’d swing out this way and make sure you weren’t still here. Buses are going to be hell today.”
“Any particular reason?”
“It’s Friday and it’s raining.”
“Fair point.” Antony rubbed at his face. “Suppose I should be grateful. At least I don’t have to run around in full kit jumping out of perfectly good airplanes in this weather.”
Paul snorted. “Take a tip from someone who’s spoken to his fair share of gearheads. The phrase ‘perfectly good airplane’ is an oxymoron."
They fell silent for a few minutes as Paul navigated the hellish tangle that was London traffic in preparation for a weekend. Once they were past Trafalgar Square, Paul asked, “So what time is the service tomorrow?”
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Antony said, even though he wasn’t looking forward to facing the weekend alone.
“I’m aware. That wasn’t the question I asked, though.” Paul glanced at him briefly before returning his gaze to the road. “Even setting aside the Plan, you and Gil were there for me at Dad’s funeral, and that involved dealing with Mother. Obviously Sue and I are coming. So again, what time is the service, and are we keeping the kids out or taking them?”
“Auntie Liz will never forgive me if we deprive her of baby time during the funeral, even if they are cutting teeth. Viewing is at eleven, service at noon.”
“Bets on which one’s comes in first?”
Antony couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t know why you still bother trying to get me to do that. You know the only thing to actually bet on is who gets to the phone first.”
They passed Downing Street, and out of habit both of them stabbed their middle fingers in the general direction of Number Ten. Antony flopped back against the seat. “If she’s there tomorrow, please stop me from beating her to death with a decorative urn.”
“No promises,” Paul said solemnly. “But I will swear blind that her head just did that all on its own. Doubt it’s likely, though. She visited that kid, she’s done her duty. By the way, remind me, I’ve got a copy of that card for you and Gillian each to keep in your wallets.” He slammed his hand down on the horn and spat a blistering string of invective towards the driver who had just cut him off.
“Good. We’re clearly going to need it.” Antony reached for the Jesus strap.
They made it to St Pancras with just enough time to get their tickets before their train pulled out of the station, and two hours later they stepped out onto the platform in Sheffield. Antony had assumed they would need to catch a cab, but a gruff voice called his name and he turned in surprise to see his grandfather rising from his seat and folding up a newspaper.
“Gramps, didn’t expect to see you here.” Antony gave the old man a tight hug.
“Where else would I be?” Arnie King, the prototype of a Yorkshire miner and still spry despite closing in on a hundred, hugged him back so hard he felt his spine rearrange itself, then turned to give the same embrace to Paul. “Good to see you, too, ye tall bastard.”
“Good to see you, too, Gramps.” Paul, who may not have been as strong or wiry as Arnie but at least could hold his own against him better than a junior barrister, hugged him back. “The girls and the kids get up safe and sound?”
“Aye, they’re all twitterin’ about the place and getting things just so. Hope you weren’t trying to teach them to walk this weekend, I don’t think either one’s feet have touched the ground since they got to the house,” Arnie grumbled as he steered them towards where he had, presumably, parked his truck. “Something to focus on, at least. Why are you dressed up in your funeral best already, boy?”
Antony felt the blush starting up his cheeks as he mumbled, “This is my work suit, Gramps. Gillian brought my suit for the funeral up with her.”
“You’ve got finer feathers than this? Job must be paying well.”
“It was a Christmas present, Gramps.”
Behind his grandfather’s back, Paul patted Antony’s shoulder sympathetically.
The house was a riot of sound, most of it the chattering of women—or, as Antony’s da had uncharitably called it when he’d had a few, the clucking of hens. He’d been the youngest of seven and the only boy, and since only two of his sisters had married—one of them four times to date—and both of them only had daughters, he’d grown up surrounded by women, which was probably why he’d scrimped and saved and put his only son’s name down for Eton as soon as he worked out how to. It wasn’t just to get him out of Sheffield and away from the mines and the steel mills, it was to ensure he was surrounded by more men than women. (In Antony’s private opinion, all it had really accomplished that he couldn’t have done on his own was to keep him from realizing he was bisexual and not gay until he got to Cambridge, but that was neither here nor there.) There was a slightly wobbly record playing on the Victrola, being accompanied by four different voices singing with more spirit than tune from various parts of the house, and Antony’s aunt May was cutting a rug in the middle of the living room with her “friend” Nell.
Antony turned to Paul. “Did we accidentally walk into a World War II Army reunion?”
“No, there’s not enough beer for it to be the Army.” Paul looked around distractedly. “Where are the kids? Or their mothers?”
“Kiss me goodnight, Sergeant Major…” Antony’s aunt Rose came sashaying through the door from the kitchen, singing as she did so and exaggeratedly bumping her hips from side to side, much to the delight of the two tiny tots perched on either one. They clutched at her shirt, giggling in that way babies had that made Antony understand why J. M. Barrie had said the first faeries were created when a baby’s laugh broke into a thousand pieces, as she gyrated towards her oldest sister.
Antony raised an eyebrow. “Found ‘em.”
“Girls! Look who’s here!” May had finally caught sight of Paul and Antony as they tried to edge into the house proper.
“Sergeant Major, be a mother to meeeeee…” Rose casually sashayed back out of the living room. It was incredibly obvious she wasn’t giving up the babes until she was damn well ready to, and maybe not even then.
The rest of Antony’s aunts came out to fuss over him; he bore up with as much grace and good humor as he could, and was extremely thankful that Paul was there to absorb some of it. They were finally released with orders to “go and change into something you won’t be upset about getting icing on” and managed to escape to a guest bedroom. Thankfully, Gillian had, in addition to Antony’s best suit, brought some more comfortable clothes. While part of him would have liked to take a bit more time to hide out, he heard his aunts—and his grandfather, for that matter—singing “There’ll Always Be an England” and knew they didn’t have more time.
He led Paul the back way down the hall and into the kitchen, where, unsurprisingly, they found Susan and Gillian sliding a cake out of the oven, two brown bottles on the counter next to them. Gillian glanced up as they came in, took a look at Antony’s face, and handed him one of the bottles. “Here. You look like you need this.”
“Love you, too, sweetheart,” Antony groused, but he accepted the bottle and did in fact neck half of it in one go. “Christ. I’m sorry I dragged you lot up here for this.”
“You didn’t drag us anywhere, dear, we came voluntarily.” Susan handed Paul her bottle and went to the fridge for two more. “Where did Rose get to with the twins?”
“Has anyone said anything about you calling them that?”
“Are you kidding? Rose has been calling them Nan and Bert all afternoon.” In response to the look Antony gave her, Gillian clarified, “The Bobbsey Twins. American book series that used to be decently popular. I always thought they were dreadfully soppy.”
Paul slung an arm around Antony’s shoulders and squeezed him in a quick hug. “I already told you we were never not going to come for your dad’s funeral, so I know that’s not the ‘this’ you think you dragged us up here for.”
Antony sighed. “No, but great jumping grasshoppers, I know none of you expected us to be celebrating their first birthday up here, with…all of this.”
There was a crackle and a scratch, and then loud applause came from the living room, followed by rhythmic drumming. Susan glanced towards it, then turned back to Antony and shook her head. “What, exactly, would we be doing if we were back in London? Gillian and I would have spent all afternoon prepping on our own and been annoyed that you two were late, and it’s not like we have that many friends in the area who would have come over.”
“I just…feel like this isn’t about the twins.”
“It is. Or at least it is as much as first birthdays usually are.” Gillian took a sip of her own beer. “Face it, these sorts of celebrations aren’t really about the babies, they’re too little to remember it anyway. It’s more a celebration of ‘hey, you managed to keep these fragile little beings alive for a whole year, good job.’ And your grandfather isn’t getting any younger, you know. This might be his only chance to see them on their birthday. The reason we’re up here might be horrible and I feel awful for you—and them—but this part? This is fine.” She glanced towards the living room and added, “Besides, if we were at home we’d be singing nursery songs or trying to wrestle the radio into submission rather than listening to Vera Lynn and the Corries.”
“This is a Corries album?” Antony tilted his head and identified the particular drawl. “Must be a new one.”
“There’s a song about the general election on the B side,” Susan said. She crossed over to the door and stuck her head through. “Oi! Are we ready for cake?”
“Roger! Get the high chairs!” Jean ordered in the sharp voice she hadn’t lost since her time in the WRAC, and from the loud click, Roger—whom Antony still wasn’t sure he should call his uncle, since he was both husband number four and only about twelve years older than he was because his aunt Peg had a taste for younger men—had saluted out of habit.
“Right,” Paul announced as he strode for the living room and stepped in. “Give ‘em here, Auntie Rose, I’ve been on maneuvers for two days and I need my baby fix.”
"Papa, Papa!” Two excited voices cheered in unison.
Antony followed his best friend, feeling a smile cross his face, and entered the living room in time to see Paul scoop the babies into his arms and sweep them over his head with one hand each, much to their mutual delight. He came over to rescue one—didn’t particularly matter which one—and help settle them in the high chairs before their mothers came in and had simultaneous heart attacks.
As he stepped back, he found himself glancing at the newest framed photograph on the wall—the one of his father, grinning like a fool, with a baby under each arm like a rugby ball caught in the act of spinning them around like a helicopter until, as Antony recalled, both had been so overstimulated they threw up. His smile turned a bit melancholy, but he took a deep breath. At least the old man had had one Christmas to enjoy being a grandfather.
“Right!” Liz produced a pair of gold party hats and plunked them down on the infants’ heads. “Where’s that cake?”
“I’m not setting this on fire,” Susan warned from the doorway.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Not at this age. They’re as like to try and eat it as blow it out.” May shooed the rest of her sisters back from the circle and lifted the needle clear of the Victrola. “Go on, then.”
“Here, give me the big plate.” Nell reached over and liberated the majority of the cake from Susan, leaving her to hold two plates with a single slice each on them as Gillian followed her with the rest of the plates and forks.
Susan crossed towards the high chairs and began to sing. “Happy birthday to you…”
All the rest of the family joined in. Antony slung one arm around Gillian and the other around Paul as they sang, watching the two little faces light up as their mama set cake in front of them. Surprisingly, neither one touched it…yet.
“Happy birthday, Jonathan and Melanie…happy birthday to you!”
“And many more…” Edmund, Aunt Dolly’s husband, sang out in a baritone that was surprisingly strong for his age.
May dropped the needle back onto the record, allowing the Corries to introduce their next song before the lilting guitar began playing, and Nell began serving out the cake. Antony accepted a slice from Nell only to see Liz, standing behind her, covering her mouth with one hand as she stared over his shoulder.
“What?” he asked.
“Look at the twins,” Liz managed from behind her hand.
Dreading the mess he was about to see, Antony turned around—and blinked. He could have sworn he hadn’t looked away for more than a second, but both slices of cake were gone. Jonathan was carefully sucking the last of the icing off of his fingers, while Melanie had her plate in both hands and was enthusiastically licking it clean. There wasn’t a crumb to be seen anywhere around either.
“Well, they made short work of that,” Liz said, and now it was clear she was trying to hold back her laughter.
“Did you like that?” Antony asked.
Jonathan dimpled up at him and raised his hands. “Dada,” he said with a winning grin.
Melanie banged her plate against the tray and stretched her hands out, too. “Dada!” she cried, then slapped the plate with an open palm and held out her hands again. Jonathan repeated the gesture.
This was probably a bad idea, but, hell, birthdays only came around once a year, right? Antony turned to the woman who would have been his aunt if the government weren’t such backwards cowards. “Auntie Nell, would you mind cutting another couple of slices for the birthday babes?”
“You’re changing their diapers tonight,” Gillian warned him.
“I’ll change them tomorrow, too.” Antony looked down at the children again, something inside him softening. It would be worth whatever mess was coming to keep them smiling like that. Life would slap them down hard soon enough, but for now, there was still time for them to be innocent and carefree yet. Let them eat cake.