Out of Time 01 - Out of Time

things he hadn’t thought of in years. Memories secreted away now spilled out. The summers spent at his grandfather’s knee where he listened to fantastic tales of faraway places. He’d visited them in his imagination, escaping from the cold rigidity of boarding school and the arch pragmatism of his parents. He hadn’t realized it at the time, but he would spend the rest of his life searching for those fantastic places, even if he didn’t quite believe they were real.
    He told her how after his grandfather died, the chasm had grown between his parents and him; and again, when he told them he wasn’t going to be a barrister. One black sheep was one too many, and Simon didn’t have the excuse of being a doddering, old fool. They never let him forget their disappointment. He’d always considered Grandfather Sebastian his only real family, and once he was gone, Simon turned inward. His years at Oxford were empty and lonely. It all sounded so clichéd. Poor little rich boy. But Elizabeth listened intently, without judgment. All these were things he’d never shared, and now, not only was it painless to do so, it was oddly comforting. He wasn’t sure what was more surprising, the ease with which he revealed himself or how much it pleased him that she wanted him to.
    Loving someone and being loved in return was a shock to his system. Like any muscle that hasn’t been used, his heart didn’t always run smoothly. In the quiet of their room, life was bliss, but add in a few outside factors and the mixture became volatile. Fleeting moments of insecurity passed quickly enough, but the next Saturday night at the club, something else came to the fore. Unprovoked jealousy spiked to the surface.
    King Kashian was back.
    Simon did his best not to watch the man watch Elizabeth, but it was a losing battle. He tried busying himself with some new sheet music Charlie had bought recently, when a little man sidled up to the piano.
    He looked to be in his late fifties, but the years hadn’t been kind to him. His legs were bowed and spindley; it looked as if it took a great effort just to cross the room. But it was his face that most struck Simon, etched with deep lines only grief can carve.
    “You’re British, right?” the man slurred.
    “Yes,” Simon said. Why was it Americans felt the need to ask him what was obviously apparent?
    “Good,” the man said with a lop-sided smile. He reached into the breast pocket of his wrinkled coat and took out several pieces of folded paper. “That’s real good. Right and proper.”
    He leaned heavily on the piano and unfolded a few pages of sheet music, methodically smoothing the creases.
    Charlie came up behind him, his usual genial demeanor tempered with a melancholy smile. He laid a hand on the small man’s shoulder. “That time again already, Frank?”
    Frank nodded and continued to lovingly smooth out the papers. “Woulda been thirty today.”
    Charlie gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Frank’s son was killed in the war,” he explained. “Comes in every year on his birthday, and the player sings this song.”
    Simon felt distinctly uncomfortable. The last time he’d sung, well, to be honest, he couldn’t remember. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a singer.”
    “You in the war?” Frank asked suddenly, his hand jerking with a phantom spasm.
    Simon wracked his brain. This was 1929; he would have been in his late twenties during the war years. As an able bodied Englishman, he would surely have served. “Yes, I was.”
    Frank’s eyes brightened with something more than the bourbon. “Maybe you knew my son? Where’d you see action?”
    Simon knew he should have seen that question coming. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “The battle of the Marne.”
    The cyclorama at Coney Island had given him a superficial understanding of the battle at best, but it was, he thought sadly, the only specific battle of World War One he could remember. Shameful.
    “Marne,” Frank said softly. The name a curse and prayer at the same time. “First or second?”
    “Second.”
    Frank’s smile faltered as he rubbed the faded sheet music. “Jimmy was there.” He looked at Simon, a glimmer of life, of hope, in his eyes. “Don’t suppose you ever met? Thin as a reed, all arms and legs and hair like wheat?”
    Simon shook his head and felt sick at his deception, but there was no turning back from it now. “I’m sorry.”
    Frank clapped Simon on the shoulder.