When Spring Will Bring the Daffodils      When Spring Will Bring the
Daffodils

 by BJ Cochran

  

 

 Disclaimer: Alliance Atlantis own the millieu, I own the ideas.

 Author's Notes: ZZ, who's led me down this path to ruin <g> and is the
best roommate a person could have. I'm very lucky. Anita and Karen/s, who
seem to follow me willingly down any trail where fandom leads me, and for
bearing with me in my first first-person POV story. Something I said I'd
never do. Well, I guess I really never say never.

 Story Notes: Spoilers for the Pilot, Ladies' Man, Bird in the Hand,
Manhunt, etc, ad nauseum.

 

 

 >>><<< 

 "Hey, Frase, there's some kinda trunk downstairs for you?" 

 He looks up at Frannie, a frown mark between his eyes. "A trunk?" 

 "Yeah. This came with it." It's a big brown envelope, Mountie seal in the
corner. He closes the file he's working on and takes the envelope in his
hand. He's looking at it like it's gonna bite him. This has me leaning
across the desk at him. He stares at it, funny look on his face. Like it
scares him. It's just paper--we haven't done anything that'll get us in
real trouble for months now. Okay, weeks, maybe. 

 He's not looking at it like he wants to open it. "Bad news?" I ask. 

 He looks at it some more. "I have no way of knowing." 

 Right. "But you're not opening it." 

 "It's from Staff Sgt. Meers." 

 "Uh huh." Like that means something. 

 "As a rule, word from Sgt. Meers is generally bad news." 

 Oh. Okay. Well, Fraser has the blank, bad news look on his face. "How
come I never heard of him?" 

 Fraser's brow goes up, but he smooths it with a thumb nail. Thumb nail
means worried, edgy. "I haven't had particularly bad news in some time." 

 "So, you want to postpone the inevitable." 

 "Perhaps." But I know he won't. He picks up the letter opener and slices
it open like he's gutting a fish, sliding the letter out. And a key. I see
the Mountie seal thing on the top, but I also see it's
handwritten--strong, blue scrawl. They must learn that at Mountie school,
too. I lean back, give him some space. He'll tell me, or he won't. If he
doesn't, I'll beat it out of him. Either way, I'll find out. Just have to
wait. 

 Doesn't take long. He reads the letter. Reads it again, turning the key
over in his fingers, then he tosses the letter on my desk, taking off like
a man on a mission, leaving me in the dust. 

 Reading, while walking, without my glasses makes me car sick, but the
letter is from Meers apologizing politely, actually saying 'dreadfully
sorry'--for not forwarding him the remains from his dad's cabin blowing
up. That was when? Two years ago? Yeah, dreadfully sorry might not cover
it. But, then two years and Ben hasn't been there to collect the stuff
himself. Must be a story there. Anyhow. This Meers is retiring. Thirty
years gets you some kind of bonus. Your weight in Canadian Tire Money.
That's what Fraser told me once. Then he stood there waiting for me to
laugh. I didn't get it. 

 So, cleaning up loose ends, he finds this trunk of Fraser's stuff and
sends it on. I'm down at the booking desk now, and there's Fraser,
standing, staring at a battered footlocker, looking damn grim. "So, what'd
Santa bring you?" 

 His mouth thins. He licks his lip. He cracks his neck. Okay. 

 "How 'bout you go get your hat and coat, and we get this in my car." He's
still looking at the locker, quiet. I know he heard me, but it's time for
me to shut up and wait. 

 His head comes up, but he's looking at the dirty wall, weighing what he
wants to say. "I'll get my coat." That's what he was working up to? 

 "Yeah, do that." 

 I grab a uniform on the way by and we lug the trunk to the GTO. Have to
shift the shit already in there to fit it in. No problem. I lean on the
car, and wait, wishing I still smoked. I have a feeling that the
footlocker in my trunk is a land mine. Fraser isn't taking this too well,
if the neck cracking and the eyebrow rubbing are telling the story. Dunno.
Another stick of DoubleMint is going to have to do it coz here he comes. 

 Ramrod straight. Not good. Definitely not good. 

 "Okay, where to?" 

 He's looking at the lid to my trunk. Now it's the thumb knuckle on the
eye brow. Indecision. 

 "My place, it is." I head for the car, letting the wolf in. The Mountie
is in the car before I am. Wolf has his nose in the guy's ear, and he's
letting him. I swallow and crank the car up. 

 Climbing the stairs to my place, Fraser's at the rear of the footlocker.
Of course, he takes the rear. Bears the load. Takes all the weight on
himself. Talk about your symbolism. Once inside, I scrape the crap off the
coffee table and down the trunk goes. He starts to say something about it
being too rough an object to be atop my furniture. I just walk away. Blah,
blah, blah--you know? 

 I turn on the kettle, pull down the teapot and the tea. If you can't beat
'em, join 'em. Never mind that a good stiff belt of something strong would
be a better choice. I pick my fights. 

 Turning back to Fraser, he's still standing staring at Pandora's Box.
"You got the key?" I ask. Of course, he does. It's just a nudge. 

 "Uh--yes." His hand is in his pocket, it's in his hand. Reluctant. Is
there a better word that says, reluctant, scared, terrified? Maybe.
Anyhow, he sits on the couch and opens the trunk. So, I'm nosey. I walk
over and look over his shoulder. It looks like something out of an attic,
lined with old wall paper. A couple of shoe boxes. A couple of books. A
wallet, from one of those kits you get from Santa for Christmas, start it,
get bored and never finish it. Except someone finished this, then wore it
out, repaired it, then finally gave up. 

 "Please, Ray," Fraser says. "Come sit with me." 

 "In a minute. I'm making the tea." He nods, and reaches into the trunk.
You don't need both eyes to pour scalding water into china, and I'm
watching him. Out of the trunk comes a ukelele. Now, in theory, I knew
they existed, and in, like, the olden days people played them. Never
encountered one before, but here is one. Fraser put it back down to pull
his tie loose and open his collar button. Hmmm. Hard to interpret that. Is
he getting comfortable, or expressing uncomfortableness? Have to add this
one to the database. 

 He's got the uke in his hand, and he's tightening the strings getting
ready to tune it up. Wonder what that's gonna sound like after years in
cold and damp, but he's tight lipped and he's tuning it. 

 I bring two mugs of tea to the table, knowing we'll be drinking it cold.
He stands up with the thing as soon as I sit down. Okay. I swallow.
Getting worse by the minute. I'd batten down the hatches if I had any. He
walks over to the window. 

 Leaning against the window frame, he's looking out at the street as he
fiddles with the peg-things. I don't think he sees the street. Shrugging
is about the only thing I can do at this point. I sniff. I look inside the
trunk. There's a book I didn't see before. "Twenty Bathtub Ballads." That
sounds hokey. It has that old timey kind of cover, with scrolly writing
and a scratched up picture of the writer. I lift it out. 

 "Hey, that Robert Service, didn't he write those Yukon poems you're
always spouting?" 

 "That's him." 

 Wow, I got an answer. I open the book, leaf through. The dry, crumbling
leftovers of what must have been a couple of roses falls out. They must
have been red coz now they're black and shedding all over my pants.
"Jesus, I'm sorry, Fraser." On the floor there's the envelope from my last
phone bill, so I try to get as much of the dust into the envelope. I feel
like a heel messing with Fraser's memories like this. 

 I try to sneak a look at him there at the window, but no sneaking, he's
watching me. Now I feel like a total heel. "I'm sorry--" I start, but we
aren't on the same page. 

 "They're from a bouquet that was sent from the Gerrard family for the
funeral." 

 That must bite. To be reminded of that SOB. 

 "When spring will bring the daffodils." 

 Okay. That means less than nothing to me. "It happens." I'm out to sea
here. Not a clue what to say to that. 

 "That's where you are." 

 "That's where I am?" Nope. The universal translator is off line. 

 Oh, the book. It's a songbook. The one it's open to is, sure enough,
"When Spring Will Bring the Daffodils." I scan it. Oh, Jesus. Yeah, this
one is special. Fraser must be a mess inside. 

 He's plinking the ukelele, giving it a fine tuning. Now he's strumming.
Now he's singing. 

 "Winter days are long and dreary, By the fire I pine. 

 Spite of pipe and song I weary For you Caroline; As I watch the fading
embers All my being thrills, Suddenly my heart remembers Dancing
daffodils. What mem'ries shrine - You, Caroline!" 

 It's a snappy little dance hall song. I look at the, whadyacallit, music
bars and it's 6/8 time. Like a march. And his voice is as good as always,
not a crack, not a sniffle. It's not natural, I mean, I'm guessing here
that this song means his mother to him. That's a logical flow that even I
can get. 

 The ukelele is a pretty surreal instrument in a situation as shitty as
this. It's plinky, and shrill. When you know what kind of sadness must be
going through this guy's head, it's like that Bunnuel movie with the razor
blade on the eye ball. That's how it feels to me, and it's not even my
mother we're singing about here. 

 "O Caroline, will you be mine, When Spring will bring the daffodils? 
Will your eyes shine with joy divine When all the land with raptures
thrills? When larks arise in happy skies And gorse is golden on the hills,
Will love entwine your heart with mine When Spring will bring the
daffodils?"  

 Man, this is just breaking my heart. I canNOT imagine what it must be
doing inside Fraser. All of a sudden my gum goes sour and I grab a page
from my phone bill to get rid of it. Not knowing if I'll be thanked or
slugged, I stand up and walk over to the window, stop about a foot away
from Fraser. Okay. He's not crying, but he's not singing anymore. His
fingers aren't plinking on the strings no more. He's looking over my
shoulder. 

 "Upon reflection, it seems she was buried rather quickly." He stops, he
swallows. "I'd never been to a funeral before. Never heard the word until
that day. We went to the church. There was a box there, a coffin." He
looks at me then, but he's not so focused, his eyes are back 30 years ago.
"They said we were going to say good-bye to her." He's wincing. "I didn't
understand. I didn't know where she was, how were we going to say
good-bye?" Again, silence. "I embarrassed myself and my grandparents with
my reaction." Another pause. "I created quite a scene, with tears and
whatnot." 

 Tears and whatnot. "You were a kid, Frase." 

 He blinks at me. "That doesn't excuse my behavior." 

 I think we've established that he's unhinged. I'm thinking that I'm
pretty close to knowing why. "Oh, come on. You were six. Your mom just
died." 

 "My grandmother was quite--" Oh, don't say it. "-disappointed." 

 I'm a pretty demonstrative guy. You know how I feel, it's out there.
Can't help it. Not a whole lot of self-restraint. I have my arms around
Fraser before I can help myself. Not that I would help myself if I could.
It doesn't take someone with all his oars firing to see that the guy is
hurting with a hurt like scorched earth. 

 He's as stiff as he looks, his hands on me to push me away. Ain't gonna
happen. Nope. He may not think he wants it, or needs it. But, the choice
is out of his hands--I'm going no where. No. Where. I hug him tighter,
push his head onto my shoulder. He rests his cheek there, his face away
from me. 

 And the flood gates open. Great big gulp of air, and the dam bursts. I
just hold tighter, my hand still on the back of his head, the other one
stroking up and down his back as I let him go to town. My cheek is on his
hair, riding up and down on the sobs that are telling me he should have
cried like this years ago, with his head on the lap of someone who loved
him. Loved a little boy that didn't need anything else but love--and to be
able to cry. 

 I'm not a violent man. Sure, I talk the talk. And every once in a while,
I mix it up with a thug or two, but right now I'm glad Fraser's
grandparents are dead. And his dad. God damn it. Because if they weren't,
I'd kill them myself. 

 There's a picture Fraser had. Got it for Christmas last year, from where
I have no clue, but it's him standing in an animal hide parka between two
adults in likewise animal skins. There was a distinct body language thing
going on there. They weren't touching. None of them. All my family
pictures, we're touching. Poking, grabbing, pulling hair. It explains a
lot of why Fraser isn't good at the touching thing. But, man, it must be
so lonely. 

 I'm rubbing his hair back and forth, just letting him know I'm not going
anywhere, and he's still crying. Quieter now, but he's not pulling away.
He's still in my arms, but his are down at his side, like dead weight.
Usually, the crying thing makes me skittish. Stella didn't cry, she got
angry. That would make me want to make it all better. My mom cried a lot.
Later I put two and two together and came up with PMS. Mum cried, Stella
yelled. But this is about Fraser. 

 And the world of tears he's got here. But he's also pushing away now. Had
to happen. Way too soon. But, it's not like I'm going anywhere, he can
stand up if he wants. "You okay?" I say. D-U-M, dumb. 

 "Not hardly," he admits. 

 I tilt my head. "Don't try to apologize." 

 "I-" he starts, but he understands the look and shuts up. For a minute.
"I really loved my mother." 

 I nod. Duh. "A couple of years ago, when I first found my father's
journals--" he keeps stopping, looking at me for something like permission
to keep talking. I'm looking at him, quiet. That's his permission. "He
wrote about the last time he had seen me, I was seven." He's mopping his
face with a hankie the size of a puptent. "He said I shook his hand,
already a stronger man than he'd ever be. But, the fact is I was--so
scared that if I cried I would disappoint him. And he wouldn't ever come
back." 

 So, he's crying again. Silent this time. I think if he could stop
himself, he would. But he can't. He's rubbing the face with the back of
his hand, then the hankie. I try to hug him to me, and he won't come this
time. Still close, I rub at the tears with my finger tips, just brush them
away. His eyes look so hopeless, such misery. There's nothing I wouldn't
give to take the pain away, to brush away the hurt like the tears. But,
like the tears, there's always more hurt to take its place. "I wish I
could make it better," I murmur. He closes his eyes to swallow. 

 I don't know if it's the right thing to say, but it's the thing I feel
strongest in my heart. This is one of the most beautiful human beings I've
ever known. Good, kind--they just don't make them like Fraser--ever, and
that he hurts like this hurts me in a way that gets me deep in my gut.
Can't say that about another soul. Well, maybe Beth Botrelle, but, shit,
without Fraser, that ache would never have gone away. With Fraser, it got
solved and it got better. And Beth has her life back. 

 So. What I'm saying is: this man is my friend. His pain is my pain. And
right now--we're in pain. My fingers are now stroking his jaw line, nice
and easy. His eyes are closed again, the tears just silently streaming.
"It's okay, Frase, nobody's gonna rag you for crying. I'm the last one you
have to worry about," I whisper, nice and easy. Pretty soon, I get my way
and he's in my arms again. Resting, exhausted, only an occasional hiccup. 

 Don't know how long we stand there. It is getting dark by the time he
finally pushes off me to stand up straight. He looks like hell, probably
feels that way, too. 

 "Ray--" he starts, but I don't let him finish. 

 "Look, Fraser, let's get this stuff packed up and leave it for the
weekend," I say, turning back to the trunk, but his hand is on my arm. He
is pretty insistent. I look back at him. 

 "Ray, thank you. Your kindness is appreciated." Is he blushing from
embarassment or just splotchy from bawling? 

 "It's buddies, Fraser." I shrug him off. 

 "I know," he says, his tongue is inside his lower lip. "I feel very
fortunate." 

 I can't very well roll my eyes at the guy, so I sigh. I'm the one that's
fortunate. Too late, I said it out loud. Now he's hugging me. A big 'I've
created a monster' bearhug. I feel thanked in a big way. My smile is huge.
His is kinda shy when he lets me go. I kinda like it. 

 "I think I need to go back to the consulate to change." He pauses. "I
think I'd like to go out for Italian tonight." He's trying to smile again.


 "Perfect." Don't know how my smile gets bigger, but it does. "Let's get
you into some play clothes and eat." 

 He bends to pick up the ukelele from where he dropped it. He twirls it in
his hands, then hands it over to me. I set it into the footlocker with
everything else, and push the lid down. He watches me closely, but says
nothing. I stand up, looking him in the eye. "I couldn't do this without
you," he says, and he means it. Now I'm choking up. I want to say
something to throw it off of me, to shrug it off, but I don't. He doesn't
give stuff away like this--these feelings from deep inside. 

 So, I take it. And I cherish it. And we go to supper. 

 The end. 

 Note: Robert Service wrote about 1,000 poems, some about the Yukon, some
about WW1, some about love. He did write two books of beer hall type songs
and they can be found at: http://www.ude.net/service/ There are other
sites, but I like this one best. It feels kind of homey. 

 Like it? Hate it? Tell me at BJCochran@aol.com. 

End When Spring Will Bring the Daffodils by BJ Cochran: BJCochran@aol.com

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