59Prompter: Nenabaez
Prompt: I have one question, because I finished reading TTWLB for the second time, does John smokes while working? I ask because I know I feel like having a cigar after finish making a song! XD I can imagine Clara forcing him to stop because of the smell filling up some rooms! I know it bothers... And later the children you know! can't smoke with kids around!
Originally posted: 28 December 2019
Notes: 3981 words; this was kind of hiding in my inbox for three and a half years and idk how I didn't see it until recently but I figured why the frick not; since John is more a social smoker if he smokes at all, it takes place in four parts: 1916 (when John is 24), 1924 (32), 1940 (48), and 1948 (56); I personally do not condone the inhalation of any type of smoke, discourage the start of said habit, and wholeheartedly encourage anyone who does smoke to take steps towards quitting (I partially grew up in a veterans' club, so I have personally seen the long-term effects of a lot of things regarding this stance), but we are also talking about fic set in a time when licensed medical doctors legit thought smoking would relax the throat and therefore be beneficial and shit like that, though we thankfully know better now; contains era-appropriate attitudes and language; I wanted to make this nice and long because I just love this AU so much you guys
Chapter Forty-Two: A Social Vice
1916
It was a gorgeous day, all things considered. Had it not been for the shelling all morning and earlier that afternoon—up until twenty minutes beforehand—John could have almost seen it as pleasant. Clear, blue skies, white fluffy clouds in the distance, and Springtime on the Continent—it was just a shame it was being ruined by war. They were in a break now, allowing soldiers on either side some time to clean up the messes and bodies and whatnot that had been piling up for the past week… week and a half… he wasn't entirely sure anymore how long that particular offensive had been going on. John himself was sitting down, leaning up against the wooden trench wall as he stared off into nothingness, duties far behind him.
"Oi, mate." A voice snapped him out of his daze; it was a man about his age, holding out a cigarette packet, one already dangling from his lips. "Picked 'em off a frog who don't need them no more. Only two in there; might as well not be greedy."
"You got a match?"
"O'course." The man crouched down next to John and handed him the box while he searched for his matches. "Where's your kilt?"
"Pardon?"
"You're a Scot—where's your kilt?"
"In my kit bag—prefer trousers when on holiday."
"Bloody 'ell; a comedian." The man found his matchbook and waited until John had the other cigarette in his mouth. He struck one, the both of them using the same flame to light their small stick of paper and tobacco. "Hope it's not your last."
"Likewise."
The other man left, John remaining in his spot. He breathed in, feeling the smoke fill his lungs, and watched as it billowed when he breathed out. Holding it between his fingers, he flicked off some ash from the end, frowning.
When did he first make it out to the Continent? How long had this war been going on? He looked at the cigarette before putting it back between his lips—it reminded him of so much that he had left behind. Late nights in art school, working alongside mates he hadn't seen in years; the local by his granny's house, where he would occasionally spend summer mornings as a child cleaning up; leathery old crones haunting the neighborhood and their croaking, ground-up voices. It was the languid, agonizing feel of slowly choking on air, no matter how deeply he breathed in. He took another drag and coughed it all out—there was a reason he never did this often.
"Smith, get your arse over here!" shouted someone. John looked to his right and saw a corporal waving him down. Aching as he stood, he forced himself to comply with the order, hefting his rifle over his shoulder and jogging around the bend. He followed the corporal to where there was a medical bunker, brimming with chaos. "Dump your gear and help me get some of these men over towards the med tent. They're setting up a couple kilos from here."
"Yes, sir."
John looked down at the soldier laying on the nearest litter as he put down his pack and rifle—the lad's legs had been blasted off and he was shivering severely.
"Here—you need this more than me." He bent down, took the cigarette from his lips, and placed it between the soldier's. The lad was barely able to nod appreciatively before John and the corporal began to carry him out of the bunker and through the trench. They got all the way to the Red Cross tent before they realized it was all for naught.
"Shit, he's dead," the corporal realized. The French nurse who they were passing the lad off to was shaking her head solemnly as she closed the soldier's eyes. Ignoring the corporal as he stormed off, John took the final, tiny nub of cigarette back from the dead lad and dropped it to the ground, grinding it out with the heel of his boot—the soldier did not waste his final gift.
"Merci," the nurse nodded. John silently nodded back and left the tent, looking up at the sky. It was still bright and blue and clear; it was still a near-perfect day. Birds even chirped nearby, a sound he hadn't heard in weeks.
Life went on.
1924
"Alright, everyone, lunch!"
John put down his pen and stretched his arms. Thirty-two was too early to begin getting stiff, in his opinion, and the days he was spending stationary were beginning to get to him. It was only a temporary job, however, and in three weeks he would be back to being a neighborhood handyman. He didn't think he could handle processing numbers for the rest of his life anyhow—he could do it, but it would drive him mad before long.
Taking the lunch box under the desk, he filed out along with all the other workers. Instead of making his way to the lunch hall, he went up the stairs to the roof. The building's head caretaker was the older brother of a school mate and he allowed him up there to have a bit of peace and quiet. Few had access, and even fewer took advantage of it due to what most found to be excessive height. He found the bench that faced the Kelvin and sat down, putting his lunch next to him.
"I've never seen you up here before."
John turned his head and saw another man slightly younger than him standing by the door to the stairs. He seemed a bit cautious, as if he'd been caught and didn't know how to be casual about it.
"I know the caretaker," John explained. "Have a seat." He opened his lunchbox, taking out a sandwich and a sketchbook. Balancing the sketchbook on his knee, he pulled a pencil from his pocket and began to rough out the skyline while eating one-handed. The other man sat down next to him, staring.
"You, um… don't mind me sitting here?"
"It's a nice view—be a waste to not share it."
The two sat there for a while eating their respective lunches in silence. John continued to sketch, while the stranger tried his best to not watch.
"Wow…" the other man marveled. "You're really good."
"Thanks—good to know my uni days weren't wasted."
"You went to university for art? How come you're working here then?" John gave him a flat look—oh, yeah, art. "Sorry I asked."
"Better than some."
"I'm, uh, Max, by the way."
"John."
"Then do you keep art up as a hobby, John?"
"No: I used to work as an illustrator for packaging art before the War, but right now I'm trying to get into children's books. It's rougher than I'd like to admit." He added some detail to a window on a far-off building. "What about you?"
"I sound a bit more educated, but it's because I've been running errands around offices since I was fourteen," Max replied. "Wasn't made for school."
"It happens." He finished off his last sandwich and took the bottle of Irn Bru from his box, popping the cap open with the decorative iron workings of the bench's armrest. Taking a sip, he tried to come up with conversation that could be general and safe—he wasn't used to a lunch mate, but he wasn't mean either. "Got a wife? Kids?"
"Wasn't made for them, either; the War taught me that." Max glanced at John, raising an eyebrow. "You…?"
"No. Never."
"…but I thought you wanted to get into children's books."
"It doesn't mean I have any of my own. Writing is a good way to explore other worlds, let yourself be what you're not, change how the rules work, and children are the most amenable to that. They're bright, and receptive, and honest, and if you're lucky… they might keep that spark in them long enough to make the world a better place."
Max nodded at that. "You've thought about that a lot."
"I spend a significant amount of time thinking," John admitted. "It happens when you consider shifting your career goals, or so I imagine."
"…and here I thought it was just a byproduct of the bachelor lifestyle."
The two shared a laugh, and then silence. A small flock of birds flew by and landed on the railing around the roof's wall. John sipped again at his drink and set the bottle down in his lunchbox, keeping it on the even metal bottom instead of balancing it on the bench.
"Am I reading this right?" Max asked.
"Depends on what you're reading." John felt Max place his hand on his knee and he looked at the other man, seeing the wary hope in his eyes. "Ah, that… no… you're not."
"Damn…" Max cursed. He took his hand back and looked away, face flushing in embarrassment. "Sorry. I… shit. Please forget that ever happened."
"No, I won't, but don't think that means I'm getting you in trouble for it."
"Wait… really…?"
"I went to art school; do you really think you're the first man to make a pass at me?"
"Then what was that about changing the rules and being something you're not?"
John closed his sketchbook and pocketed his pencil, standing up. He walked over to the railing and leaned on it, urging Max to join him, before pointing off in the distance. "Do you see that?"
"See what?"
"On the other side of the Clyde, there's the mouth of another river."
"…barely…"
"…but you can see it…"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Just like the River Kelvin meets the Clyde opposite Govan, the River Cart is opposite a town called Clydebank. It's a mess of buildings, and the people who live there are mostly factory and shipyard folk—machinists, riveters, operators, toolmakers—working in their trades nearby. There's dirt and grime and depression; children have little hope of doing anything of note there, because as soon as they are able, they have all that brightness and honesty worked out of them until they're another husk of an adult."
"Are those the children you write for?"
"Yes, because I used to be one of them." John folded his arms on the railing and rested on them, staring out over the city. "I still live there, in my Granny's house, because it's a place to stay, meaning I see my old school mates and what life has done to them. The light they used to have is now in their children's eyes, and I want to write and illustrate stories so they might keep that light just a bit longer than their parents."
"You could have gotten out though," Max noted. "You made it to university and could have went anywhere. Why go back?"
"I'm bad at being a shipbuilder's son, that's true, but that doesn't mean that I'm above the people I ran with… the children who have no say."
"I guess that just means you're good at being a person." Max dug in his pocket and dug out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. "Fag?"
"Sure, thanks." John took a cigarette and the lighter from Max, lighting his before passing the device back. "Can I ask a question?"
"Since we're sharing? Yeah."
"How did the War teach you that you weren't made to have a wife and kids, as you put it?"
Max snorted, almost letting his cigarette drop to the street below. "Grew up not knowing why I was bored by all the girls, but stick me in those trenches with a bunch of other filthy, desperate, randy blokes and I found my true calling."
"Secret company girlfriend?"
"Secret company boyfriend; you're missing out on being treated like the Adonis you are."
"I'm flattered, truly," John chuckled. He took a deep breath and blew out smoke, watching it dissipate in the wind. "There's a lass out there for me—there's just so many I don't know where to look."
"She'll come to you," Max said. "At least, I hope she does."
"Thanks, mate. I hope likewise for you."
Late August 1940
It was dark as John stumbled his way home. The lack of street lamps made it so that he was going by the light of the partial moon and stars, the likes of which did not illuminate the pavement quite the same. He tried to not trip and fall, failing as he caught himself on a fence and one of the unlit aforementioned lampposts, making it back home to Wissforn without too many tumbles.
"Clara…?" he called out blearily as he entered the house. "You here?"
"Sitting room," she replied. He found her working at the coffee table, settled down on the rug so as to work somewhat more comfortably. One look at him and she chuckled. "Have a good time tonight?"
"The only way I could have had a better time was if I was with you," he claimed.
"Oh, you really must be drunk then," she laughed. She watched as he made his way around the table and over to her side, almost tripping over himself in the process. He did knock his knee on the couch arm, but after a moment of cursing inwardly he sat down next to her, leaning over so that he could place his head on her shoulder.
"Do you know where you're going to write next?" he asked.
"Kinlochleven." She picked up a map and held it so that he could see, pointing to a dot located in the western Highlands. "There's a sea loch, fresh mountain air, everyone has electric, post is regular… it'll be perfect."
"Not as perfect as you."
"Flatterer," she said. She put down the map and continued to go over the potential mailing list. "Did you give Richard my regrets for missing his retirement party?"
"He understands—you do important work getting those wee rascals out of harm's way. It's another full-time job itself."
"Glad you all understand." A foul odor reached her nose and she sniffed, crinkling her nose. "Ugh… what were they smoking at the pub…?"
"Travis brought in Cuban cigars he got before the War—wanted to get rid of them before they got too tempting and decided this was just the occasion."
"Too tempting?" Clara turned her head and John pressed a kiss to her lips, the smell and taste of what she now knew to be cigar on his breath. She gagged and coughed as she scurried away, able to escape her inebriated husband's grasp easily. Standing by the door, she was ready to dash upstairs should he catch a second wind. "That is gross, John. No wonder the stink on you is stronger tonight."
"Have you ever been offered a Cuban cigar? You can't turn it down!"
"Uh, yes. You can."
"No, you can't."
"Yes, you can. Now wash out your mouth or you're sleeping on the couch tonight."
"You wouldn't do that to me." John held his arms open, silently begging for a cuddle. Instead of complying, Clara quickly gathered her work and walked out of the sitting room, headed immediately up the stairs.
"Good night, John Smith. I hope the night chill keeps you company."
"Clara, wait…!" John flailed about as he tried to stand up, yet couldn't due to his drunken state. By the time he was finished crawling up the stairs, he saw Clara's arms dropping his pajamas to the floor and disappearing as she shut the door. He went to go open it, finding that the knob wouldn't even turn.
She locked him out.
"Clara…" he whined. "Clara, please…"
"No," she replied from behind the wooden barrier. "Maybe this will teach you to not smoke and then expect to come home to a warm bed."
"It's not like I'm always smoking… that's just the lads on break or at the pub… you even sit in the smoke at the pub…"
"…and even I have to step out often if it's thick enough in there, just so I don't pass out from asphyxiation," she reminded him. "Now good night."
"Clara…"
No answer.
"Claaaaraaa…"
Still nothing.
Groaning dejectedly, John gathered his clothes from the floor and nearly fell down the stairs as he went towards the sitting room. Once he was certain the drapes were firmly closed, he stripped down and changed into his pajamas, piling his pub-worn clothes in a pile in the corner, figuring it was just his luck that he married a woman who was ready to deny his rare social vice. After eating a sandwich, he piled cushions on one end of the couch and pulled the large-stitched crocheted blanket from the back, doubling it over so he had a chance of possibly staying warm. Who the hell made a blanket with holes on purpose? It was confusing and slightly infuriating, but then again… it wasn't like he had much of a choice.
Ah, it was probably better in the long-run for him to not smoke anyhow, he groggily thought as he drifted off towards sleep. Clara was right—it was plenty of wasted money and trouble in the long-run. He wasn't about to admit it anytime soon, however, as the last thing he wanted to do was fuel her ego.
Wait… did he want to fuel her ego? It was a lovely sight when the thing was fed. She'd get this look in her eyes, so attractive, that it made him aroused as he imagined that glint, the way her mouth would turn upwards just so, how her lashes would flutter in smugness.
John Smith fell asleep to the thought of his wife that night, and as stimulating a thought it was, it was no match for the woman in question, sitting up in bed as she finished her work for the evening. Clara Smith knew she was being drastic, though it was a point she was more than willing to be drastic about.
October 1948
"I've been meaning to tell you, by the way: congratulations."
John glanced up from the notes he was taking and saw Mr. Brown opening his cigar box. They had been in the middle of an editorial meeting, where Teatime with Timmy was being gone over with a fine-toothed comb so as to make certain it would be as big of a hit as Kittens Come Home.
"Pardon?"
"Elizabeth told me your wife had her baby—congratulations. Have a cigar."
"Why thank you." John hesitated for a second, then took a cigar. They lit them, enjoying the calm yet celebratory moment, two middle-aged men who now both knew what fatherhood was like. "I never thought I'd get here."
"That's a loaded statement."
"It's a true one though. I still now have Clara and the baby, and that's what matters."
"Boy or girl?"
"Boy: David James."
"You must be proud, getting a son on the first try."
"I would have been proud to have gotten a healthy child our first time. Davey is healthy though, and Clara and I are both glad for that."
Mr. Brown puffed on his cigar as he processed John's words and nodded. "What was it? Measles? Croup? Pneumonia?"
"Born too early." John looked at the cigar in his hand, pensive. "She would have started school this year."
"Just wait until your son does—you'll be so caught up in everything he's doing that the bittersweet feeling shall… well… not necessarily fade, but at least be blunted."
"It might, it might not… all I know is that we've been very lucky I have a job I mostly do at home so we can both get some sleep now and then."
"I don't know what possessed you to do it, Smith," Mr. Brown chuckled, shaking his head. "Your wife is young and pretty; don't you want to enjoy that without the threat of being walked in on by a sleepy child afraid of a shadow on the wall?"
"Mr. Brown, I'm a children's author. Don't you think that if I didn't have kids already, that I might want kids now, especially since I do have a wife young enough to have them?"
"Writing for children and having them running all around your house, getting into everything and interrupting at any and every occasion, are two completely different things."
"While this is true, this doesn't take away from the fact I write children's books, Clara is a schoolteacher by profession and worked as such the entire time we were in Glasgow, and now we are in an environment that is much safer when it comes to having and raising children with less risk of war and want."
Nodding, Mr. Brown took a couple puffs on his cigar. He considered the other man's rationale and shrugged. "If I were in your position, I would do different, but I'm not you."
"This is also true. I can't see you remarrying for anything other than companionship, unless there's a side to you that's hiding outside work hours." John watched as the tips of his editor's ears grew red—he was no good at being called out, Samuel Brown was, and he made note of that for the future.
The two men then continued their meeting, finishing up their cigars as they completed the nitpicking and bantering over the concept of a tiger and a boy being pen pals and bonding over nature and tea. They were able to finish mostly on-time and John vacated the office before it was actual teatime. Seeing the electricity in the air when Mr. Brown was in the same room as his secretary was too much for him to stomach, and was instead rather happy to haul his portfolio bag out to the car and drive back to Grynden Street.
When he arrived home, however, John noticed that the house was intensely quiet. There was nothing making noise in the wash, no radio was left on, not even the cry of his son or the melodic sound of his wife's voice reached his ears. Going up the stairs and poking his head in the bedroom, he saw that Clara had fallen fast asleep—exhaustion for which he could not fault her. Instead of waking her, he padded over to the nursery, seeing that Davey was awake and looking around curiously to the best of his ability.
"There you are, lad," John beamed. "I survived another meeting with the editor—it looks like Timmy is going to Scotland for certain now. Your cousin Donny is going to be thrilled." The infant scrunched his face and began to cry and flail his tiny fists in protest, worrying his father greatly as he tried to bounce the bairn back to contentment. He kissed his brow and paced around the nursery to no avail. None of his usual methods to get Davey to calm were working and it was beginning to make him worry.
"Oh, you're home."
John glanced out the doorway to see Clara sleepily shuffling out of their bedroom over towards the nursery. His heart skipped a beat in panic—he was caught. She popped up on her tiptoes as he bent down to kiss her, after which she glared at him, unimpressed.
"You've been smoking."
"A celebratory cigar with my editor, nothing more," he claimed. "We had one back when I first signed too. Declining would have been rude."
"Uh-huh, but I wasn't around for that one, nor was our son," she said. Clara took the wailing infant from his father's arms and went towards the window, opening it with one hand to let in fresh air. Davey was calmed within seconds and John's shoulders sank dejectedly. "Just what I thought. Change your clothes and brush your teeth—this is a smoke-free house and I would like to keep it that way."
"Agreed."
Truly, genuinely, he did agree with her. That still didn't mean that he was exactly thrilled with the consequences of being caught.
