| Details for Family Reunion |
| Summary: | American brothers reunite in London after years apart. |
| Date: | 26 August, 1939 |
| Location: | Hyde Park, London |
| Related: | — |
| Characters |
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It's a warm day in London. Not too warm, though. Enough that one could set out with a light jacket and not regret it. Hyde Park is busy with children spending the last free days of the summers running here and there on their little adventures. Among the park's patrons walks Detective Inspector James Shaughnessy, casting a mean shadow everywhere he walks. The large, rigid man walks down a pathway, a brown paper bag clutched in his hand.
Coming to a halt in front of a park bench he leans over and brushes a few fallen leaves from its surface before he has a seat, setting the bag down beside him. He sets quietly for a moment, hands resting on his knees and a stern, cold gaze keeping an eye out for wrong-doers, even in this harmless part of the city.
An unobtrusive figured lingers nearby. It has been lingering for most of the day, first outside the police station, then quietly shadowing James's path to the park. To the average onlooker, he's just another face in the crowd. Though if anyone were to really give him a second look, they might get a sense of foreboding. There is something sinister about this man.
With James finally seated and stationary, the figure strides closer, approaching the intimidating detective. He reaches into the flap of his jacket…and takes out a cigarette case as he sits down right beside James. "Hello, Jimmy."
A brief moment passes before James turns his head to confirm the stranger's identity, his thin lips pursing together. Another, longer moment passes before he says, matter-of-factly "I only brought the one sandwich."
Charlie flashes a broad, charming smile, chuckling quietly. "That's it? It's been half a decade, here I am in London, and that's all you can say? C'mon, Jimmy. Tell me you're not the least bit excited to see me." He frowns and holds up a finger. "Let me rephrase. Tell me you're not at least interested in the fact that I'm here."
"I was merely putting to bed any notions you had divined of enjoying a sandwich," James responds, unrolling the top of his bag and sliding out a sandwich wrapped in a few napkins. "You can have the apple," he concedes.
After taking a bite of Linda's passable chicken salad sandwich, he looks over to Charlie, swallowing his mouthful before stating, "Your presence is interesting, Charles. Would you care to explain it?"
Charlie shrugs and takes the apple nonchalantly, as if he weren't dying for something to eat. Crunching a bite, he leans back on the bench, one arm behind James. "My sentence was up in March. So, naturally, I went looking for my only remaining blood: my dear brother. But what do I find? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Fortunately, I've got an buddy in the post office, who tells me that you used to get your mail forwarded to Merry Ol' England. Imagine my surprise. Well, ten years in the clink is a long time, and my prospects in the Big Apple had dried up. I suppose I could've started over there. But then I thought, if I'm gonna start fresh, might as well do it on fertile ground. What better ground than that which my brother is already trompin' around on? So, I sold off a few things, put some money together, got myself a position on a cargo ship heading for London…and here I am." He spreads with gloved hands with a proud smile.
James takes another bite of his sandwich and turns his head to examine Charlie, chewing slowly. He swallows another mouthful and says, "Yes, well, I'm sure that the repealment of Volstead left your friend's pockets dry. I imagine they're all working respectable jobs, now." He dabs at his face with his napkin before he folds the remaining third of the sandwich back into it and slides that back into the paper bag. "And what of you, Charles? Come to find work in one of the many textile factories?"
Charlie grins to himself at the thought of Slim Eddie and Bobby Hannigan doing anything remotely respectable. "Ahh, the Volstead Act. Vaya con Dios." He puts a hand to his heart. "But me? Textiles? Can you really see that? I dunno. Maybe I'll open a laundry. Got plenty of experience at it now." He finally tucks a cigarette between his lips, fishing out a match, which he strikes against the wood of the bench to light up. "You know me. I'll always find something. But let's not talk about that. I want to talk about us. When do I get to meet your wife? Your kid for that matter. I still ain't used to the idea of bein' an uncle."
James rests his hands back on his legs and looks out towards the lake, "I'm sure there are plentiful oppurtunities in this town for you, Charles." His lips purse at the mention of his wayward brother meeting his wife and daughter, "I don't imagine it will be very long from now." Charlie does have a way of weaseling his way back into James' affairs.
Charlie crosses one leg over the other and takes a long drag of the cigarette, the tip glowing bright orange before fading back to smoldering black. He lets the breath out in a long stream of white smoke. "That's good. I came here to be with family, Jimmy. You're all I've got. So how old is Felicia, now?"
"Felicity…" James is quick to correct, "…is eleven, now. As of a few months ago." He plucks a piece of lint from his trouser leg and tosses it to the ground, "She's…getting ready to go to a…boarding school." James nods to himself, satisfied with his deception.
Charlie furrows his brow, speaking around the cigarette. "Boarding school? Christ, Jimmy. You want to lose touch with her? Please tell me it's nearby, at least."
"It is a school in Scotland. I hear that it is quite lovely. The best education shall be afforded to her," James explains, hands set to straighten a few wrinkles that have managed to work their way onto his trouser legs, aswell. Such disorder will not stand.
"You've sure taken to English life. Look, I speak from experience. Boarding school can be…pretty lonely." Charlie stifles a snicker at his brother's compulsive need for perfection…then finds himself meticulously picking a bit of ash from his own leg. "Well, that's got to be happening soon, right? She should meet her Uncle Charlie before she goes. Invite me to dinner. I swear, I'll be the model guest." He lifts a hand in solemn oath.
"She will be well looked after, I'm assured," responds James, looking over to his brother. He breathes a sigh and nods, saying, "I will arrange for Linda to prepare dinner for the four of us tomorrow evening. Is this suitable?
Charlie claps his hands together, grinning with the cigarette clenched in his teeth. "That's fantastic. Can I bring a date?" He lifts his hands in mock surrender. "Kidding. I'm kidding. I'll come alone. No accomplices." He can't quite help himself. "So, what about you? You obviously couldn't go without a badge for long. How is it, protecting and serving for king and country instead of the Constitution?"
James is visibly moving to strike down the idea of Charlie bringing a date, but it's revealed as one of Charles' games and he simply lowers the raised hand and rests it once again on his knee, "I serve the Lord, Charles."
"And I'm sure he's grateful." Charlies makes the sign of the cross — well practiced, but an empty gesture from a man such as he. "But come on. You've got to have some interesting stories. These cops do things differently, don't they?"
"Procedure is the same the world over, Charles. Only the…scenery has changed," remarks James, gesturing rigidly towards the city. "How are you finding the city? I imagine you have not been here very long."
"Got off the boat two days ago," Charlie confirms. "So far, it's not all that different from New York. Everything just feels older. I heard people were all more polite here. But that's bunk. Least the people I've met. Course, that might be on account of where I've had to stay. I haven't got a lotta scratch. Spent most of it hoppin' the pond over here."
"Yes. The trip here is expensive," James muses before breathing a sigh and slipping his wallet from his breast pocket. He slides a ten pound note from the wallet and offers it over to Charlie, saying, "Make it last, Charles. That should cover rent at some place reasonable for a month and allow for some groceries."
Charlie flashes that charming smile, taking the note between two fingers, folding it neatly as it vanishes into a pocket. "I knew I could count on you, Jimmy. I'll pay you back just as soon as I'm on my feet." A oft-given promise, rarely fulfilled. "Listen, I've gotta take a powder. But I'll be there tomorrow night. Say, does Linda drink wine?" He'll just assume James will abstain.
"I am sure you will, Charles." At the posed question, James' eyes move to Charlie's pocket and the larger man says, "That money is for rent and food. Not for any sort of…foul tipple." James dismisses the notion with a stern wave of his hand, adding, "We have milk and juice at the house and those will suffice."
Charlie pats James on the shoulder as he rises to his feet. A bit of ash from his cigarette ends up on his brother's lapel. "Jimmy, this is the first time I'm meeting my sister-in-law and niece. But, fine, fine. We won't celebrate such a momentous occasion. Your house, your rules. I get it," he says as he ponders whether a red or white will be more appropriate.
James quickly dispatches the fallen ash and stands up alongside Charlie, reaching down to take the paper bag in his hand. He offers Chalie a nod and says, "Do take care of yourself, Charles. London can be a dangerous place at times." After a moment's hesitation, he will extend his hand to his brother.
Charlie looks down at the hand in a moment of uncertainty and surprise. But the moment passes quickly, and he shakes his brother's hand. "If it wasn't dangerous, it wouldn't be any fun at all." He gives James a tip of his fedora as he turns to stroll down the path.
James lets his hand fall to his side as he brother turns to walk away. His brow furrows and his lips tighten as Charlie moves along, but soon enough James resigns himself to the idea of hosting his brother. At least for a night. James takes a look at his watch and turns to move the other way, heading back to the grind.