Old-Fashioned, or Another Story With Ghosts

Chapter 11. The lunch is eaten and the next move is appreciated

James noticed Gregory's shaking hand not  immediately. It was a small weekday lunch after all, nothing really special or specific. And then he realised, just as a momentum glimpse, if Charlotte had to be in the same circumstance that long ago, how would the lady feel? He knew nothing about Gregory. And never asked. They had the ghost, and James was preoccupied with it more than he probably should have been, forgetting about the people who were as far from ghosts as it was even possible. 

He put down the glass he was holding and sighed. "I remember myself the first time I was invited to the family table. Being so nervous I poured the soup all over me. And that was seen by the girl I fancied. Still see it in the nightmares. Do you think we should just have tea and sandwiches in the garden?"

"No, I'm fine...the soup is great. I just, well, feel strange."

"What can be stranger than being possessed by the ghost of a dead relative? " James smiled.

Greg shrugged. "I thought you only existed in Downton Abbey."

"God help me from the family." James laughed. "My life is much less dramatic. Do you draw?"

"How did you know?"

"Your fingers. Holding the tip of your pencil too close. My mother had the same fingers."

"Lucky her."

Greg wanted to put the spoon down staring blank on the grey spots on the index finger and the thumb. But he wasn't sure where exactly he should put it, so he kept it. Something was strange about James' question. He didn't answer about Oxford library. Instead, he asked. Why would he ask? Because he was a polite gent? Should be it. There couldn't be any other reason, right?

Greg wasn't asked often about such things. He had friends, of course. He had a traditional female best friend but she was long ago in Edinburgh studying UX. Not a lot of time, although they could speak freely when they met. It was at Christmas last time. Plus, she's  got a great boyfriend some month ago.

Not many people were interested enough to particularly ask about Greg. All had their own life, and the pace of those was fast. 

Greg realised he has been biting the low lip and stopped. He got a strange pit in his stomach, a wee close to the arousal, but...different. Emotional. 

The uniformed lad appeared, and he nodded to the gaze about taking away the plate with the quiet thanks. The lad waited until Greg placed the spoon on the plate. 

How many people were actually here in the...Wilkins' squad? 

How did it matter for Greg, exactly?

James said something again, and Greg forced out a smile looking up. "Sorry. Can you repeat, please?"

"Are you feeling quite well, dear Gregory? You seemed slightly lost in thoughts. And not the brightest ones, if I may suggest."

"It's fine. All right. Just..." Greg made a deep breath. "It's all right, really. Yes. I-I make some drafts from time to time. Wacom, too, but I like watercolours, and watercolour pencils. Nothing big, unfortunately." He was blabbing. And the next dish arrived, some nicely looking rice with fragrant spices and cheese. The smell was superb.

"May I see your works?"

Greg frowned. "Really?"

"That would be my pleasure. Only if you find it appropriate."

Greg would die for him now. He suddenly felt what those vassals and knights from the Arthurian cycle used to feel towards Arthur. He remained alive, though, and managed to nod. "Sure. Why not. It's nothing special, though. What was your mother drawing?"