We'll meet again - By George deValier

Chapter 12

The months passed like minutes, and life was fantastic, frustrating, different, beautiful, everything.

December.

Christmas 1944 was one of the most interesting of Arthur's life. Everything tended to be interesting when Alfred was involved. A gigantic Christmas tree loomed in the corner of the pub, the biggest tree Alfred could find in the entire city of London, which was so large it was squashed against the ceiling and had required the assistance of several servicemen to get through the front door. The rest of the room was covered with makeshift decorations Alfred had strewn around the place - snowflakes made of paper, brightly coloured tinsel, empty bottles with tiny lights inside. Arthur thought it all hideously tacky. Alfred thought it was festive. The regular customers found it all rather strange, but not as strange as the loud American who insisted on trying to help out behind the bar. He was hopeless, but somehow no one ever complained when he forgot to get them their drink or served them the wrong one or somehow managed to spill it all over them. Arthur wondered whether that had something to do with Alfred's missing fingers, or the fact that no one could stay mad at the happy, friendly American for long. Today Alfred was trying particularly hard, and being particularly irritatingly cheerful. It was Christmas Eve and the pub was full of Christmas revellers, including Francis, who had been more than happy to spend one of his last evenings in England with Alfred and Arthur.

Alfred grinned widely as he carried a tray of drinks to the bar and set a glass down before Francis with a flourish. "Your brandy, sir."

"Alfred, that's bourbon," said Arthur, watching him from behind the bar and hoping desperately he wouldn't drop the tray for the third time that week. His already limited patience was being stretched to the limit.

"I asked for wine," said Francis, staring disdainfully at the glass.

"Oh," said Alfred. He shrugged. "Try the bourbon, it's good."

"Alfred," said Arthur, a low exclamation of warning and exasperation.

"Or, ah, I could just get you that wine, shall I?"

Francis sighed. "Don't bother, I would not wish you to hurt yourself." He took a sip, made a face, and pushed the glass away. "Urgh, that is terrible. How do you drink this poison?"

"Here," said Arthur, glaring at Alfred and picking up a tray of rum balls from behind the bar. He offered them to Francis. They were Arthur's specialty dessert that he made every Christmas, and he was quite proud of them, even though they seemed to make even the most hardened drinker rather ill by the second one. Francis eyed them suspiciously. "To remove the taste," Arthur explained.

"What are they?" asked Francis, picking one up and turning it over in his hand.

"Rum balls," said Alfred cheerfully. He placed the tray down and leant on the bar. "Delicious. Really. Arthur is the best cook in England." Arthur's frustration lessened and he beamed happily at the praise. Sometimes, Alfred could be sweet.

"Somehow, that does not fill me with confidence," said Francis slowly, but he raised the sweet to his mouth regardless.

Alfred nudged Arthur with his elbow and whispered with suppressed laughter, "Look, he believed me!" Arthur's eyes narrowed. Sometimes, Alfred could be such a git. Francis chewed thoughtfully for a few moments. Then his eyes went wide, his cheeks turned red, and after swallowing he suffered quite a violent coughing fit.

"Well?" asked Arthur and Alfred in unison. Francis blinked rapidly then turned to Alfred, his eyes bleary and red.

"Alfred! Mon ami!" cried Francis, his words slurred. "Do you know, you really are the most... such a great... you mean so much to me, do you know? After everything we've been through... and only you can understand that..." Francis threw an arm around Alfred's shoulder and leant into him heavily. Alfred struggled to hold him up.