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Title: The Habit of Transferred Affections
Author: seraphcelene
A/N: Based on Neil Jordan's movie adaptation of Graham Greene's novel The End of the Affair. I only caught the last hour of the movie, so I'm really not sure about this. I know that the book ends very differently and I plan to go back and read it. Summary from The End of the Affair. 1,063 words. Unbeta'd
Rating: G
Disclaimer: The End of the Affair belongs to people who are not me, including Graham Greene and Neil Jordan.
Summary: ... love dies, affection and habit win the day.
Henry did not mind about the typewriter in the middle of the night. He was surprised at how quickly he learned to fall asleep to the intrusive, uneven click clack of the keys.
Bendrix typed with an angry fury that Henry found curious. He jabbed at the keys, his heavy, blunt fingers demanding capitulation with a passion that Henry couldn't quite fathom. The sound could be heard well into the night and at first it was an unusual disturbance in the house, echoing as it did through the doors and up the stairs. It took time for Henry to learn to ignore it, for the clatter to melt into background noise that he noticed only when he surfaced from the tangle of his own thoughts.
Sarah always seemed to like the sound, to take comfort in it. It reminded her, she said, that Maurice was indeed in the house even when she could not see him. She said that the sound followed her into her dreams, punctuated her days, and reminded her heart to beat. For that Henry was grateful. For those days he had to spend in the ministry, half-heartedly attending to affairs of state, his mind increasingly distracted by that looming span of time in which he would have to exist without Sarah, he was very grateful that the demanding click clack of Bendrix's typewriter was keeping her alive for one more day.
But that insistent sound was a charm that could not work forever. Henry knew that, even if Sarah did believe in miracles, and even if Bendrix was willing to give it a try because Sarah believed and her belief had once cost them two long and lonely years.
It was the flat, uneven thud of the typewriter that forced Henry to lean close to Sarah one gray afternoon and press his ear to her still chest. He tried to imagine the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the pale silk of her nightgown, but her breathing was so shallow of late that he could not tell. His eyes could lie, after all. Henry pressed his ear to Sarah's chest and there was nothing, only Bendrix typing in the other room.
"Bendrix!" Henry yelled desperately.
Silence fell immediately, that demanding, talking typewriter quiet at last, and then the scrape of a chair being thrust away. Henry noticed all of these things at once, but the moment, his first moment without Sarah, seemed to last for ages. It stretched out in all directions, filling up the room and his head, even the house. The house quiet of the typewriter sounds, but noisy with the sound of an absent Sarah.
Henry met Bendrix at the threshold to Sarah's sickroom, fell into his arms and begged for help. How could he live in a world without Sarah? How could he, indeed. How could either of them?
It began from there.
***
Henry brought tea late in the night when Bendrix typed most furiously, typed as though he would never stop, as though dawn were not on the horizon waiting for Bendrix to notice the edge of gold lighting the sky and to give in to his exhaustion. Henry woke in the night, brought the tea, and then retreated to his bedroom to sleep once more. The door was always left open, the sounds of Bendrix's angry typewriter lulling him into sleep.
They dined together, initially, on dishes brought over by the wives of Henry's co-workers. They were silent meals. Henry stared absently into space, chewed rhythmically, out of habit. Bendrix ate with a frown creasing his brow, his jaw tense, his chewing abrupt and perfunctory. They did not speak, did not reminisce, did not discuss the woman they both had loved or the situation that they now found themselves in.
After dinner, Henry would lie on his bed and stare at the patterns of light chasing across his ceiling. He could hear Bendrix downstairs, typing and eventually he would fall into a light sleep, his dreams punctuated by the sound of the typewriter. Henry imagined that this is what Sarah meant when she said Maurice's typing followed her into her dreams. Sometimes, he dreamt that he was walking and every step was matched by the strike of a typewriter key. Sometimes, Henry found that he was not walking so much as he danced an odd, uneven jig across the pavement.
Henry would wake then to the empty sound of the house, perhaps disturbed by the absence of typing or the gentle scrape of the plate that Bendrix brought and placed on the bedside table. There were always two cookies, whatever had been offered up by the minister's wives. Bendrix also brought a glass of milk. He left them on the bedside table without a word. Except for the one time after Father Smythe had come to visit.
"I'm sorry, Henry," he said.
***
They buried Sarah without the somber grandeur of a Catholic ceremony. Henry was somewhat sorry for that, but at the time he was not prepared to withstand the furious storm of Bendrix's grief. Henry tried to think of Bendrix as Maurice, but the other man had been Bendrix for so very long that it seemed impossible for Henry to change how he thought of him even in this new world without Sarah.
They rubbed along rather well together. Occasionally, they talked over dinner, and maybe shared a glass of port in the drawing room. Henry continued to bring Bendrix tea in the middle of the night, sometimes he brought a cup for himself as well. Bendrix typed relentlessly and Henry sat nearby reading the paper or going over documents from work. Bendrix continued to bring Henry cookies after dinner on those nights when they did not share a drink. Sometimes, Bendrix laid beside Henry on the bed and watched the light move across the ceiling. They soaked up the quiet of the house and on those occasions that Henry fell asleep, he did not dream.
Henry really did not mind about the typewriter. Over time, the click clack of the keys became less angry than they were, although no less demanding. He thought of the sound as Sarah must have, a sign that he was not alone in the house. Henry thought of the sound as a sign that he was not alone in this Sarah-less world. He liked to believe that Sarah would have approved.
Author: seraphcelene
A/N: Based on Neil Jordan's movie adaptation of Graham Greene's novel The End of the Affair. I only caught the last hour of the movie, so I'm really not sure about this. I know that the book ends very differently and I plan to go back and read it. Summary from The End of the Affair. 1,063 words. Unbeta'd
Rating: G
Disclaimer: The End of the Affair belongs to people who are not me, including Graham Greene and Neil Jordan.
Summary: ... love dies, affection and habit win the day.
Henry did not mind about the typewriter in the middle of the night. He was surprised at how quickly he learned to fall asleep to the intrusive, uneven click clack of the keys.
Bendrix typed with an angry fury that Henry found curious. He jabbed at the keys, his heavy, blunt fingers demanding capitulation with a passion that Henry couldn't quite fathom. The sound could be heard well into the night and at first it was an unusual disturbance in the house, echoing as it did through the doors and up the stairs. It took time for Henry to learn to ignore it, for the clatter to melt into background noise that he noticed only when he surfaced from the tangle of his own thoughts.
Sarah always seemed to like the sound, to take comfort in it. It reminded her, she said, that Maurice was indeed in the house even when she could not see him. She said that the sound followed her into her dreams, punctuated her days, and reminded her heart to beat. For that Henry was grateful. For those days he had to spend in the ministry, half-heartedly attending to affairs of state, his mind increasingly distracted by that looming span of time in which he would have to exist without Sarah, he was very grateful that the demanding click clack of Bendrix's typewriter was keeping her alive for one more day.
But that insistent sound was a charm that could not work forever. Henry knew that, even if Sarah did believe in miracles, and even if Bendrix was willing to give it a try because Sarah believed and her belief had once cost them two long and lonely years.
It was the flat, uneven thud of the typewriter that forced Henry to lean close to Sarah one gray afternoon and press his ear to her still chest. He tried to imagine the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the pale silk of her nightgown, but her breathing was so shallow of late that he could not tell. His eyes could lie, after all. Henry pressed his ear to Sarah's chest and there was nothing, only Bendrix typing in the other room.
"Bendrix!" Henry yelled desperately.
Silence fell immediately, that demanding, talking typewriter quiet at last, and then the scrape of a chair being thrust away. Henry noticed all of these things at once, but the moment, his first moment without Sarah, seemed to last for ages. It stretched out in all directions, filling up the room and his head, even the house. The house quiet of the typewriter sounds, but noisy with the sound of an absent Sarah.
Henry met Bendrix at the threshold to Sarah's sickroom, fell into his arms and begged for help. How could he live in a world without Sarah? How could he, indeed. How could either of them?
It began from there.
***
Henry brought tea late in the night when Bendrix typed most furiously, typed as though he would never stop, as though dawn were not on the horizon waiting for Bendrix to notice the edge of gold lighting the sky and to give in to his exhaustion. Henry woke in the night, brought the tea, and then retreated to his bedroom to sleep once more. The door was always left open, the sounds of Bendrix's angry typewriter lulling him into sleep.
They dined together, initially, on dishes brought over by the wives of Henry's co-workers. They were silent meals. Henry stared absently into space, chewed rhythmically, out of habit. Bendrix ate with a frown creasing his brow, his jaw tense, his chewing abrupt and perfunctory. They did not speak, did not reminisce, did not discuss the woman they both had loved or the situation that they now found themselves in.
After dinner, Henry would lie on his bed and stare at the patterns of light chasing across his ceiling. He could hear Bendrix downstairs, typing and eventually he would fall into a light sleep, his dreams punctuated by the sound of the typewriter. Henry imagined that this is what Sarah meant when she said Maurice's typing followed her into her dreams. Sometimes, he dreamt that he was walking and every step was matched by the strike of a typewriter key. Sometimes, Henry found that he was not walking so much as he danced an odd, uneven jig across the pavement.
Henry would wake then to the empty sound of the house, perhaps disturbed by the absence of typing or the gentle scrape of the plate that Bendrix brought and placed on the bedside table. There were always two cookies, whatever had been offered up by the minister's wives. Bendrix also brought a glass of milk. He left them on the bedside table without a word. Except for the one time after Father Smythe had come to visit.
"I'm sorry, Henry," he said.
***
They buried Sarah without the somber grandeur of a Catholic ceremony. Henry was somewhat sorry for that, but at the time he was not prepared to withstand the furious storm of Bendrix's grief. Henry tried to think of Bendrix as Maurice, but the other man had been Bendrix for so very long that it seemed impossible for Henry to change how he thought of him even in this new world without Sarah.
They rubbed along rather well together. Occasionally, they talked over dinner, and maybe shared a glass of port in the drawing room. Henry continued to bring Bendrix tea in the middle of the night, sometimes he brought a cup for himself as well. Bendrix typed relentlessly and Henry sat nearby reading the paper or going over documents from work. Bendrix continued to bring Henry cookies after dinner on those nights when they did not share a drink. Sometimes, Bendrix laid beside Henry on the bed and watched the light move across the ceiling. They soaked up the quiet of the house and on those occasions that Henry fell asleep, he did not dream.
Henry really did not mind about the typewriter. Over time, the click clack of the keys became less angry than they were, although no less demanding. He thought of the sound as Sarah must have, a sign that he was not alone in the house. Henry thought of the sound as a sign that he was not alone in this Sarah-less world. He liked to believe that Sarah would have approved.
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no subject
Date: 2007-07-27 06:28 am (UTC)From:But I loved this.
Even not remembering who the people were and everything. I loved the language, and the way you used the type writer--its sounds, its symbolism, the way it felt to all involved like a living thing. The grief in this was so real but not over stated, and the gradual settle again into a routine felt very right. I guess...it began in a routine, it felt like, and then she died, and it ended in routine. And her death made all the difference in the world, and also none at all. And I think that's how loss really feels.
Thanks for sharing this. You're writing! It maketh me happy.
no subject
Date: 2007-07-30 04:51 am (UTC)From:Thank you! I am glad that you enjoyed it. I started off intending to write slash because there's this one scene in the movie, where Sarah dies and Henry shouts Bendrix's name and flings himself into the other man's arms and talks about how much he needs him that immideately made me think SLASH!! But the movie, and the relationship between Henry and Bendrix was so somber that I wasn't able to quite get it to the point that I was initially planning to take it. I didn't want to take away from the grief that they shared. The closest that I got was Bendrix on the bed beside Henry. Ah, well.
I guess...it began in a routine, it felt like, and then she died, and it ended in routine. And her death made all the difference in the world, and also none at all. And I think that's how loss really feels.
That is exactly my experience of loss. It's very odd, really, because there's this hole where the other person was, but because nature abhors a vaccum it does fill up, but you're always aware that there's an absence. If that made sense. Anyway, I am very glad that this worked. And thank you for commenting even though you don't remember the movie. :)
You're writing! It maketh me happy.
Isn't it insane?! After the pain and torutre that was The Presence of Departed Acts! Although, I totally enjoyed writing this and the Firefly drabble. :)