Chapter Text
Anthony isn’t sure who’s idea it was to allocate him the bedroom the furthest away from the rest of the house as a child, but he’s been cursing them from beyond their graves most of the morning.
Now on his 7th trip from his car (which still has a boot and passenger seat full of boxes and bags) he’s growing increasing frustrated by the sight of sparsely decorate walls, crumbling plaster, and threadbare carpets with each trip up the stairs. Had it been this bad while they’d been growing up? Maybe it had, and Anthony hadn’t noticed. Or, maybe the shabby chic look was Button House’s charm these days he considers while eyeing up another hole in the plaster.
Surprisingly his old bedroom isn’t too bad. Stephanie has obviously been in and cleared the place up before his arrival. They’d removed the wooden four poster bed though, which saddens him a little. He liked that bed. He liked that as a child he could close the curtains and block out the world for a little while as much as he pleased. From all accounts its current whereabouts is unknown, Stephanie had mumbled someone about wood worm, which he knew was a damn lie the moment the words left her mouth.
Anthony rather suspects it’s sat pride of place in his brother Thomas’ room.
(Thomas had always been a jealous child growing up and the inequalities in bed allocation - his was a single brass framed effort - had been his focus for much of his childhood.)
Still, at least Anthony has a bed and somewhere to stay. He’s very aware many in his position don’t, some end up in flat shares or spare bedrooms god forbid. One of his friends had ended up in someone’s garage after his divorce. When Anthony had visited, he had been shocked to see his friend slept with the family car.
So, yes, he was lucky in that sense he supposed. But then not many 42-year-old divorcees had privilege of a 200-year-old ancestral home, cult WW2 horror film set, a museum, onsite café, deer park and over 500 acres plus of land to fall back on either.
Most he knew didn’t anyway.
None of that matters now though Anthony thinks as he drags ‘Mick’ his medical skeleton along the 1st floor corridor for what feels like the hundredth time. Button House, and everything it stands for may frustrate him to the point of annoyance more often than it should, but it’s the only blasted thing he’s got at this point.
That and Mick, anyway.
“So, you’re finally back then?” A voice suddenly says, stopping Anthony in his tracks. The tone of the voice is neither a sneer nor a smirk. Instead, it is something in between that echoes down the corridor after him. The crumbling walls and bare floorboards of Button House may do nothing to help the acoustics of the damn place, but Anthony doesn’t need to turn around to identify who the voice belongs too.
He hasn’t needed to for over 30 years.
Of course Julian has found him. Of course. It was only a matter of time before Anthony’s father’s solicitor – accountant – ex MP ‘best friend’ found him.
Anthony just hadn’t expected it to be so quickly.
“Good afternoon, Julian, and yes, apparently, I am back. Arrived early this morning, I’ve been with Fanny at the stables most of the morning,” Anthony answers, turning around to face the man and steel himself for whatever Julian wants to discuss with him.
“You don’t sound so pleased about being back. London not all it’s cracked up to be? Not metrosexual enough for you…” Julian goes onto ask, another smirk crossing his face. “Also, do you really need to refer to your sister with that childish name?”
This time its Anthony who smirks. He ignores the metrosexual comment because what the fuck? “Absolutely, she’s always been Fanny Button to us, the joke writes itself Julian. But that wasn’t what you originally asked, London was perfectly fine. It never sleeps. Did my best work there. Fabulous city. Some of its resident’s, less so.”
“Heard about that, bloody awful situation, nothing is sacred these days, is it?”
“Didn’t you cheat on your wife multiple times?” Anthony snaps back – it’s a cheap dig, he knows it is. Julian doesn’t deserve to be the recipient of his bad mood (not yet anyway), but Anthony just can’t seem to keep it in check around the guy. Never has been able to.
“Repeatedly. Pot, kettle and all that, but still.”
At least the man was honest.
“Did you want something Julian?”
“We need to talk.”
“Who?”
“The four of us, and what on earth is that?”
Obviously not content with bellowing down the hallway at Anthony, Julian has followed Anthony to the door of his bedroom, and is now staring apprehensively at Mick, the full-size male medical skeleton.
“This? This is Mick.” Anthony replies casually, pointing to the figure and giving it a tap on the shoulder.
“Mick?! It’s a bloody skeleton.”
“I’m a doctor. We tend to refer to these every now and again, and this here is Mick. We’ve been through a lot me and Mick. Oddly attached to him for some reason, has his own back story, plague victim, syphilis, liked the ladies.”
“Riiiight. Is it real?”
“Goodness no – wouldn’t that be a story. Can you imagine?” Anthony said with a slight maniacal chuckle. “No, resin, I think. Anyway, you said you wanted to talk to the three of us. Can it not wait considering I have only just set back in the county?”
“Arh, yes, and no. Stipulation of your Father’s will.”
Dear god. “Father died over four years ago, big meeting in London about it, funeral, you invited the Queen if I remember rightly, but she never came, all sorted.”
“Well, yes, your father added a stipulation to his will,” Julian says, arms now behind his back. The posture briefly reminds Anthony of his father for some reason. Pinched expression. Shoulders up. Straight back. Don’t slouch boy. “If you returned to Button House and the three of you began to live under the same roof again it was to be actioned.”
“Okay…”
“The peerage.”
Anthony frowns. “Not interested. Don’t want it – Father wouldn’t have wanted me to have it anyway, you know that. I wasn’t his favourite – I’m sure you were then when he told me – repeatedly. It’s Fanny’s. It’s always and quite rightly been hers.”
“Well, not necessarily,” Julian answers calmly like he has been expecting this part of the conversation. Without asking, he then steps over the threshold and into the room Anthony has spent the morning filling with boxes and bags. “Due to your mother’s decision never to confirm the birth order, we are at a bit of an impasse.”
Anthony sighs. “All this bollocks again Julian? Really?”
“Hmm well, yes. But as it stands the lineage is first male born and as we can’t confirm who that is out of you and Thomas then…”
“Julian!” Anthony is aware that he sounds rude and standoffish but bugger it all to hell. He couldn’t give a shit about inheritances and peerages. Yet somehow, he knew this was going to come up at some point, because of course it was. Lord of the Manor. Hereditary titles. The House of Lords… Closing his eyes, Anthony takes a deep breath, “maybe we could talk later, yes?” he says quietly, his voice a little shaky. “Let me sort out some more my stuff then we’ll gather Fanny and Thomas up and we will talk. Just give me a moment.”
For once (and after a pause) Julian seems to take the hint. “Later then,” he says his face scrunched up like he is chewing a wasp. He doesn’t look happy, but Julian can shove it, Anthony thinks. “I think the others are glad you are back at Button House. Stephanie especially. She has been worried about you since… since the breakup.” Julian continues.
“Okay.” Fanny had said as much when they had spoken in the stables earlier. He’s yet to bump to Thomas. Anthony suspects his brother is performing somewhere for a tour group, re-enacting a scene from the horror film, or trying to regale them with some poetry.
That being said, it’s good to know at least one person is pleased he is back. The fact that Anthony has had no choice in the matter is another thing. Regardless of one’s ancestral country pile, London rental prices are famously astronomical and although he wasn’t on a bad salary at the last surgery he worked at, paying over 3k per month for a small attic room and a shared bathroom was pushing it a bit far, even for him.
“It made sense, given the situation I found myself in,” Anthony acquiesces, daring himself not to spiral into a ‘oh woe me’ thought process – something that’s rather felt rather like a default setting with him these past few years.
“Later than,” Julian says as he takes a backwards step over the threshold onto the landing, not before eyeing Mick up warily. “Maybe we could meet after dinner.”
This time Anthony doesn’t reply and closes the door behind Julian without even a nod.
With Mick safely in the corner of the room - hands on hips, Anthony swings the rucksack off his shoulders and does what any self-respecting man his age does and flops himself down onto the replacement bed. It’s not a fourposter, that’s for sure, but it’s not too soft either. At least it’s not dusty or looks unkempt which is a bonus.
The bedroom hasn’t changed much, not really - it certainly looks bigger and lighter without the fourposter, come to think of it - still smells the same though, not musty or unpleasant, but familiar.
If he remembers rightly, the three of them had caused chaos in this room – a hidden benefit of it being so far away from the rest of the house. To his left he can still see a series of holes peppering the wall from the where the dartboard had hung, and the crack in one of the windowsills when his foot had gone through the wood. The floorboards apparently still creak in the same spots, just by the door and near the large wooden wardrobe and the ensuite bathroom he has his Victorian ancestors to thank for installing is still a lurid pink colour.
It all feels rather familiar and yet new at the same time.
It certainly isn’t a whitewashed wall flat with chrome fittings and a lovely, patterned wing backed chair that he had bought from Next in the sale. Come to think of it, there’s probably nothing bought from the Next sale in the whole of Button House and heaven forbid anything from Ikea.
Anthony spends the rest of the day making more trips back and forth to his car and adding to the worn grooves in the floorboards along the 1st floor corridor while ruminating about the fact he is living back at home.
Maybe he should have stayed in London he considers not for the first time that day. He could have taken the hit on the rental prices for a short period of time, done the singles scene for bit, found himself a bit of ‘fun’. A random and regular no-strings attached shag somewhere with someone half his age called Callum or Alfie would have taken the sting out things for a bit he supposes.
Anthony then remembers – like he always does – he’s 42, a GP, single and these days can’t get through the night without a visit to the toilet.
When Anthony finally bumps into and disturbs Thomas, he is conducting visitor tours much to man’s annoyance. Under the guise of rearranging a box of his belongings, Anthony had stood and listened for a while – it was rather informative if he was being honest given Thomas’ pendant for the dramatic. The film and TV industry, WW2 residents, murders, the middle ages where all covered and he can’t help but give Thomas a nod of sly approval at the purple Button House ‘official guide’ t-shirt he is sporting as he leads the visitors towards the gift shop.
“Looking good, brother mine,” Anthony tells him with a wide smile. “Purple suits you.”
“Damn your eyes brother, damn your damn eyes.”
At some point Anthony remembers he is a human male and needs to eat. He’s not the greatest cook in the world, his ex-husband rather controlled that side of the relationship in all honesty. Not controlled no, Anthony assures himself as he makes his way to Button House’s new onsite café, it was more that Graham was better at it and so Anthony had learnt to pick his battles.
Once inside the café he finds himself being served a homemade lasagne by someone called Mary, (according to her name badge), who seems to know a lot more about him than does he about her.
“The prodigal rogue triplet returns,” she says as he walks up to the counter.
It makes Anthony laugh loudly almost spilling the cup of tea he’s just been handed, “now come on Mary, I wouldn’t say prodigal. Disgraced more like. Lasagne please”
“Nowt wrong with a divorce,” she tells him firmly and with a wipe of her hand on her purple Button House t-shirt. Anthony has forgotten how quickly news travels in small villages. “You’s be a Doctor though,” she goes on to say.
Anthony nods. “I am. GP actually.”
“Are you gonna be working at the surgery with Dr Bone?”
Considering it’s an important part of his life Anthony hasn’t really thought about work – well he has, briefly, after he’d stopped feeling sorry for himself. He needs something that much is obvious – but sourcing a locum position has been the last thing on his mind. He supposes it’s in his favour that after the Covid pandemic they are crying out for GPs across the country so it shouldn’t be too hard.
His basic plan had been to get himself as settled as he could be back at Button House, find a locum post somewhere, move on. But if the local surgery has vacancies though… Also, Dr Bone? Really? Had he heard right? And he was a GP? It was crying out for an orthopaedic specialisation with a name like that. Maybe he could introduce him to Mick.
“Is that what the local GP is called?” he enquires as if that the most important thing he has just been told.
“Aye, he’s a good Doctor as well.”
“I have no doubt.”
“The other Dr left; she wasn’t very good – total bitch if I am beings honest, Alison who lives up at Top Farm thought so and Kitty, who’s one of the nurses there said the same and she likes everyone,” Mary continues albeit now in a conspiratorial whisper. “Humphrey, he be Dr Bone will be up here later no doubt to see your sister.”
“Really?” Anthony eyebrows shoot up at that snippet of information. Fanny hasn’t mentioned a suiter in any of their recent conversations. They've mostly been about him returning to the fold, or how much of a bastard Graham had been, but her dating a doctor hasn’t been mentioned once. The thought that his sister might be engaged in some sort of relationship with anyone brings a smile to his face. She’d rather shied away from them over the years.
“Really, but you haven’t heard it from me. Now eat your lasagne and this time it’s on the house Doctor.”
Anthony laughs, because he’s fairly sure there’s a niche joke there somewhere about House Doctors’, but he isn’t sure Mary would get it.
The lasagne however (and the local gossip) is the best Anthony had in a long time.