Chéri was, once again, a strange person in a strange town, in a strange land whose language was not very far from gibberish to him. And yet, just like at home, just like in Paris, there was a language everyone, Chéri included, understood. money. Of that, he didn’t have much, he wasn’t even entirely sure how money works here -it was so different, in shape and colour- but he knew he would need more. Much more.

And how does one make money? One works. Unsure of his English and of the local costumes, familiar with the dangers of the street, he decided to try his luck first and foremost with the local businesses. He figured even here, in the middle of nowhere, there must be someone in need of something. And there was a lot Chéri could provide. So here he was, in a suit too classy and loud for a small Yorkshire town, with his small luggage behind him and the enterprising attitude of someone who is trying to look eager rather than desperate.

Maybe in France such attitudes might have paid off, but here, on a slow Thursday afternoon, in a modest English pub with a less than wordly owner, the well pantomimed and mildly shouted curriculum vitae Chéri was trying to illustrate did not seem to be winning him much. 
To someone who is not a French speaker, he was mostly speaking nonsense with an occasional “drink” thrown into it. To French speakers, he was giving a long list of bartending capabilities which were, admittedly, not impressive, but he would perform at their very best, he claimed. He even declared some cooking abilities, which, again, did not fit well with the way he was dressed. 

The Frenchman looked like a young man, not even twenty, slender yet dynamic, light on his feet and blessed with a strong, beautiful voice. His face was filled with vitality, his eyes shone and his smile was inviting, but still, this was not enough. His pantomime was curated and his gesture was made to look capable and strong, like those of a merchant, but his striped beige and Burgundy waistcoat won him no sympathy here. Not even his long lashes seemed to suffice. Chéri was destined to fail and there seem to be only a few sleepy patrons there to witness it.

Tristan needed to get out of the house. The cabinet in his study was properly sealed and he had inspected the floor and the desk to make sure he had left no incriminating literature or letters lying about this time. Still the quarrel with Pippa bothered him continuously. The whole situation was. And now there was his sister to worry about on top of everything else.

He felt bad for lying, but he had told her that he was out to see a patient. Instead he had walked around aimlessly, with his bag in hand for cover. He had finally settled for the pub. He wasn't much of a drinker, and usually preferred to drink at home anyway, but home was what he was trying to avoid right now, and he did like watching people.

The young man had caught his attention from the moment Tristan walked in. Now, as he stood waiting at the bar and listened to the kid trying to inquire after jobs in French and broken English, he felt pity, and no small amount of concern. "Can I help you?" he asked the young man in French. His words came out rather slow. He read French frequently, but it was long since he had last spoken it, and he had always struggled with the pronunciation.

No one he knew went here. It was not that he was hiding-- alright, maybe he was. He still paid the mollyhouse most of his social drinking patronage, but he had found himself drinking alone more than even he deemed wise. For God’s sake, he had drunk enough to rant about his love life to a near-stranger not so long ago! (He had barely been inebriated … while they were still working on the champagne, at least.)

Zechariah had been racing to the bottom of his cup of gin when some boy seemed to, as far as he could tell, be shouting drinks in a way that reminded him of street preachers screaming verses.

Anyone with an education knew some French. The problem was: this was not the most educated pub. Zechariah posed the glass against his lips to look busy, praying someone else intervened. The kid seemed desperate, and he was increasingly getting the impression the only English word this fellow knew was ‘drink’.

Imagine his surprise when 1. someone did come to the Frenchman’s rescue, but 2. it was a man he had decided against getting drunk enough to bed because he had the unfortunate circumstance of being able to knock two brain cells together.

Zechariah finished his glass.

Slowly feeling hopeless, Chéri looked around, in search of assistance, and threw a brief, pleading look to Zechariah, identifying him as the most decent person in the room. But before he could let his eyes work their magic -or at least, try to- an unexpected saviour materialised in the person of Tristan.

Chéri had once spoken no word of French himself and had mostly grown surrounded by people who spoke dialect first and then French, so he wasn’t gonna be bothered by accents, but that was also why he failed to guess the lack of ease the stranger might encounter in speaking another language.

Besides, he was just happy to meet someone -anyone- who could communicate with him.
Turning to Tristan, he offered a warm smile that reached his eyes and made them twinkle. Now cheerful like a schoolboy, Chéri touched his chest and gratefully exclaimed “Kind sir, what a relief to meet someone who can speak!” French. Chéri failed to mention French, specifically. But never mind.
“I am trying to ask this men if I can help with his pub. I am sure I could render myself useful,” he said, showing an optimism he did not feel. If there was something Chéri could declare himself to be, always, was a performer and right now his full skills were employed in making him look grateful to the kind stranger and enthusiastic to the potential employer.

If Tristan would have noticed the lawyer upon entering, he would probably have made a U-turn and found another pub. He certainly wouldn't have addressed the young foreigner. But he had still not noticed the lawyer, which was probably a good thing.

Or a bad thing. Time would tell.

The stranger was hardly more than a boy, both in his features and in his manners. Tristan wondered what had brought the kid to Whitby all alone without a job and without speaking the language. His clothes were decent - he was dressed almost too well for his current situation. It only added to the enigma.

It was almost painful to listen to him talking so naively. And awkward. For now he was obliged to translate and he already knew the answer and would rather not draw the attention to himself.

He nodded all the same and then leaned against the bar to get the barman's attention. "A brandy please. And this young man is trying to ask if you have job, sir." Was it too late to go to a different pub?

"I'm not looking for staff, and I wouldn't hire a Frenchman. Tell 'im 'e can order or leave," the barman said before turning away to get Tristan's drink.

"Ah come on, Tommy! Wouldn't 'e make a fine barmaid with that face!" shouted a drunk old man sitting at the bar. Some men laughed.

Tristan very much wished he hadn't gotten involved. He turned back to the young man. "No jobs here..." he summarized.

As we said, Chéri didn’t speak much English and was acutely aware of how odd he looked as an applicant, but his stomach and purse didn’t care and he never had had the privilege of developing that sort of pride. And while the rest of the conversation was not clear to him, the word “no” sounded the same in French.

He heard it more than once.
Seeing very little hope in this course of action, Chéri decided instead of concentrating on Tristan. At least he had a better shot at pleading his case with him “What about you, sir? May I be of assistance? I do not expect a permanent situation, I am just trying to find a meal and a bed for tonight. I can clean, I can cook, lift heavy things. I can sing, dance and perform some acrobatics, if that could be of any interest to you” not knowing Tristan or the surroundings, Chéri didn’t dare sharing his other talents and what more he could offered: he wasn’t in his best shape and could probably not easily respond to potential violence.

It really was a pitiable sight. The kid didn't look older than seventeen or eighteen. Tristan had been a naïve schoolboy at that age. And yet here the kid was, in a strange country where he did not speak the language, offering work for a bed for the night. The other man's comment still rang in his ears. He really did have that kind of face, and Tristan couldn't unsee the vulnerability and danger.

Yet concern for the boy battled with concern for himself, a nagging voice in the back of his head wondering: How do I wash my hands of this one. He had already drawn more attention to himself than he normally did. And far more than he was comfortable with.

A performer too. He could read between the lines. What had he gotten himself into? He needed to distance himself from this kid and his situation as fast as possible.

"Yer drink!" shouted the barman before Tristan could answer the young man. "Ask 'im what 'e's having or tell 'im to go somewhere else!"

He looked at the barman confused, lost as to how to handle the situation. "The same."

Bad idea. Bad. But what could he do? He could just hand the kid the drink, pay for it, and then walk away.

He looked at the kid. "Have you tried the papers?" he evaded the request.

Had Chéri understood, he probably would have personally tried to push for the creation of a barmaid position just for him, but he lacked the skills for it, entirely. And his face, this time, wasn’t enough.

Maybe he could even see that Tristan was not feeling good about the situation and in other circumstances he could have chosen to act differently, but right now, it was about his stomach and sleeping with a roof over his head, both things he was considerably more interested in than anyone’s feelings.

He was ready to push, but, seeing as Tristan “spontaneously” offered him a drink, he took there was not need for it. Chéri smiled wildly at him. His smile was warm and open, it made his eyes shine and his face look calmer, as if HE was not making a favour to Tristan by offering him his company.

At the following question, Chéri shrugged “I can’t read English, monsieur.” Or at all, but this was additional information Chéri wasn’t going to disclose so quickly.

Was that a man? A woman? A tumtum? Even the voice with its fluctuations gave Zechariah pause. Would it be offensive to offer them maid-of-all-work?

God. He was so damned sick of dust on his suits.

He glanced over his shoulder, watching behind his glass.

He also enjoyed watching Tristan squirm, but for once that was secondary.

Squirm he did, and the open smile only made it worse. "You could try the docks if you can lift heavy things." He doubted it, both the lifting and whether there would be work for him there. But if he had given the kid some advice, he could say he had helped him and ease his conscience.

The barman gestured him over and he picked up the drinks, paid, and returned. "Or you could write your ad in French, as your employer would need to speak it anyway," as he handed the young man one of the glasses.

He made no move to sit down somewhere. He preferred to talk to the kid standing, casually. His eyes passed over the patrons to see if anyone was still paying attention to them.

God, no.