Post by lee on Feb 21, 2022 22:03:51 GMT
Secret Files: Batman: 16 B
A Times Past Tale
Gotham City, 1943—
Alfred Beagle stood in the front doorway of Wayne Manor watching the skies. Somewhere in the silent mansion, a grandfather clocked chimed once and no more.
“I do hope Master Dick and Mr. Wayne are alright,” the new butler said. “It is getting rather late.”
A very faint hum coming from somewhere above him drew his eyes upward. A black plane with bat-shaped wings slipped from a cloud bank and passed overhead; the Englishman breathed a sigh of relief. He turned and hurried inside.
By the time Bruce and Dick emerged from the secret passage that led down to the Batcave, Alfred was waiting for them. He had one hand down to his side while a silver tray bearing two mugs was balanced on the other.
Both of the returning heroes were startled to find the man waiting for them.
“Alfred,” Bruce said, “what are you still doing up?”
“I thought you and Master Dick could use some warm milk after tonight's adventure,” he replied. “I will admit, Sir, that the lateness of the hour was causing me no end of worry.”
Bruce took the first mug and handed it to his ward, then grabbed the second one for himself. “Thank you, but you didn't have to wait up.”
“A proper butler never sleeps until his master has returned safely home,” Alfred replied. “I took the liberty to drawing each of you a hot bath, as well. I thought it might be a welcome relief upon your return.”
Dick took a sip of the warm milk. “That does hit the spot. Thank you, Alfred.”
Alfred gave the young man a slight bow. “I also took the liberty of laying out your night clothes.”
As the boy started to walk past the Englishman, Alfred put a hand on his shoulder. “Master Dick, are you well? You seem to have gained a bit of a limp while you were out.”
Dick glanced down at his left ankle. “I landed wrong, but I'm okay. The hot bath you mentioned should help.”
“If you will excuse me, Mr. Wayne, I shall hurry up to Master Dick's room and add some Epsom salts to his bath.”
Bruce, still trying to get used to the thoughts of having a butler, nodded, but said nothing.
Tucking the empty tray under his arm, Alfred hurried away.
As Bruce and Dick watched him go, the boy spoke. “You know, I could get use to this.”
Bruce stood staring in the direction Alfred had gone. “Don't get too used to it. I think if he has to wait up for us too often, he might decide he was better off in England.”
* * * * *
The aroma of fresh coffee lured Bruce from his sleep just as a grandfather clock struck nine. He was starting to sit up when he heard a soft knock on his door.
“Come in.”
The door swung in and Alfred entered carrying a tray. “Your morning coffee, Sir, and your morning paper.”
“Uh, thank you.”
Alfred set the tray across Bruce's lap and moved to open the curtains. As he passed by the dresser, his eyes fell upon a small box. The pause in his step was almost non-existent, but it did not go unnoticed. “Would you prefer your breakfast be brought up to you, or shall you be coming down to join Master Dick?”
“Speaking of Dick,” Bruce said, “how is he doing this morning?”
Alfred moved to the wardrobe and began to lay out Bruce's clothes for the day. “He is already up and moving around. He still seems to be favoring his ankle somewhat, but he doesn't seem to be in as much pain as he was last night.”
“I shall join you downstairs,” Bruce said.
The Englishman looked at his new employer. “If I might make a suggestion, Mr. Wayne...”
Bruce took a sip of coffee. “Yes?”
“If you have any engagements today, you might want to consider postponing them or else you are going to need an explanation for the bruise on your cheek.”
The younger man reached up and touched his face. “Do you box?” he asked Alfred.
“I have had to rely on fisticuffs a time or two,” Alfred replied, “but that was back during the Big One. I also tried my hand at it during my days in the theater.”
Bruce smiled. “Then, I shall, if asked, simply say my new butler was trying to teach me the finer points of boxing and I leaned in rather than out.”
Alfred returned his smile. “Very good, Sir. Do you require assistance dressing of shall I return to the kitchen and continue preparing your meal?”
“I've been dressing myself since...for a long time,” Bruce said, “so, I guess you can return to the kitchen.”
Alfred bowed and left the room.
Now alone, Bruce climbed out of best and walked over to his dresser to see what had caught the butler's attention. He picked up the small box and removed the lid. While he stared at the small locket containing the images of his deceased parents, two words popped into his head.
“Father Christmas,” he whispered as long buried memories returned.
Replacing the lid, he changed out of his bed clothes. Collecting the box, he dropped it into his pants' pocket. With his cup of coffee in his hand, he made his way to the kitchen.
Downstairs, at the small table where he and Dick usually ate their meals, he saw his young ward already hard at work on the meal Alfred had prepared. Before he took his seat, he removed the box from his pocket but kept it hidden from the Englishman. He was barely in his seat before a large plate of food was set before him. It was covered with bacon, poached eggs, buttered toast, grilled tomato slices, sausages, baked beans, fried mushrooms, has browns, and a cup of piping hot tea.
“I have fresh coffee, if you would prefer it, Sir,” Alfred said.
“Tea is fine...Father Christmas,” Bruce said as he placed the box on the table.
A bite of beans fell from Dick's mouth as he looked from Bruce to Alfred. “Fa...Father Christmas,” he stammered.
Alfred walked over to the table and started to reach for the box. His hand hovered over it. “May I?”
Bruce nodded.
Slowly, almost reverently, the Englishman raised the small box from the table and held it on his open palm. Removing the lid, which he placed back on the table, he gently lifted the locket from its resting place. He placed the other half of the box on the table as well, then began to turn the locket over and over in his hand.
“Open it,” Bruce said, having yet to touch his food.
Alfred shook his head. “Oh, I couldn't, Sir. What is inside was intended for you alone.” He returned it to the box with the same care he removed it.
“Uh,” Dick said, “what are you two talking about?”
The memory of the first Christmas following his parents' death was now at the forefront of Bruce's mind. He looked from Alfred to the box, then to Dick ans smiled. He couldn't remember the last time any memories from the first few years after that night had brought a smile to his face.
“It was the first Christmas after...well, after,” he began. “Alfred's father, Jarvis, thought a change of scenery during the holidays might make things easier on me, so he took me to England to spend Christmas with his family.”
[For the full story, see (Secret Files: 1924; Christmas Memories)]
“And you are just now remembering him?” Dick asked. “I don't understand.”
Bruce shrugged. “Neither do I.”
“If I may,” Alfred offered. “When we first met, the Great War had only been over for six years. Since that time, I have had the opportunity to encounter a few of the lads from my time in the trenches of Belgium. Most of them seemed to have gotten on pretty fair with their lives, but a few of them did not. A couple of them seemed to not even know me. When I brought it to their attention that we had served together in the War, it did not go well. Their minds were unable to cope with some of the things we saw, so their minds blocked any memories of the war away. The doctors referred to their condition as “shell shock”. Given what Master Wayne had gone through that night, I believe he also suffered from a form of shell shock.”
“Why didn't you say anything before now?” Dick asked.
“After that first time, I decided it is better to let them remember on their own, when their minds are ready to accept the trauma they have faced,” Alfred said.
“And I did remember,” Bruce said. He turned to Alfred. “When you paused, even for that brief second, at the sight of the box, I wasn't certain what had caught your attention. It wasn't until I walked over and looked for myself that the memories came back to me. Alfred, I am so sorry I did not recognize you last night when you first appeared at our door.”
“Think nothing of it, Master Wayne,” Alfred replied. “As I said, I have found it best to let people who have been through a traumatic experiences rediscover their past at their own pace. What you had just gone through before we met, well, Sir, I would not be surprised if you discovered more good memories that have been locked away and forgotten along with the bad ones.”
Bruce was silent for a moment. “Still, I am sorry I did not recognize before now,” he said. “And I am even more sorry I forgot our whole counter completely.”
Alfred smiled. “Then, let us just say it wasn't forgotten, but merely filed away until a more appropriate time.”
Bruce stood and extended his hand. “Agreed,” he said as Alfred took it in his own and gave it a firm shake. “Alfred Beagle, let me formally welcome you to Wayne Manor for as long as you wish to call it home.”
Alfred smiled. “ Master Wayne, it is so good to see you again.
The End
A Times Past Tale
Gotham City, 1943—
Alfred Beagle stood in the front doorway of Wayne Manor watching the skies. Somewhere in the silent mansion, a grandfather clocked chimed once and no more.
“I do hope Master Dick and Mr. Wayne are alright,” the new butler said. “It is getting rather late.”
A very faint hum coming from somewhere above him drew his eyes upward. A black plane with bat-shaped wings slipped from a cloud bank and passed overhead; the Englishman breathed a sigh of relief. He turned and hurried inside.
By the time Bruce and Dick emerged from the secret passage that led down to the Batcave, Alfred was waiting for them. He had one hand down to his side while a silver tray bearing two mugs was balanced on the other.
Both of the returning heroes were startled to find the man waiting for them.
“Alfred,” Bruce said, “what are you still doing up?”
“I thought you and Master Dick could use some warm milk after tonight's adventure,” he replied. “I will admit, Sir, that the lateness of the hour was causing me no end of worry.”
Bruce took the first mug and handed it to his ward, then grabbed the second one for himself. “Thank you, but you didn't have to wait up.”
“A proper butler never sleeps until his master has returned safely home,” Alfred replied. “I took the liberty to drawing each of you a hot bath, as well. I thought it might be a welcome relief upon your return.”
Dick took a sip of the warm milk. “That does hit the spot. Thank you, Alfred.”
Alfred gave the young man a slight bow. “I also took the liberty of laying out your night clothes.”
As the boy started to walk past the Englishman, Alfred put a hand on his shoulder. “Master Dick, are you well? You seem to have gained a bit of a limp while you were out.”
Dick glanced down at his left ankle. “I landed wrong, but I'm okay. The hot bath you mentioned should help.”
“If you will excuse me, Mr. Wayne, I shall hurry up to Master Dick's room and add some Epsom salts to his bath.”
Bruce, still trying to get used to the thoughts of having a butler, nodded, but said nothing.
Tucking the empty tray under his arm, Alfred hurried away.
As Bruce and Dick watched him go, the boy spoke. “You know, I could get use to this.”
Bruce stood staring in the direction Alfred had gone. “Don't get too used to it. I think if he has to wait up for us too often, he might decide he was better off in England.”
* * * * *
The aroma of fresh coffee lured Bruce from his sleep just as a grandfather clock struck nine. He was starting to sit up when he heard a soft knock on his door.
“Come in.”
The door swung in and Alfred entered carrying a tray. “Your morning coffee, Sir, and your morning paper.”
“Uh, thank you.”
Alfred set the tray across Bruce's lap and moved to open the curtains. As he passed by the dresser, his eyes fell upon a small box. The pause in his step was almost non-existent, but it did not go unnoticed. “Would you prefer your breakfast be brought up to you, or shall you be coming down to join Master Dick?”
“Speaking of Dick,” Bruce said, “how is he doing this morning?”
Alfred moved to the wardrobe and began to lay out Bruce's clothes for the day. “He is already up and moving around. He still seems to be favoring his ankle somewhat, but he doesn't seem to be in as much pain as he was last night.”
“I shall join you downstairs,” Bruce said.
The Englishman looked at his new employer. “If I might make a suggestion, Mr. Wayne...”
Bruce took a sip of coffee. “Yes?”
“If you have any engagements today, you might want to consider postponing them or else you are going to need an explanation for the bruise on your cheek.”
The younger man reached up and touched his face. “Do you box?” he asked Alfred.
“I have had to rely on fisticuffs a time or two,” Alfred replied, “but that was back during the Big One. I also tried my hand at it during my days in the theater.”
Bruce smiled. “Then, I shall, if asked, simply say my new butler was trying to teach me the finer points of boxing and I leaned in rather than out.”
Alfred returned his smile. “Very good, Sir. Do you require assistance dressing of shall I return to the kitchen and continue preparing your meal?”
“I've been dressing myself since...for a long time,” Bruce said, “so, I guess you can return to the kitchen.”
Alfred bowed and left the room.
Now alone, Bruce climbed out of best and walked over to his dresser to see what had caught the butler's attention. He picked up the small box and removed the lid. While he stared at the small locket containing the images of his deceased parents, two words popped into his head.
“Father Christmas,” he whispered as long buried memories returned.
Replacing the lid, he changed out of his bed clothes. Collecting the box, he dropped it into his pants' pocket. With his cup of coffee in his hand, he made his way to the kitchen.
Downstairs, at the small table where he and Dick usually ate their meals, he saw his young ward already hard at work on the meal Alfred had prepared. Before he took his seat, he removed the box from his pocket but kept it hidden from the Englishman. He was barely in his seat before a large plate of food was set before him. It was covered with bacon, poached eggs, buttered toast, grilled tomato slices, sausages, baked beans, fried mushrooms, has browns, and a cup of piping hot tea.
“I have fresh coffee, if you would prefer it, Sir,” Alfred said.
“Tea is fine...Father Christmas,” Bruce said as he placed the box on the table.
A bite of beans fell from Dick's mouth as he looked from Bruce to Alfred. “Fa...Father Christmas,” he stammered.
Alfred walked over to the table and started to reach for the box. His hand hovered over it. “May I?”
Bruce nodded.
Slowly, almost reverently, the Englishman raised the small box from the table and held it on his open palm. Removing the lid, which he placed back on the table, he gently lifted the locket from its resting place. He placed the other half of the box on the table as well, then began to turn the locket over and over in his hand.
“Open it,” Bruce said, having yet to touch his food.
Alfred shook his head. “Oh, I couldn't, Sir. What is inside was intended for you alone.” He returned it to the box with the same care he removed it.
“Uh,” Dick said, “what are you two talking about?”
The memory of the first Christmas following his parents' death was now at the forefront of Bruce's mind. He looked from Alfred to the box, then to Dick ans smiled. He couldn't remember the last time any memories from the first few years after that night had brought a smile to his face.
“It was the first Christmas after...well, after,” he began. “Alfred's father, Jarvis, thought a change of scenery during the holidays might make things easier on me, so he took me to England to spend Christmas with his family.”
[For the full story, see (Secret Files: 1924; Christmas Memories)]
“And you are just now remembering him?” Dick asked. “I don't understand.”
Bruce shrugged. “Neither do I.”
“If I may,” Alfred offered. “When we first met, the Great War had only been over for six years. Since that time, I have had the opportunity to encounter a few of the lads from my time in the trenches of Belgium. Most of them seemed to have gotten on pretty fair with their lives, but a few of them did not. A couple of them seemed to not even know me. When I brought it to their attention that we had served together in the War, it did not go well. Their minds were unable to cope with some of the things we saw, so their minds blocked any memories of the war away. The doctors referred to their condition as “shell shock”. Given what Master Wayne had gone through that night, I believe he also suffered from a form of shell shock.”
“Why didn't you say anything before now?” Dick asked.
“After that first time, I decided it is better to let them remember on their own, when their minds are ready to accept the trauma they have faced,” Alfred said.
“And I did remember,” Bruce said. He turned to Alfred. “When you paused, even for that brief second, at the sight of the box, I wasn't certain what had caught your attention. It wasn't until I walked over and looked for myself that the memories came back to me. Alfred, I am so sorry I did not recognize you last night when you first appeared at our door.”
“Think nothing of it, Master Wayne,” Alfred replied. “As I said, I have found it best to let people who have been through a traumatic experiences rediscover their past at their own pace. What you had just gone through before we met, well, Sir, I would not be surprised if you discovered more good memories that have been locked away and forgotten along with the bad ones.”
Bruce was silent for a moment. “Still, I am sorry I did not recognize before now,” he said. “And I am even more sorry I forgot our whole counter completely.”
Alfred smiled. “Then, let us just say it wasn't forgotten, but merely filed away until a more appropriate time.”
Bruce stood and extended his hand. “Agreed,” he said as Alfred took it in his own and gave it a firm shake. “Alfred Beagle, let me formally welcome you to Wayne Manor for as long as you wish to call it home.”
Alfred smiled. “ Master Wayne, it is so good to see you again.
The End
