by Daria
[Disclaimer: All Thunderbirds characters are the property of ITV/Granada Ventures; all rights reserved. The references to "Wendy," "Neverland" and the "Lost Boys" are from "Peter Pan" by J. M. Barrie, from the version published by Charles Scribner's Sons. (Copyright varies worldwide). This work of fiction is solely for non-profit entertainment. Please do not republish this work without notice to and permission from the author.]
"So THIS is where you're hiding," is my subtle---hardly---way of making an entrance upon him, the young man in question being my friend Jeff's son, John. At this moment, the intriguing, elusive twenty-four year old towhead stands before me, arms immersed in dish washing foam which skims the edges of the kitchen sink like the mouth of some rabid animal. Dark blue eyes peer at me in response, casually surveying me before any response is made. Apparently, this is John Tracy's style, as I'm beginning to learn.
"Lady Penelope," he eventually nods as a greeting, a hint of surprise and curiosity in his voice. "Were you...ummm...looking for another...cup of punch? Is the bowl empty already?"
"Errr, no, actually," I reply, checking my petite, crystal cup before putting it down on the counter next to where I stand. "I have been speaking with your charming brothers and suddenly realized that I'd only encountered four out of the five handsome faces depicted in those lovely portraits hanging in the lounge. I wondered if you were trying to avoid getting to know me, so I had a bit of a walk 'round and found myself here. I hope you don't mind."
"Ummm...no," he answers, hesitantly so, his cheeks warming to a bright peach glow.
I could let this go, but I choose not to. "'No' you don't mind or 'no' you weren't trying to avoid me?"
He again takes a while to reply, seemingly lost in the rinsing process of a rather large steel pot. He looks most at home at doing this, what with the long hose and pistol-shaped spraying nozzle looking like some sort of video game implement. Boys do love their toys, even in the kitchen.
Tree-top tall, bean-pole lean and movie star dashing, John seems to be the sort of boy behind whom you'd see a long line of girls standing with their hands clutched together at their chins, little cartoon hearts bubbling about their heads. At least that's my current impression of him. My prior assessment of him was a bit different this morning as my chauffeur, Parker, and I arrived on Tracy Island via the Tracy's private jet, hull packed full of my perfectly matched luggage and clothing bags. As we prepare to launch International Rescue within the next week, our founder, billionaire philanthropist Jeff Tracy, has invited me to come to his reclusive island home---far out in the South Pacific---to meet his sons, the young men who will make up the key rescue agents of the organization. Each of the boys has a specialized expertise which will add strength to their efforts, while my function is of a more covert nature. I happily accepted his invitation and immediately prepared for my departure. It isn't everyday that one is invited to visit paradise on Earth in style and comfort, and getting to know Jeff and his family better is essential to my role within this fledgling outfit.
Though a widower from the time his youngest was a baby, Jeff managed to raise five well-mannered, obedient children, not an easy feat to be sure, and now those young men have chosen to take on a most valiant mission, that of putting their lives on the line to rescue those of others in peril. It had intrigued me what type of youngsters Jeff's sons are to have agreed to take on such a burdensome vocation, so I've been looking forward to my visit to find this out. The other boys were easy to speak with and to get to know, but this one...? This one is a hard nut to crack, especially when he'd barely lit in the same room with me for all the time I've been present in their home today.
"No, Lady Penelope," he finally states in a borderline snide manner, "I haven't been avoiding you. I simply wanted to help out Grandma and Papa K---Tin-Tin's dad---with the heavy cleaning up. They're a bit too advanced in years to be expected to lift and wash all of these large pots and pans and they shouldn't have to ask for help."
"Much agreed, and that's very good of you," I reply, "but I must say that I'm that surprised to see an enterprising, well-to-do young socialite up to his elbows in Fairy Liquid when he could be relaxing by a tranquil, limpid pool in the middle of the Garden Of Eden."
Looking rather bemused, he rinses a menacingly large Fiestaware bowl and smirks. "Forgive us, Your Ladyship. We're American nouveau riche. Dad's family have been wheat farmers for generations and, before that, Irish potato farmers, until the famine drove them to America. We haven't mastered that 'above it all' thing yet. And I'll take it that your impression of me has changed since this morning when you and Parker figured me to be the 'help' and lumbered me with all of your luggage merely because I was wearing an old t-shirt and dungarees."
Ouch. "Well, that was a rather silly error on our part, John, knowing that you Americans tend to be a more casual sort entirely, but as your father pointed out, it would have been wise, not to mention polite of you, to have introduced yourself at that moment."
He dismisses the comment, much as he did when his father pointed this out to him once introductions were eventually made and my cheeks had gone from peach to red. Thankfully, I hadn't been rude to the boy or attempted to tip him, but Parker, in his usual churlish manner with those he considers to be beneath him, had ordered John about in a gruff voice as if he were the ruddy pool boy! To his credit, John had been thoroughly gracious and accommodating, never attempting to object or to correct us. He dutifully fetched a trolley and caddied all of my many pieces of luggage into the funny little circular guest house, and, in a further kindness, he placed fresh cut roses in an ornate vase on a carved teakwood bookcase in my bedroom as he aired it out. Most impressive and patient of him, indeed, and not what I would expect of the rough and tumble boys Jeff had described to me.
Sensing ruffled feathers, I search for a common ground to smooth things out between myself and Jeff's son. "You must admit that you were more than a tad mussed this morning, John. It's not at all what I was expecting of any of Jeff's sons, the way he brags about all of you."
John's shoulders drop and he seemingly softens a bit. "I had been gardening, Lady Penelope," he states in a mild, sing-songy voice which lags along like a little boy forced to explain why he's done something wrong. "That's why I was down near the landing strip when you arrived. I went out early this morning to plant some iris bulbs and forgot the time. Papa K is always telling me that I should remember to put my communicator watch in my pocket so I can be reached when I forget myself. But...I always forget it on my nightstand. And...I don't usually want to be found while I'm gardening anyway."
"You're not much like your brothers, are you?" I ask, curious about that last remark. "They are all so...oh, I don't know...outgoing, charming and...communal, I suppose is the word. Scott is so mature and quite interested in travel, from what we spoke of. Virgil spoke at length of culture and art, and Gordon and Alan are so effervescent and amusing. You don't seem that way at all, at least from what I've seen. How does a girl get to know you?"
He sighs, pausing to blow a draft of his breath upwards from a stuck-out lower lip so as to push a languid, billowy, flaxen curl out of his eye. I'll take it that he used that particular method rather than to use his wet arm to brush it out of the way. I'd rather believe that than to think he's further annoyed with me.
"No, I'm not much like my brothers: I'm the quiet one," John sighs in a reluctant response. "Is that why you searched me out...in the kitchen? Because I'm the weird one?" he puzzles, his blonde eyebrows knit together. "I suppose I should be honored at that; most folks wouldn't go to that kind of trouble. It's my bet that you don't know where your own kitchen is in that big mansion of yours, no offense meant. It's also my bet that you don't know Parker's first name or your cook's last name." He stands there, a wily smirk crossing his face. "Come on, humor me, Your Ladyship: what's her name?"
"Cook? Lil?...Lil?...ummm. Well...I...I can't just recall what her last name is," I stammer, flustered by the question. "You see, my bank manager pays the household staff, so I...well...hmmm. You seem to have me at a disadvantage, my dear young man." It's the best I can do. "However, Parker's name is 'Aloysius.' Satisfied?"
He smiles broadly, leaning forward toward me and drops his voice to speak sotto voce. "Forgive me, Your Ladyship. I seriously didn't think that members of the peerage troubled themselves with piddly little things like the forenames of the help, so I am impressed. And no one's first name is really 'Aloysius' in this day and age. I'd fear he's putting you on."
"No, it's on his rap sheet, I'm afraid," I counter him, folding my arms and shifting my weight to one leg for emphasis. "I was chief agent at the Federal Agents Bureau, London division, and worked closely with New Scotland Yard, dear boy, so I am aware of such things, I promise you."
Impressed enough to shrug and raise an eyebrow, he giggles and dunks a platter into the soapy dishwater. "So, I should take it that 'Cook' hasn't run afoul of the law, with the exception of the occasional burnt entree I've heard tell about...?" With that attempt at humor, the ice seems to have broken between us and we collapse into a case of the giggles together.
After a moment or two, he seems to relax enough to warrant me trying to have a real conversation with him. "So, what's the John Tracy story, might I ask?" I broach the subject with interest. "I'd offer you a chair, ma'am," he advises as he dries the platter, "but I'd expect you won't stick around long enough to need one. My 'story' isn't very interesting, for one thing, and I'm not used to completing a thought without Alan or Gordon crash-landing right in the middle of my sentences anyway. I've gotten to the point where I habitually stop...expecting them to jump in."
"It's not easy being 'piggy in the middle,' is it, John?" I ask, as, having been an only child who never had such worries, I really wouldn't understand. Frankly, I was spoiled rotten by my doting father and took great advantage of that, so I couldn't hope to understand this boy's plight if I tried, I'm afraid.
"It's not easy being anything, is it?" he responds in a more serious tone. "It sure wasn't easy for Scott, having to grow up so fast to help Father take care of the rest of us. It wasn't easy for Virgil to help him out or to deal with how our dad had trouble facing him for awhile. See...Virg looks the most like our mom of any of us. That had to be really tough on him after she died. And the brats? It was never easy for them being raised without a mother, no matter what Father did to compensate for it. No one has it easy. I've got nothing to kick about. There are millions of people in the world who have it far worse than I ever could."
"That's a thoroughly sensible way to look at things, I'd say," I reply, surprised at his sudden candor. "Still, being the middle child has its own set of ups and downs, I'm sure. Did you enjoy it when you went away to school? Harvard, wasn't it?"
A big, broad grin envelops his face and he smiles wistfully at me. "YES!" he yelps. "I loved it! It was the first time in my life I was just me---just John---and not a younger version of Scott or Virgil to my teachers or the older brother to grab when Alan and Gordon got into trouble. But I sure missed them and hated that our little family was spread all over the globe for a while there, Tin-Tin included. I missed her an awful lot---she's the coolest."
"A bit like having a sister, I'd suspect," I add, thinking of the missing young daughter of Jeff's friend and confidant. "Yeah," is his only response. He then looks a bit sad and goes back to what he's doing at the sink.
"She is on her way home from school for the spring break, isn't she?" I ask, hoping to revive his interest in our conversation.
He stops what he's doing, looking a bit thoughtful before answering. "She's supposed to be, but I know her too well."
"Meaning...?" I begin to ask, but then I stop, wondering if I should probe further.
His head drops a bit and he talks into the bubbles below him. "She's got some jerk of a boyfriend who didn't like her taking off to come home, and she can be kind of...girly...when it comes to standing up to him. I've tried to talk to her and she says 'I know, I know,' but then she gets caught up in his sweet talking and blows off coming home. He doesn't have a close family and doesn't care for the fact that she has. She did that at Easter last year: she didn't come home. It hurt her father so much and it really bothered my dad, too. He just adores her; she's like a surrogate daughter to him. I don't think she understands what she really means to us. I used to think of us as 'Wendy and the Lost Boys,' and it's just not Neverland without our Wendy-Lady."
As if on cue, the 'Wendy-Lady' arrives. We both turn toward the window as a small red plane with ladybirds painted along the side glides down onto the landing strip at the edge of the island. "No worries that the boyfriend won out this time, eh?" I state to him, motioning to the image of the plane through the window. "Guess we got lucky," he replies in a low voice, looking to me like a fragile child whose world rests too heavily on his shoulders.
Moments later, the belle of the household stands in the lounge hugging her father and greeting all of the Tracy family gathered around her, with Alan being noticeably missing. "They are about the same age, Alan and Tin-Tin, aren't they?" I ask John who stands at the back of the gathering awaiting his turn.
Talking out of the side of his mouth as he commonly does with a lowered voice, he quips, "Yep, and that's the closest that they've come on much of anything after all this time."
When Tin-Tin turns to see John, he folds his arms as if he's cross with her, but the act doesn't last for long and she is not fooled. Within seconds they are hugging each other with abandon, genuinely thrilled to be together again. "You've gotten taller still, John! I don't believe you're going to stop any time soon!"
He laughs in a boyish way that belies the more serious person I spoke with earlier as he hugs her tightly. "You've gotten more beautiful still, and I don't believe you'll stop that any time soon, either," he tells her. "Gosh, I've sure missed you, kiddo! I'd have been so angry with you if that ape had talked you out of coming home, you know, what with..."
"Yeah!" interrupts Gordon, the most boisterous of the five brothers, his reputation preceding him. "What's happened with that creep? Did you tell him I'd knock him six ways from Sunday if he opened his yap about you coming home?" He shakes a sturdy crutch tucked under his right arm, a device he's been forced to rely upon since severely injuring himself in a hydrofoil race several months ago. The shaking makes him a bit unsteady and he wobbles on his less than reliable left leg, detracting from the ire of his threatening pronouncement.
"Gordon!" Tin-Tin cries, only pretending to be angry with him, for soon afterward she is hugging him. "You needn't have worried, any of you. That's all over with, I promise." Jeff nods to Kyrano and smiles, both men looking relieved.
In the background, I happen to hear Alan's voice answer, "Oh, is SHE back?" in an off-handed, calculated manner aimed at making sure that the girl had heard him. I assume, then, that his grandmother has just advised him of Tin-Tin's presence. I note the shrug and that he seems to be less than interested in joining the throng around the pretty Amer-Asian girl with the huge green eyes. I also note that he can't take his baby blue eyes off of her.
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