Crazy Quilt
By Swellison

Ray Doyle closed the door to Bodie's flat with a backwards kick, depositing the two full carrier bags on a convenient end table and resetting the flat's security system automatically. He took off his leather jacket, slinging it casually onto the settee, then finger-combed his windblown, brown curls. Stuffing the keys back into his pocket and reclaiming the bags, he announced stridently, "I'm here!", then headed for the kitchen. Once there, he unloaded the contents he had brought from his own kitchen, restocking Bodie's dwindling supply of fresh fruit, orange juice and ginger ale. He placed a large pot of homemade chicken soup in the refrigerator, then crossed through the kitchen and down the corridor to Bodie's bedroom.

"Took you long enough," Bodie grumbled from the bed, his tousled form at odds with the designer sheet he rested beneath.

"And hello to you, too, sunshine," Ray greeted his flu-struck partner. "Was held up in traffic, if you must know." He surveyed the bedroom: books, newspapers and magazines were strewn across the rug in haphazard fashion; balled-up tissues overflowed a small dustbin; dirty glasses cluttered the floor and nightstand; and duvets were kicked over the end of the double bed. "Christ, Bodie, I thought you military blokes were neat?!"

He bent to pick up the magazines and books off the floor, noting the titles as he stacked them neatly on the nightstand to the right of the bed. Tuchman's The Guns of August, Jane's Pocket Book of Rifles and Light Machine Guns and The Poetical Works of Keats. Doyle shook his head over the things that Bodie considered light reading material. Turing his attention back to his partner, he asked, "Feeling any better?" as he lightly pressed his right palm to Bodie's forehead, checking for a temperature.

"Cut that out!" Bodie snapped, trying unsuccessfully to avoid Doyle's palm as Doyle felt both of his partner's ear tips, as well.

"Still have a bit of a fever," Doyle judged. "Sorry about that, but Cowley wants a progress report on you and 'm in hot enough water with 'im now, as it is."

"And with me," Bodie interrupted pointedly.

"Yeah.... Figured me chances of getting a thermometer down your throat were nil, so I..." Doyle trailed off, spreading his hands and shrugging. "Anyway... c'n I get you anything?"

"Given me more than enough already, haven't you?"

"Look, Bodie, I've said it before, but... I'm sorry I gave you the flu, mate. And I promise that next time, I'll get the damned flu shot, so we won't have to go through this again." Doyle forbore to mention that Bodie wouldn't be sick now if he had also had a flu shot. Bodie shared his intense dislike of needles and shots, so both of them had ducked CI5's mandatory flu immunization, with predictable results. Fortunately, the rest of Cowley's agents had toed the line and all were in peak operating condition. Doyle had caught the flu less than a fortnight ago, earning Cowley's wrath for disobeying his immunization order. Such wrath had only doubled when the luckless Doyle had passed the virus on to his partner, temporarily depriving Cowley of both his top agents.

Somewhat mollified by Doyle's apology, Bodie settled more comfortably into his bed, shifting into a half-reclining position. "So, what's happening at the office?"

"Don't ask me, I've been buried in the filing room all week--and the Cow says I'll be there 'til you get back.. Then," Doyle averted his face, "we both get a four-day refresher programme with Macklin, so don't come back 'til you're well and truly over the flu, or you'll be sorry."

"Four days--! You've really landed us in the soup this time, Doyle!"

"Yeah, tell me about it." Doyle glanced around the room, desperate to change the topic of conversation, his eyes alighting on the empty glasses scattered across the floor. "Want some fresh water, Bodie? Or juice?"

"No."

"How 'bout a nice, hot cuppa tea?"

"'M not thirsty."

"Something to eat, then?"

"'M not hungry."

Well, that's a first, Doyle thought. Bodie's version of the old adage, feed a cold and starve a fever, which went 'feed a cold and feed a fever', must have been defeated by the queasy stomach imposed on him by the flu. His temper hadn't been improved by the flu, either. Was I as cranky as this when I was sick? Probably worse--but that didn't keep Bodie from visiting me daily. He tried one last time, coaxing, "Isn't there anything I can get you, Bodie?"

Silence. Then, "... Want my quilt."

Doyle scanned the bedroom for the sheep's-fur duvet. "I don't see your furry monstrosity. Where is it?"

"Not that. It's at the dry cleaner's," Bodie explained impatiently. "Want my grandmum's crazy quilt."

"Oh." Doyle had never encountered such an object in Bodie's flat before. "Er, where is that, then?"

"In the cedar chest in the spare room."

"I'll get it and be right back," Doyle said, already half-way out the bedroom door. He scurried down the corridor and into the spare room, sourly thinking that here, indeed, was proof that Bodie was the Cow's favourite. No other single agent possessed a two-bedroom flat--and Bodie had inhabited this place for almost a year. For some reason, he didn't get shifted nearly as often as Doyle and the others did.

Doyle flipped the light switch and crossed over to the far wall, where a large, polished cedar chest stood under a bay window, flanked by two overstuffed bookcases. The rest of the room contained a solid oak desk and two leather lounge chairs angled to comfortably view a portable television in its cart.

Kneeling by the chest, Doyle lifted the lid and began delving through the revealed contents, which were divided into three neat stacks.

A tartan blanket topped the first pile. Ray picked it up, tossed it behind him and continued his search. His next find was a black nylon windcheater and matching ski trousers, which joined the blanket towards the center of the room. A pair of gloves, ski goggles and a thick red scarf were added to the fast-growing pile of rejects as Doyle found the bottom of the first stack. Undaunted, he started on the second stack, casually flinging two spare sheets and another blanket over his shoulder before striking pay dirt.

"Eureka," he murmured, extracting a large, multicolored duvet from the chest. He rose from his knees and turned around, off-handedly noting the erstwhile contents of the chest now heaped on the floor in front of him. Deciding that the quilt could stand an airing out before giving it to his partner, Doyle shook it vigorously, not hearing a slight clank and dull thud as two objects concealed in the quilt fell to the floor, muffled by the clutter already there.

Instead, Doyle stared at the fully spread-out quilt. It was not what he was expecting. His image of the quilt had been a quaintly-homemade patchwork of calico and small-print fabrics in muted blues, browns, and pastels. The quilt at his feet, however, was a collection of solid, oddly-shaped pieces of silk, brocade, satin and velvet in vibrant reds, greens, blues and purples, with a preponderance of plain black and white patches. The border was a fluted series of uniformly rectangular black or white pieces, and all the patches were sewn together by fancy fern stitches.

With an artist's appreciation, Doyle noted further details of the singular quilt. The large center medallion was a grey silk octagon with an intriguing needlepoint rendition of cut diamonds, sapphires, rubies and emeralds carefully embroidered in its center. Stitched to the right was an image of Big Ben and Parliament, while the left side of medallion displayed an old-fashioned cable streetcar descending a hill with a bay in the background. A series of smaller octagons were scattered over the rest of the quilt, each one containing a carefully needleworked scene. Doyle observed that they actually formed a loose spiral beginning at the top left of the quilt and leading to the center medallion. Some of the scenes depicted had a Wild West flavor to them: a silhouette of four mounted horsemen on a ridge; a profile of an Indian brave with a feather sticking out of long, braided, incongruously red hair; a rifle, boot and rolled paper grouped together; and an old-fashioned locomotive with a head of steam.

Must be quite a story behind this quilt, Doyle thought, and wondered if he could ever get Bodie to reveal it--Bodie!

Hastily, Doyle bent over and refolded the quilt, idly noting the bottom right-hand corner had a maker's label embroidered in cursive: "Handmade by J.F. for G.G." and beneath it, "San Francisco, U.S.A. 1884" It's obviously been well-cared for over the years, Doyle thought fleetingly as he left to rejoin Bodie with the promised quilt.

* * * * *

Blue eyes glared at him from the bed. "Was beginning to think you'd got lost."

"Made a detour," Ray Doyle gently dropped the quilt at the foot of the bed, then moved closer to Bodie. Placing a glass of water on the nightstand, he extracted a vial of prescription pills from his pocket and shook out two. He waited until Bodie reluctantly extended his hand, then passed over the pills and watched as Bodie put them in his mouth. Handing his partner the glass of water, he chided lightly in a horrible Russian accent, "Keep taking da pills, comrade."

Bodie finished drinking his water and put the glass down, making a face and saluting lazily. "Da."

Ray walked back to the foot of the bed and picked up the quilt, unfolding and spreading it over his partner. "Honestly, Bodie," he complained in exasperation, "you won't take your pills, you don't eat right--and I know you've been doing more reading than resting! How'd you ever manage when you were sick in Africa?"

Bodie's face became expressionless. "Took care of myself. Had to, didn't I?" The crazy quilt settled over his frame and Bodie snuggled into it, face and voice relaxing. "Didn't have you or grandmum around--" The rest was lost in a huge yawn. "Tell me a story, Ray. Grandmum always told me a story when I had the measles, or a cold, or the flu."

"Fresh out of stories," Doyle snapped gruffly, uncertain how he took this constant comparison to his partner's grandmother. Bodie's face fell at the curt words, leaving him looking vulnerable and little-boy-lost.

"Tell you what, sunshine," Doyle compromised, "I'll read the paper to you, instead." He picked up the Times from the floor and unfolded it, settling into the comfortable armchair to the right of Bodie's bed, and started to read. Halfway through the second news article, Bodie was sound asleep, as intended.

He tiptoed out of the room, then walked down the hall to the spare room. Despite the current disarray of Bodie's own bedroom, Doyle's partner was a neatnik and Doyle didn't want him to discover the mess he'd made while digging through the cedar chest.

Oops! Left the light on, Doyle noticed, crossing the room to the still-opened chest. Crouching by the mound in the middle of the room, he made short work of returning the contents to the chest. He refolded the sheets, duvets and ski clothes, stacking them all neatly back into the cedar chest, then firmly closed the lid. Turning to survey the room, Ray noted two objects still on the floor, lying to the right of where the original pile had stood.

Frowning, Doyle scooped up the face-down picture frame. He didn't remember seeing that in his search and he knew that he hadn't found a large, leather-bound book, either. But where else could they have come from? He flipped the frame over, discovering an unusual brown-toned photograph of Bodie--complete with a caterpillar moustache. When had this picture of Mr. "Engagingly Modest" been taken?

Intrigued, Ray sat on the floor, propping himself against the cedar chest, and studied the picture. Almost immediately, he discarded his first impression. This was not one of Professor Goodbody's authentically faked Victorian photographs; it was the genuine article. Next, he noted the slightly nicked silver frame; it also felt old, antique. He turned the frame over--the back had obviously been sealed many years ago. Therefore, the man depicted couldn't possibly be Bodie. Still, the similarities were remarkable: same facial structure, same nose and determined mouth--even the same quirky left eyebrow! Doyle stared at the man's eyes, certain that the sepia-tinted eyes had really been midnight blue. Midnight blue--and the photographer had somehow captured the depths of caring and compassion contained within the eyes. Definitely not Bodie.

No, now, that isn't fair, Doyle chided himself. He had seen that look in Bodie's eyes--each time his partner visited him in hospital after Mayli's half-hearted assassination attempt. Other times, too, when they were in tight spots on the job... Doyle returned to his original train of thought. Who is this man? Has to be a relative... ancestor...? His eyes trailed down the picture and spotted an inscription written in spidery cursive on the bottom center of the oval photograph. He had expected to read 'Something Bodie', but the given name was George Godley, followed by the year, 1888. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it.

Ray put the picture on the floor beside him, stretching to retrieve the leather book, resettling himself with his legs crossed this time. He lay the book on the floor in front of him and opened it to the first page. The book was actually a three-ring binder with transparent, laminated pages--a modern-day scrapbook. He turned the blank, plastic-protected page and found four sepia-toned photographs, much smaller than the framed one, but clearly from the same period. Abruptly, Doyle closed the book. He had unwittingly stumbled onto a family photo album, and he wrestled with his conscience.

Bodie would not want me to look at this. That was a given--Bodie was absolutely, fanatically silent about his family. Even Cowley didn't know for certain if his top agent had any living relatives. Bodie's hospital forms always listed Raymond Doyle and George Cowley as next of kin. Bodie won't find out, Doyle coaxed himself. I can keep me mouth shut, keep 'is secrets as well as he can. And a few of my own.

His mind made up, Doyle opened the notebook once again. He examined the pictures avidly, noting that they had been pasted on a rough, tan page, and the whole page sealed under plastic. The album was a collection of carefully-cut pages taken from an earlier album, Doyle realized. Three of the photos had captions written beneath them on the original paper that had been transferred to the book, the writing large and childish, and definitely not Bodie's: "Papa at sixteen"--George Godley had been a handsome lad; "Mama at eighteen"--a dark-haired, willowy beauty in a lace-edged dress; and "Papa, Uncle Harold, Grandpa, Uncle Nicholas, Mama, Aunt Jennifer, Grandma, Aunt Clara"--a standard family grouping, with the men standing and the women seated in front of them. The fourth, untitled picture appeared to be of George Godley in his early twenties.

Doyle turned the leaf and saw a full-page, posed photograph of a group of people standing, taken outside with two large sailing vessels and a waterfront as distant background. The group was comprised of one woman and four men. The woman was a petite blonde with sparkling eyes, her head tilted upward, smile fixed on the man to her right, her arm resting lightly on his. Doyle was unsurprised to see that George Godley was the man on her right, attired in a light-coloured business suit, fashionable for the time.

So, the Bodie--Godley?--charm was working almost a century ago, he mused. Perhaps that's why it's so potent, today.

The man on the lady's left was roughly fifteen years older than Godley, with an open face and prominent nose, also wearing a business suit. Flanking the small group were two handsome young men in full cowboy gear, including holstered guns. Their hats were crammed low on their heads, covering dark brown hair and light curls respectively, and both men avoided looking directly at the camera. The caption at the bottom of the photo read, "George Godley, Julia Foster, Fred Abberline, San Francisco, 1884," leaving the two cowboys unidentified. Doyle's copper's nose was roused by the two men's furtive appearance. Wonder what they were hiding from?

Julia Foster... J.F.? Doyle had possibly found the elusive quilt maker--yes, and G.G.--George Godley was obviously the quilt's original owner. And Fred Abberline... .That name also struck a familiar chord in Doyle's memory; he was sure he'd heard it before, somewhere.

He turned the page again, confronting another full-sized picture. This one was a sepia photograph of a couple in their wedding attire, with the inscriptions "George and Amelia Godley, August 14, 1886" and "I like this one best" in the same childish cursive on the paper beneath. Briefly, Doyle wondered what ever became of Julia, then decided that Bodie had inherited more than just his looks from the Godley branch of the family.

Ray went on to the next page, which held four small photographs. One was a family portrait of George and Amelia Godley holding a tiny baby, wrapped in an over-long white blanket, between them, dated 1893. Next to that, a full-length shot of Godley and Fred Abberline with a bustling street scene behind them--"Papa and Uncle Fred"--and underneath the family group was a picture of Amelia and a young girl with a ribbon in her long, dark hair. The two wore identical, elaborate high-necked blouses and floor-length skirts-- "Mama and Sara (Me), 1899."

Ah! Doyle noted. The writer of the captions. Sara Godley.

The last picture was taken at a party, with a New Year's banner hung behind a tuxedoed, and slightly graying, George Godley and his lavishly-dressed wife, both holding champagne glasses--"Papa and Mama at the Turn of the Century, January 1, 1900." Doyle lingered over the New Year's picture, then thoughtfully flipped the page.

The background paper was now a light pink, the childish writing under the photos had become a flowing, graceful script--and the pictures themselves were no longer brown-toned, but black-and-white. One was of Sara's high school graduation; another, a shot of a thoroughly-greyed Godley and his silver-haired Amelia--"Mama and Papa's 30^th Anniversary, 1916"--and the third picture showed a well-turned-out young woman and a solemn, sandy-haired man in a lieutenant's uniform--"With William, 1917" was Sara's only caption.

"Hmm." Doyle eyed the photograph of Sara and William speculatively, then flipped to the next page. The sole photo on this page was a 3x5 shot of a thin, elderly woman and a dark-haired boy with mischief in his blue eyes, taken in the overly-bright colours of an early Sixties Polaroid--Bodie and his grandmother, Sara Godley, Doyle knew beyond a doubt. The next two pages were blank and Ray hastily riffled through several more, fervently seeking more photographs. He came up empty. There were no photos of Bodie's father, mother, brothers and sisters--if he even had any siblings--in the album.

Ray slammed the book shut and brooded. I've been cheated! Even after finding Bodie's hidden photo album, I still know nothing--well, next to nothing--about his family.... Preoccupied, Doyle thumbed the closed album's page ends until he noticed that the end of the scrapbook had uneven gaps between the pages, just as the beginning pages (that were full of photographs) did. Eagerly, he opened the book towards the end, hoping to find more recent pictures of Bodie and his clan.

Thick, screaming headlines from yellowed London papers plunged him headlong into the Ripper case, instead. Doyle scanned the text, coming across the name Fred Abberline as the investigator in charge of the case, and Sergeant George Godley was also mentioned. The penny dropped and Doyle remembered why those names were familiar--he'd learned about them during the Brief History of Scotland Yard course he'd taken as part of his detective training. There were several more pages of Jack the Ripper articles, all carefully clipped and preserved under plastic, then five more pages of articles detailing various robbery and murder cases George Godley had solved, including his arrest of George Chapman, the infamous poisoner. Short articles on Godley's promotion to inspector and chief inspector were included, as well as the announcement of his retirement from Scotland Yard in 1908.

The last page, Doyle discovered, had only two obituaries on it. Amelia Dunstan Godley had died of influenza in 1919, just one of the tens of thousands of victims of the dreadful epidemic after the Great War. George Godley had died naturally in 1941, at the ripe old age of 85. Surviving relatives were his brother, Nicholas, sister Jennifer and--Doyle hardly needed the confirmation--daughter, Sara Godley Bodie.

Ray closed the album thoughtfully. It struck him as a delicious irony that Bodie, who couldn't get along with a copper if his life depended on it, had a great-grandfather who had been Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard and intimately associated with the Yard's most famous case.

But I still don't know anything about Bodie's immediate family, Doyle groused to himself. He recalled how Bodie had relaxed and curled up into the crazy quilt. At least, he had his grandmum--and some small corner of his childhood was happy.... Doyle was sure that most of Bodie's early life had not been joyful. He had seen enough broken homes, runaways and battered and abused kids while at the Met to know that childhood wasn't always simple and rosy. Once or twice, he had tried to imagine the chain of events that would drive a fourteen-year-old Bodie into running away to the Merchant Marines, and had failed.

At least, Bodie talks about the merchants and Africa--don't know if I believe all of it--or any of it--but he talks about it. I never heard him say one word about his childhood 'til today.

It suddenly struck Doyle that Bodie knew very little of Ray's own home life. "I was a right tear away", was hardly a blow-by-blow description of his own, interesting childhood and adolescence. Maybe if I'm more forthcoming about my early years, Bodie'll eventually reciprocate. Could invite him home for Christmas, let 'im meet the family, up close and personal....He might even enjoy it.

Plans made, Ray got to his feet, picking up the album and the framed Victorian photograph. Opening the cedar chest, he buried the two objects in the center stack. Bodie might wonder how they got there, but he wouldn't ask Doyle about it outright. If he did, he would be voluntarily bringing up the matter of his family, and he'd have to answer all of Doyle's questions on that subject, something Doyle knew Bodie was loathe to do.

Of course, a trade-off was involved. I can't harangue Bodie about his ancestor in Scotland Yard, either, Doyle realized regretfully. But after tonight, he'll be expecting some sarky comments from me. I know. I'll tease him about that quilt; say he's like Linus with 'is bloody security blanket.

Ray crossed the room and flicked out the light, thoughts centered on Godley and the Yard. Still, it's useful ammo, he mused, walking towards Bodie's room, in case Bodie ever susses out me own great-grandfather, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

THE END