1924


    Jean McAuliffe, a small, gray-clad figure, sat outside the office door, fiddling with the straps of her handbag. Was she nervous? She certainly wasn''t calm, that was for sure. She had never been anywhere alone, with strange people, miles away from Mam and Da.


    She looked up at the door, reading over the name again.


    Blevins, C.J.


    She took a deep breath. She had ''phoned before, but couldn''t have been sure that it was Blevins who answered. And the nurse behind the reception desk in the lobby had informed her to address Dr. Blevins over the matter of her employment.


    She sorely wished that it hadn''t come to this. If anything, it would have been nice to stay working as a nanny, but…


    The St. James household was somewhere she could not remain.


    She could hear voices, muffled, behind the door: the light voice of a woman, the deeper voice of a man. The words were impossible to comprehend, but from the tone of the man''s voice, he didn''t sound very happy.


    I could get up and leave.


    No.


    Reaching inside the handbag, wrapping her gloved hand about the pocket-watch...to do so refueled her determination. She extracted it from the handbag, looking over the initials. Now...she felt courage again when she read them.


    She would be brave, and determined. She needed this job, or else to the convent it was. The convent was the last place she would want to spend the rest of her life, but it was the promise she had made to herself. And it was because of the promise that she sat within the walls of White Isle Mental Institution without her being mad. It was because of her promise, because of the newspaper, that she sat there.


    She didn''t know if she should have been afraid of talking face-to-face to this Doctor Blevins. She had heard about him, but didn''t know what to expect from him. Her imagination had built an image of a large, moustached man, looking...looking like a doctor was supposed to look. Like Da, she thought. Pot-bellied and gruff, having the habit of looking over the top of his spectacles at people.


    The door opened; Jean quickly returned the pocket-watch to her handbag and looked up as a yellow-haired young woman in a nurse''s uniform stepped out.


    "Miss McAuliffe?" she asked.


    Jean rose to her feet, taking her handbag and hooking it on her elbow. "Aye," she said, her voice coming out almost weak, though her accent sounded foreign to her own ears among the English. She swallowed and cleared her throat, but it seemed that the young nurse paid it no mind.


    "Doctor Blevins will see you now."


    The nurse stepped aside and motioned to the open doorway. Jean put one foot in front of the other, and forced herself to walk across the room to the office door. Through it, she could see a window with plain white curtains drawn aside, and as she turned her head to the right, she saw a desk, where the doctor himself sat.


    As she stepped in, the door closing behind her, she saw Blevins look up over the top of his spectacles.


    "McAuliffe?" he asked, his voice sharp and deep.


    "It is, sir," she said.


    "Sit down." It was a command, not a kind request.


    She looked down, seeing a wooden armchair. Lowering herself into it, she looked back at the desk. Blevins stood, making his way to a small table in the corner with a tray of tea.


    "Tea?" he asked. "I have it up here anyway and I don''t want it to be wasted." He had no smile when he greeted her, only a gaze that met her eyes with such severity that she had to look away.


    "Oh-please," she said, watching the doctor.


    Why, he looked nothing like she had imagined. He was shorter than she expected, and even younger than she thought, though he had lines in his face, his prominent cheekbones and the dusting of gray in his light hair adding years to a face that might have been considered youthful. As Jean studied him, she heard a rattle, and looked to see his left hand trembling as he lifted the cup and saucer. Quickly, he grabbed the saucer with his right hand, stabilizing it so he wouldn''t spill it.


    He approached her, handing her the tea. "You''re quite lucky you caught me on a slow day," he said, "otherwise you mightn''t have been sitting here."


    She took the tea just as his hand began trembling again, relieved that the tea was steaming. He returned to the small table, pouring himself some tea.


    "I''m grateful that I am able to speak to you directly, sir," Jean replied, realizing that she had no cream or sugar. She bit her lip, glancing at the tray to sea a bowl of sugar lumps and a small pitcher of cream.


    "I don''t like to be disturbed during my work hours," he said.


    His tone came out flat, erasing the smile on Jean''s face, stalling her just as she was about to ask for cream and sugar. She watched him pour his own cup of tea, add his own lumps of sugar and cream...she stared at her own black cup of tea, too nervous to ask for cream and sugar. Blevins didn''t seem as if he was in the best of moods, and she was afraid that he might have gotten even angry should she ask.


    He returned to his desk and sat down, his cup rattling again as he lowered it. He stared at the typewriter on his desk, his brows drawing together as he reached up and pressed his fingers to his left shoulder, a brief look of pain flashing over his face.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    He looked over his spectacles at her again, and she lowered her gaze.


    "Well, we should get this done with," he said. "From what I do know, you''re seeking a position here."


    She nodded as she sipped the tea. "I saw the article in the paper, sir, stating you needed staff."


    "Ah, yes." He reached inside his desk drawer, pulling out a white piece of paper. "And you wish to apply."


    "I do, sir."


    He set the paper down and shut the drawer. "You do know that the position is for medical assistants."


    Again, she nodded. "My father is a doctor," she said, "and my mother was a nurse in the war. I feel I should follow in their footsteps."


    He glanced up again. "You do know it is sometimes unwise to base your life around what your parents have done."


    Puzzled at his statement, she looked down at her tea. "I...I thought...I grew up around it. I mean, if I am familiar with it…"


    "How old are you?"


    She paused, the rim of her teacup touching her lips. She set it back on the saucer. "Nineteen, sir."


    He sighed, folding the paper up. "Our medical assistants are requested to apply at twenty-one years of age and older."


    The article in the newspaper had said so, but Jean had been hoping that perhaps she could have brushed off the subject of her age.


    "I must not have seen that in the article," she said, hanging her head.


    "I''m afraid that you must wait until you are twenty-one."


    Jean looked up. Spending two years doing nothing? Or returning to her previous position? She had to do something...she couldn''t stay with Mam and Da that whole time, couldn''t return to Dublin...Mam had begged her not to go to England, not betray her homeland, but there was nothing in Ireland she wanted.


    Unless...she could return to Manchester. But fate had brought her to St. Cyril Greene. She couldn''t just leave. She couldn''t wait two years. Everything might be lost in two years.


    "Isn''t there any other way, sir?" she asked.


    He stood from his desk, stuffing his hands in his trouser pockets. He went to the window and peered out. From where she sat, Jean could see his breath make a small fog on the glass.


    "What job experience do you have, Miss McAuliffe?"


    "I was a nanny for about a year."


    "Why didn''t you stay in that field of work?"


    She hurriedly sipped her tea to dispel the sudden constricting feeling in her throat. Her breath caught in her chest, and she was sure she could feel the sting of tears. Blevins wasn''t looking at her; she quickly reached up and wiped her eye. "It wasn''t for me," she said.


    To her relief, he said nothing more on the subject of why she didn''t stay a nanny. Instead: "So you do have experience watching over people?"


    "Yes, sir."


    He turned to her, crossing his arms. "I will give you a chance, Miss McAuliffe," he said. "We do need more companions for our patients."


    "Companions, sir?"


    "Our patients often need psychological stimulation, rather than being locked away in their rooms all day. We have a few young women in this position, as we can''t spare nurses to simply sit about all day."


    Jean sat up straighter. Then she could stay in St. Cyril…


    "I can do that, sir," she said. "I will do it. I can start right away, if you need me to."


    She thought she caught a hint of amusement in his eye, though she saw it nowhere else on his face. He simply stared at her.


    "It doesn''t pay much," he said.


    "The money doesn''t matter," she said. Mum and Dad were already covering the cost of her boarding in the village, until she did get a job. But it really wasn''t the money that concerned her.


    "It pays twelve shillings a week."


    It was somewhat of a small amount of money. She would still have to depend on Mam and Da. She shook her head, sipping at her tea. "Like I said," she began, "the money doesn''t matter. I would do it for free, if it came to that."


    Blevins raised an eyebrow. "And why?" he asked. "You seem rather desperate for an employment here, of all places."


    Jean said nothing. She looked back into her tea, silently praying that Blevins wouldn''t pry any further. She heard him sigh again, and looked up to see him returning to his desk. He did not sit down, though, and she watched him as he leaned over and opened his drawer again. He pulled out a paper, and lifted his clipboard from his desk, placing the paper on the hard surface. He then took a pen, and dipped it in his inkwell.


    The room fell completely silent, save the scratching of the pen over the paper. Blevins came around the desk, handing the clipboard to Jean.


    "That is the application," he said.


    He handed her the pen; Jean read over the application, taking the pen in her small, trembling hand.


    "If you sign your name and address at the bottom, we''ll consider your application and notify you on our decision."


    Jean found the spaces well enough, signing her full name, and the address of the inn where she was staying. Once she was finished, she handed the pen and the clipboard back. Blevins pushed his spectacles up, reading over her name.


    "Very good," he said. He set the clipboard back on his desk. "Hopefully you will hear back from us within the week. I expect you to remain here in St. Cyril."


    "Of course, sir," Jean said, standing and handing her empty teacup and saucer to Blevins.


    He motioned to the door, and Jean hooked her handbag on her elbow as she reached for the knob.


    "Good-day, Doctor Blevins," she said. "And thank you."


    "Good-day, Miss McAuliffe," Blevins said.


    She opened the door and stepped out into the silent hall, throwing one last look back at Blevins. But he wasn''t looking at her; he had returned to the window, silently staring out as he put his hands in his pockets. She lowered her head and shut the door behind her.


    She walked slowly down the hall, but inside, her heart fluttered with anticipation. I have a chance, she thought. She promised that she wouldn''t lose her chance.


    <hr noshade="noshade" size="1">


    He must have been having that dream again. He could remember it clearly: a dream, yes, but built from memory. The memory of being strapped to that bed, the violent fever gripping him, the sheets twisted about him as if they would strangle him. He desperately wanted to throw the sheets off. He was soaked in sweat, his face stained with tears. He couldn''t remember when he started crying, or if he even was crying.


    And suddenly: standing among them. Staring down at them. The boy''s head, split open. The woman, her face a ghostly angel-white, her neck maimed by those bruises.


    His chest tightened. Could he not breathe?


    "Snap to, lads!"


    His eyes flew open. He turned his head. He moved. The straps were gone. He sat up.


    The paintings. Why...why...the paintings. A woman, a woman, a woman. Her eyes, their eyes, peering down at him, staring, cherry lips split in a grin. White teeth, pearls in her mouth.


    He tried to wipe the tears away. He looked. His hands, coated in blood. Sore from squeezing the life out of the little creature...


    He gasped. No, no, no, no, no-


    God. God-damn. Breathe, lad. Breathe.


    But the door was opening and the woman was stepping in and he was stumbling forward and falling into her arms and suddenly she wasn''t there and he...


    He was standing again. Staring. The paintings surrounded him. The grin. He could almost hear her laugh. He grabbed the first painting, ripped it from its place on the wall, flung it to the floor. The wood cracked, the glass shattered, he stumbled forward, hardly aware of the shards penetrating his feet. Again: rip it down. Smash it. Stomp on it. Tear apart that mocking grin, cut your hands on the glass.


    And the door was again opening and the white-clad man was lifting him from his knees, more arms wrapping about him as he fought them, only wanting to rip apart that face he couldn''t bear to look at…