Aftermath

42. The London Project

I was still so angry, I just might have been shaking.  

"I've been informed that none of you want Mr Stevenson's generous offer. Is that true?" 

Silence.

"Well? A good job with an accommodating employer and every last one of you are turning your nose up at it? What kind of a showing is that from Cloud Hill men? You do know you are crippled, don't you? You haven't forgotten, by any chance? Let me tell you, there isn't a massively long queue of employers out there begging to take a man who can't even get up a simple flight of stairs because he's got no damned legs."

Except for Fitzroy who was nervously tapping a pencil against his fingers, none of them moved even a hair's breadth. They just sat there, still as statues while I berated them.    

"Splendid. Really splendid. I'm truly impressed." 

I glared at them for a few moments, waiting for one of them to protest.

Come on, say something. Fight back. Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me it's not what I think it is.

Silence. 

Have it your way. Here comes the whip.  

"We must fill this position. That means one of you will be going. But to determine who that will be,  I want each of you to think of reasons why this position should not go to you.  I want to know why you are the most incompetent man here and are an utter disgrace to this program. I want to hear it. I want to hear exactly what useless pieces of work I've been housing and training for so long. You've got two hours." 

I stalked out, leaving the basket toad brigade to stew in their own juices and marched down down the hallway to the office. The loud clacking I could hear through the closed door told me Pritchard was typing up letters. Probably in an attempt to drown out what I had to say to the others. I opened the door and went in. 

The relentless banging of the typewriter was enough to drive anyone to distraction, but I found Morris waiting patiently inside, sitting in the chair my the window I normally occupied when I had written work to do. 

He was in causal shirtsleeves and suspenders, but still had heavy bags under his eyes and looked dead tired. I considered sending him back to bed for a moment, but discarded the idea. He was already there and I needed an opinion as quickly as I could get one if I were not to lose confidence and sink back down into numbing inactivity. 

I had to be pushed forward, too, despite myself. Here comes the whip.

Morris stood up when he saw me, a smile on his face. "Good morning, Mi. . . Miss."  His eyes caught on the bruises on my face and he stumbled with his words for a moment. I'd not put on any cosmetics even knowing how quickly news spread. The men would bring how James and I looked together quickly enough. 

"Good morning." I gestured for him to follow me and we went across the hall to one of the smaller archive rooms that had possibly once been a dressing room. It was packed to the gills with file cases and binders but at least it would be somewhat quieter than in the office with Pritchard banging away at the typewriter.

My anger was still at a low boil but I forced myself to forget about it in favour of the matter at hand.  Morris was still examining my face with an expression stuck somewhere between disbelief and unease. I'd have to take care of that first, it seemed. 

"Tell me, is there perhaps a man in the Infirmary who looks just as bad?"

Morris stared at me for a few seconds before he said, "Davis looks a right. . ." and then his eyebrows shot up in understanding and surprise. "Davis, Miss?"