by Garon Whited
I spent what was left of the afternoon going over my notes from the interviews. So far, we had one governess, one mathematics professor, two primary school teachers, and a classics teacher—Robert Blake, or pince-nez. I tried not to let my personal feelings influence my evaluations. My not taking an instant shine to Professor Blake was not a reason to judge him harshly.
At dinner, everyone was still standing when I arrived. Head of the house and all that. Once we were seated—the fancy table had room for everyone and a dozen more—Mrs. Gillespie and Kathleen served. I wondered if Mr. Gillespie was in the kitchen with instructions to stir things. This was Mrs. Gillespie’s largest dinner in the history of the Hall and I had no doubt she wanted it to go like clockwork. She even unlocked the china hutch and laid out the good stuff for the evening.
Conversation was strained. I guess it’s hard to relax when your potential employer is sitting at the head of the table and judging you. The kids, all sitting in a row down the right side of the table, were far more entertaining than the adults, seated on my left. Even with my sensory-dampening spells I could almost smell the sour look on Mrs. Whitcomb’s face—the lady the children downchecked. She obviously wanted to whack knuckles with a ruler and order them to be quiet, or the cultural equivalent. She held her tongue, however, and merely tried to freeze their soup with her stare.
Along about the coffee and cake stage, Blake cleared his throat. Everyone turned to him, except for Jenny. She was restless sitting at the table. I nodded to the right side of the table and Richard signaled his younger siblings. They rose, thanked me for dinner, and trooped out, Jenny holding Maddy’s hand. No doubt there would be cake in the kitchen. I know Mrs. Gillespie. Some of the cake might make it out to the adults, too.
“I believe you were about to say something, Professor Blake?”
“Ah, yes. Yes. I’m not much given to impatience, Mister Kearne, but I was under the impression we would be interviewing for positions.”
“And you have.”
“Yes, but— but which of us is to have the position? Or positions?”
“I didn’t realize you were in a hurry. I have more than one position to fill, if that’s a comfort, but I also have a number of other applicants who have not yet arrived, much less interviewed. I think we should be done in within a week. In the meantime, until the positions are filled, you are perfectly welcome to remain as guests of Applewood Hall.”
“I say! Do you expect us to remain here for an entire week, sir?” he demanded.
“I have no expectations,” I told him, truthfully. “I find it quite freeing, actually. As for you, you will stay or go, entirely of your own free will—unless I throw you out. In the meantime, you are welcome to associate with the children, possibly even teach them something. Again, however, this is entirely up to you.”
“I do not feel we have been adequately informed,” he complained. “This is not at all what I expected.”
“I’m sorry you don’t adapt well to unexpected circumstances. I’ll be happy to drive you out to the train station, if you like.”
“What? At this hour?”
“You seem unhappy here. I wouldn’t want you to stay a moment longer if you’re unwilling to be here.”
“I—that is, I—well, ah, I wouldn’t say I’m unhappy, merely… merely surprised. At the arrangements.”
“You object to being a guest in Applewood Hall?” I pressed.
“Oh, no! No, not at all. I feel I may have given the wrong impression.”
“Well, you have perhaps a week to correct it—more time than any of the later arrivals who may accidentally give the wrong impression. Now,” I added, rising, “if you will excuse me. Ladies. Gentlemen.”
I shouldn’t have been so sharp with the man. I really shouldn’t. Yeah, he was something of a twerp, but if that’s the worst of his personality problems, who am I to point a finger? I’ve got flaws enough of my own.
After my sunset routine, I recalled a box of lollipops. I found them, still under the front seat of the car. I wrote “Jenny” on the box and placed it in the kitchen where Mrs. Gillespie would find it.
Since there was still time before the adults went to bed, I bothered the night operator at the local switchboard. I didn’t place any transatlantic calls—it was possible via radio, but there was no telephone cable, yet, just telegraph cable.
Is that consistent with the timeline in my own world? I wonder. I didn’t care enough to ask Diogenes, though.
I did send several telegrams, however, ordering supplies, materials, and equipment through commercial shipping channels.
In the not-too-distant future, the local government would probably start requisitioning (or appropriating) things like forklifts, cranes, and earth-moving equipment. My intention was to speed construction along at Applewood, then donate the equipment before they got around to stealing it. Taking it. Whatever. With a little luck, I could earn some goodwill from whoever was in charge of such things by donating the equipment. It might get me some courtesies, like early warning of new rationing or requisitions. Even if it didn’t, I was impatient to get things under way. I’m too used to Diogenes’ production times, I guess. No, that’s not it. I was worried about having a hundred kids dumped on me with nowhere to put them.
As I hung up, I reflected on the future. When I had the additional phone line installed, it was going in my personal quarters. The kids could use the house phone to call home. I wanted more privacy.
Case in point, shortly after I got on the phone, Kathleen stood in the doorway, waiting to be acknowledged. I waved her to a seat—she took it as a gesture only to approach; I had to point sharply at the chair before she sat down—and finished with Hazel, the other local operator. I’m pretty sure Hazel was Alice’s mother. The two of them operated the local switchboard out of their home, I think.
“Now, young lady, what I can I do for you?” I asked. She knotted her fingers together and looked me squarely in the sternum.
“I’m sorry to intrude, sir, truly I am.”
“You’re not intruding. What’s on your mind?”
“There’s some gossip, sir, that you’re planning to hire a number of other servants?”
“I’m sure there is. What you’re asking is whether or not I intend to. Yes?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
“No need to be. It’s no secret. It’s a big place and likely to have a number of children roaming about in it. Someone has to mind them, teach them, feed them, and generally look after them. Then there’s the house and grounds. I doubt Mr. Gillespie will be able to keep up with all the wear and tear.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why do you ask?”
“I’ve been instructed in my duties, sir, but I’m told there’s a lady of the house?”
“Mary. Yes. She’s my mistress, but she’s to be regarded as the lady of the house.”
“So I was told, yes, sir. May I ask if the position of the lady’s maid is open?”
“Ah! I see! Yes, it is open, but Mary is seldom in residence. She comes and goes unpredictably—even I don’t know when she’ll pop in or out. She’s not likely to need a maid, but in the event she does need any help, I’ll see to it she knows you’re her girl.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’m sorry, sir. May I go?”
“Just a minute. Why are you disappointed?”
“I was presumptuous, sir.”
“How so? And remember, I’m an American. You may have to explain in small words.”
“The… A lady’s maid is…” She paused for a moment, thinking. “The position of the lady’s maid is highly respectable among the servants, sir.”
“Oh, you would outrank most of the others. And not having a formal lady’s maid position kind of leaves you as a… I’m sorry, what would your actual title or position be?”
“Just a maid-of-all-work, sir.”
“Well, there aren’t enough servants to
establish a hierarchy, I suppose. But Mrs. Gillespie is in unquestioned charge of anything inside the house, so she’ll decide specific duties for anyone who signs on around here. Although, now that you bring it up, I might consider adding a butler.”
“As you say, sir.”
“All right. Is there anything else?”
“No, sir. Thank you, sir.”
I waited a beat and realized she was waiting to be dismissed. I did so and she shut the door behind herself.
Sheesh. I thought dealing with knight-bodyguards was annoying. I hoped other people weren’t going to throw “sir” at me as much as that.
I checked on the guests. They were all still in their rooms and awake, darn it. I wanted a few quiet minutes to stare intently at their souls without questions or distractions. Ah, well. Later in the night.
Back in my rooms, Trixie was singing and lounging in her diorama’s flowing water.
“Are you enjoying the children?”
“Just the little one.”
“Why just her?”
“The others won’t believe in me, so they won’t see me.”
“Really? I didn’t know that. Can adults see you if they believe in you?”
“Anybody who believes can see,” she replied. “The old ones can see me, but they don’t play.”
“Grown-ups do tend to be too busy, yes.”
“Can Jenny play outside tomorrow?”
“Why?”
“I want us to play in the sunshine.”
“Are you sure it’ll be sunny tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“All right, but please keep her in sight of the house. I’m touchy about her safety.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Good girl.” Trixie beamed at me. “And both Mary and Diogenes send their hellos.”
“Yay! I like your familiar spirit.”
“Diogenes?”
“Yes.”
“What about Mary?”
“She’s all right, I suppose.”
“At least she’s friendly.”
“True. I can like her because you do.”
“Oh? Why wouldn’t you like her?”
“She doesn’t let me sit on her head.”
“That’s fair.”
I decided to get some preliminary spell work done for the new cargo shifter. The room wasn’t even built, yet, but the basics are pretty much interchangeable and don’t require a physical structure. It kept me occupied for a couple of hours—long enough for everyone in the house to be snoring.
I reached into each room, one by one, feeling around with my soul-sucking tendrils. It was well past midnight and they were all asleep. A bit of vitality stolen from each, a little drain on their energies, and they would stay asleep.
The bedroom doors bolt on the inside. For child safety reasons, I decided to have them removed. The doors would still lock, but they could also be unlocked from the outside. Still, a bolt doesn’t stop me. Kicking in a heavy, oak door is hardly worse than punching through a paper bag, but I have other resources. Psychic tendrils of darkness flow through wood and metal to latch onto the bolt. A spell suppresses atmospheric vibrations. Another tendril writhes through the lock, turning.
Opening a door quietly takes much more effort, but I get to keep the door.
Once I had the door open, I vampire-eyeballed each of the guests. Nobody was perfect, of course. Everyone has little things in their soul that make them less than angels. Someone isn’t naturally truthful, someone else has a deep scar of shame, another one shivers with desperation—probably from economic circumstances. One even has more greed than is good for it.
But one is cruel. More than merely cruel, knowingly cruel. A sadist who delights in the creation of misery, takes joy in the infliction of suffering. A sadist who chose the profession of primary-school teacher, in charge of children.
The kids were right. And Mrs. Whitcomb would not be joining us, not even for breakfast. I was tempted to turn her into breakfast. But her unexplained disappearance could spoil my plans for the place…
It’s ironic, to me, how letting a child-abusing, sadistic old biddy live was better for the kids’ welfare.
I carefully shut each door, locked and bolted them again, and went back to my workshop for the evening.
The Manor, Thursday, October 5th, 1939
It’s been several days, so let me catch up.
Mrs. Whitcomb left without fuss the next morning. Paying her for her time and train ticket may have had something to do with it. A good thing, too, because she had almost a whole day to get as far away from me as possible before night fell. Had she remained anywhere nearby, someone would have had to write an obituary.
Since then, the rest of the babysitting applicants have also come and gone or come and stayed, depending. I’ve kept more than I need because I suspect I’ll need more than I think. Most of them, as with the host families of Operation Pied Piper, are good, decent people. They just happen to need a job. There were a few—a very few, thankfully—who were not at all the type of people I want anywhere near children, for various reasons.
There were no fatalities. I thought I’d mention it.
In the course of their transportation to and from the train station, I’ve given Kathleen two lessons in driving. She either has zero talent for it or a complete lack of interest. Richard, on the other hand, is almost desperate to be allowed to drive. I know he’s about to be thirteen years old and tall for his age, but he still has a hard time seeing over the dashboard while operating the pedals. If it was an automatic transmission—pardon me; an automatic gearbox—I would be more comfortable with it. As it is, he may have to content himself with supervised trips around the drive until he’s a few inches taller.
Councilman Weatheral personally delivered Alex and Michael. They have a room of their own on the theory they want to stick close to each other until they feel more secure. They seem a little nervous about everyone in the house, with the exceptions of Maddy, Jenny, and Mrs. Gillespie. I can’t say I blame them.
Weatheral has also delivered a dozen more children, two and three at a time. With the additional staff, we ran low on bedrooms everywhere but in the servants’ quarters. We haven’t run out, yet, but we were down to one spare bedroom this morning. The bunk beds I ordered have finally arrived, though, so when we get more children we’ll rearrange things a bit.
This influx of people also meant more laundry, more cooking, more cleaning, and more all-around work. Since we had a terrible master-to-servant ratio, I got stuck with interviewing for a butler. Mrs. Gillespie is willing to handle hiring other staff, but was adamant about having no business passing judgment on a butler.
I’ve got three candidates, all on a trial basis, vying for the position right now. It’s a deathmatch, very proper and polite, with starched shirts and silverware. I admit to a slight preference for the youngest, Jarvis, but only because of his name. Pity we don’t have an Alfred or a Willikins.
The new phone line is in and it confused Alice the first time I used it. The switchboard operators have never heard of anyone with more than one phone line. I also took the opportunity to upgrade the telephone unit from the candlestick model to the sort with a handset and a top cradle for it. The new ones even have rotary dialing… although the local telephone exchange can’t support that function. Ah, well. Alice and Hazel are unfailingly nice. I don’t mind going through them.
Diogenes produced an anti-aircraft laser unit for me. It’s a laser, yes, but the most important parts are the sensors. It does no good to have firepower if you don’t know what to shoot. The whole setup is about the size of two backpacks and a bazooka; the bazooka part is the actual laser. I locked the whole arrangement in a closet on the third floor of my personal quarters. I might never need to shoot down the Luftwaffe or an atomic war rocket, but you never know.
Early on in the week, I kept myself busy organizing construction. Weatheral provided me with a list of reliable firms and I took him at his word.
Just yesterday, dozens of blue-collar types arrived with truckloads of tools, timber, tents, and the other accoutrements of the contactor’s trade. The well-dressed gentleman bossing them fiddled with a theodolite-type thing, several meters of odd-looking chain, and made thoughtful noises over the plans I provided for row housing—sort of a three-storey motel, but made of brick and timber, not plywood and sheet rock.
They didn’t have any power digging equipment, but they did have older men, tall boys, and shovels. Apparently, most of the power equipment and young men are busy elsewhere. I find I’m not overly surprised. I’m just glad we’re fortunate enough to have a crew of plumbers and electricians included in the pile. Those are doing whatever witchcraft they do to make hot water and lights happen.
Mrs. Gillespie is driving herself mercilessly to feed everyone and interview maids. I decided she was doing it backwards. She wanted to interview them and decide up front. With Weatheral’s help and recommendations, I hired two more maids for her without asking her opinion. Now she can see them in action and decide whether or not to keep them.
On the plus side, all the children are adequately dressed, fed, and educated. I put pince-nez—Professor Blake, the Classics teacher—in charge of organizing it all. I don’t think he’s ever been given authority to administrate before, but there’s a war on and a very can-do attitude around the place. He rose to the occasion. The kids are now divided up among the various teachers based on age, subject matter, and previous education. He’s got a schedule for everything short of trips to the water closet.
I put my foot down regarding play time. Discipline and education and focus are important, yes. No argument. Children are still children, however, and there will be some time for them to be children even if we have to schedule the chaos. Blake wasn’t happy about it, but I didn’t actually have to ask who he would recommend as his replacement.
On the plus side, Blake was entirely pleased by my insistence on teaching logic, critical thinking, and debate. The refugees in Apocalyptica have Diogenes as their teacher through interactive holograms in the classrooms, but I insisted on teaching people to think before focusing on facts to memorize. I see no reason to vary that program here, aside from having humans do the teaching.
