Hm. I wrote that this was going to be five chapters or something . . . well, it won't be. I'm not making it any longer than what is in my notebook, but I think it is better split up into many more chapters than the four I originally intended. Oh well, that's more fun for you, probably. Hold you in suspense. :)
Chapter 4
Although his first debut in the kitchen was entirely solitary, Mr. Robinson lessened his dominance of the counters considerably, to the point that he allowed Ms. Beeton to work alongside him for the next meal. Actually, 'allowed' would be an understatement: he almost refused to do anything but sit and watch her that evening. However, with her gentle encouragement, and her inability to do anything right in his opinion, he soon was up and busy, though with considerably less enthusiasm than prior. They made . . . something, that night, with odds and ends from the kitchen again. Ms. Beeton could not really remember the name of it, since it was French.
The next day, he awoke, as morose and late as usual, but Ms. Beeton reminded him of the task they shared while the cook was away, and it was this remembrance that inspired him to get up a little less exhaustedly than usual. He swore up and down that, after breakfast, they really needed to get out and do some shopping, because, as he put it, there was absolutely 'no decent trifles whatsoever', and the kitchen 'ought to be a disgrace to any man with a conscience.'
Elated to see him so eager, Ms. Beeton received the daily shopping allotment from Dr. Cromwell (who was in charge of the institutional finances and such) and set off with Mr. Robinson to the local market. The electric energy she had seen overtake him the day before again struck through his body, and it was hard for her to keep up with him all morning. It was amazing, really, how well he kept within the budget, badgering with the fishmonger, cryptically examining every price tag and calculating the totals by tapping his fingers on his arm, reminiscent of a piano-player studying a hard bit of Gershwin.
They even ended up with a little bit extra left over after all the purchases had been made, with which they purchased a good bit of chocolate to make some delectable-sounding dessert he had on his mind. All in all, Ms. Beeton was astounded by the real vitality the man had dormant within him, which only showed when he was keenly interested in something.
Every meal that the pair of them were in charge with that day were definite hits, with both the patients who cared enough to notice, and the staff; Doctor Cromwell in particular. The man, ever eager to save a penny, ended up sending away the professional cook entirely. Dr. Cromwell decided that, definitely, Mr. Robinson's skill in the kitchen was far better and more economical, and so he took advantage of it.
Mr. Robinson had protested articulately at this development at first, but since the Ms. Beeton had reported the therapeutic qualities of the kitchen work, there was no way for him to refuse both the Doctor and his nurse. For a while, he had refused to help if he was put under an obligation, but when Ms. Beeton had to star working alone, he eventually yielded to demand because she really was so inept in the kitchen.
"You're better as the taste-tester," he told her acerbically, "They do say that the fat do actually have keener senses in that department, though I daresay that's balderdash."
It did not take him very long to criticize her bulk once his tongue became more loose with activity, and it was obvious that he was uncommonly disgusted by her. When she asked him 'why?' for the first time, he saw no point in concealing it with false tact. "Ms. Beeton, for the entirety of my life I have been only persecuted or badly treated by people with effusive goodness and/or rather too much weight on them. You are the ultimate of these two extremes, and therefore you must understand why I am wary, and, often, repulsed by you. I recommend you do not take it personally."
She never wrote down these things, since her memory served her well enough that she would be haunted by his words for months afterwards, and she did not want to be embarrassed by Dr. Cromwell looking over the file and noticing the strange comments made by the patient. It was her suspicion that, if the Doctor ever learned of them, he would have kicked out Mr. Robinson into the street without any consideration. The Doctor considered their establishment a Christian one, and would not tolerate any indecencies. Ms. Beeton was of the opinion, however, that just because a man might be a bit rude, he ought not be refused mercy. That was where she felt she was different from Doctor Cromwell.
On the side, she did notice that every time Mr. Robinson said something negative about her, though, she realized she was present—he never talked about her behind her back, to anyone. So, even though he would say things like, "Ms. Beeton, you irritate me because of . . ." something or another, he would never talk about it with anyone else, least of all the Doctor. He was virtually a closed book to all but Ms. Beeton, and that was only because she was spending every waking minute with him. Nevertheless, she felt that his brutal honesty was the mark of his ultimate trust, and so she told herself to never mind his stringent comments and criticisms.
Something else that he at first ignored, but eventually came to strongly criticize, was her beautiful Christian nature. "You know, the rest of Britain does not operate like this institution does, as far as I know. In the rest of the world, people don't think it very kind to constantly refer to religion, especially in daily conversation. I would appreciate if you would cease with your badly-hidden attempts to make me follow your version of morality, since, first, they will not have any affect upon me, and second, because I find them highly annoying and make me dislike you all the more intensely. "
She had replied with Dr. Cromwell's trained response, "We're trying to help you, Mr. Robinson, not force religion into you! Your spiritual soul is obviously not in the best place at this point, since you're always so . . . sad . . . and it's obvious that you don't feel happy with your current life . . .and we just want you to know that Jesus loves you, more than you could ever know!"
At this, he had raised an eyebrow warily, asking "Is that your view or the Doctor's?"
"The institution's!"
He had no reply.
Sooner than later, Mr. Robinson had stayed in the hospital for almost a full year, and Ms. Beeton had gained a stone and a half due to her patient's culinary skill. Their habits had changed but slightly; now Mr. Robinson called her 'Jennifer' except when he was being critical of her, and he never woke up late anymore. Instead, he found it within himself to begin the day by jogging around the large, scantily-cultivated property behind the hospital. As to the other residents of the hospital . . . he never gave them so much as a glance. Recovering drunkards, druggies, and the like, he kept a clear distance away from them all, never joining the company of any besides his nurse. Jennifer was slightly concerned with this anti-sociality, but secretly reveled in this fact that she was the only one he even halfway cared to spend time with.
In essence, it was clear to her that Mr. Robinson was not a bad man. He occasionally showed displays of temper in his worst times—and a cynical, witty sense of humor in his best. He had a certain sarcastic streak very often, too, but Jennifer was intensely of the opinion that these downfalls simply gave him character. In her view, actually, any diversion from the languid, morose state he commonly faced was a step forward, one more brick on his golden road to recovery.
Jennifer discovered something else rather quickly about spending time with Mr. Robinson. For all his faults, and even though she did not have a proper name to call him, devoting twelve hours of her day with him did nothing to quell the initial attraction she had felt from the moment she first held him in her arms.
He was younger than he looked, though, which saddened her. She had been brought up with the mentality that one's husband must be older, for some reason, and Mr. Robinson was thirty-nine to Jennifer's fifty-one. Astrologically, too, their signs were little compatible: he had let on, once, that he was a Capricorn, and compared to Jennifer's Gemini, they would 'really have to work hard at a romantic relationship', which, to her mind, meant that they were virtually impossible. This knowledge, of course, merely made him more enticing, the forbidden fruit put forth to tempt her. Oh, but she could not deny it, after a short time she gave in to the understanding that, for the first time in her life, she had fallen in love.
She knew she could never say anything, especially not to him, but it gave her a face to accompany her own when she re-read Pride and Prejudice in the evenings, alone at home. Envisioning Mr. Robinson as the enigmatic Mr. Darcy was quite easy, in her opinion, almost uncannily so.
One thing that disappointed her greatly was the fact that since the time she first met him, he refused to let her hug him, or touch him in any way, except very hesitantly and briefly. Once, he had been in the middle of a daytime nap enforced by the Doctor when Jennifer had awakened him from one of his numerous nightmares. When he awoke and came back to reality, he tore away from her comforting hand and turned savagely away from her, scowling. He was so close to her, and yet so unattainable; it made her very sad.
Mr. Robinson's Wiccan 'wand' resided in Dr. Cromwell's secret desk drawer, safe and well locked-up from the day of its confiscation, but, to the amazement of both the Doctor and Jennifer, it showed up one day on the side-table of the man, months after he had been admitted into the facility.
Mr. Robinson, when he woke to find it, said to Jennifer, "Jennifer, I suppose this goes to prove that you just don't separate a man from his wand. It's cruel, not only for the master to abstain from it, but for the wand itself."
The interesting thing about this incident was that Dr. Cromwell had locked his office very securely that night due to a newly-admitted kleptomaniac, and yet there was no evidence the morning after of Mr. Robinson's having entered the office--everything was immaculate and untouched.
"The most deuced thing how he got it again," the Doctor declared exasperatedly, "Not even the most infantismal evidence of his coming in, yet he still has got his wand, and his wand is certainly no longer in my drawer."
Mr. Robinson did not seem to use his wand, though—in fact, Jennifer thought it had disappeared again almost as soon as he got it back—but she soon saw that he kept it constantly in his sleeve. It was a chilling thought, Jennifer decided, realizing that he was so attached to that smooth stick of wood that he was admittedly inseparable from it. It was almost as though he worshiped it, as some sort of strange and scary little pet. Jennifer swore up and down that, someday, she wold wean him from it and make him a Christian, despite his protestations against her missionary advances.
As to his own little world, soon traces of it began to disappear from his conversation entirely, though sometimes he would snort at himself (with amusement!) for sounding 'too Muggle'.
Otherwise, Mr. Robinson almost never talked about himself or his inner world, to the impatience of Dr. Cromwell and Jennifer. The only clues they ever really gathered were from his nightmares, when the night matron would write down feebly-collected notes on the things he said. They had accumulated a good sum of information from these, and the most major facts they discovered from these were thus: He was a teacher at some sort of institution called Hog's Warts or Hog-Warts, depending on how clearly he was speaking, and his employer was a wretched man named Voldimurt, whom everyone hated, Mr. Robinson included. This Voldimurt had forced Mr. Robinson to kill the girl he loved as a young man (the real life girl Lily Evans, purportedly) and then later Mr. Robinson had become an officer in the army, only to unwittingly send her son to his death against a band of 'death eaters'.
Jennifer was puzzled at how they did all this killing in his world, since he never made mention of any artillery or weapons, but occasionally he began to speak in a fluent gibberish that Dr. Cromwell confirmed was classical Latin, so the caretakers inferred that the language might have been used to create spells or incantations of the like. Again, Mr. Robinson never failed to insist that he ought to have died after being killed by a snake, and more often than not he lamented after some teacher he used to have named Alfus Bumble Door. However, whenever Jennifer would talk to him after one of these terrible dreams, he would calm up and not say a word for a good long time—at least, until she dramatically changed the subject.
It was tiresome, true, but collecting more information was sure to help in some way.
Many mornings, after the breakfast rush, they would return from the daily shopping, and Jennifer would proceed to provoke her patient to take her out into the prim and well-kempt gardens. Her main concern was to keep him from going into his room and locking her out; Dr. Cromwell decided after a time that just keeping Mr. Robinson busy was the best way to progressively cure the patient.
On such mornings, Jennifer led him through the sliding glass doors for their usual walk. The expanse of the lawn did somewhat extend in sloppy green waves behind the institution. There were no paths, and no flowers to speak of—just a few large old oaks and wiry beeches interspersed between them. A bench was located here or there, all within a decent distance of each other, to prevent accidental eavesdropping.
Mr. Robinson's favorite (really he had little preference; it was Jennifer's favorite in reality) was under one of the oaks—there was moss on its roots and trunk, and the sound of a broken water main guzzled nearby somewhere unseen, imitating the sound of a trickling creek. It was to here that, typically, Jennifer and Mr. Robinson would walk. They usually got about a mile's exercise, back and forth, which Jennifer maintained was doing her a lot of good, but Mr. Robinson just laughed at her when she said that.
Mr. Robinson's walk was regal, no matter his mental state, Jennifer decided. His carriage proud, almost arrogant these days, and if he was not specifically attempting to stay at her side, his long strides coupled with the briskness of his step would soon leave her alone. Occasionally, she did bid him to run ahead, and dutifully he would—his speed quite that of a much younger man, and when she finally arrived to the bench he had not even broken a sweat.
Jennifer treasured these moments with Mr. Robinson out in the yard, probably much more than she ought to have. An occasional squirrel's skirmish or bird call was the only disrupting sound to the slow, heavy breathing of Mr. Robinson. She joined him on the iron bench, panting slightly from her own exertion, and they would sit together.
She never tried to sit too close, and if she did inadvertently settle her bulk an inch nearer than he was comfortable with, he would discretely slouch in the other direction. Usually, Jennifer did not have much to say while they were outside, her senses too fully of the exhilaration of the crisp air, the wind shaking the tree boughs, and nature in general.
She was not blind to the fact, though, that Mr. Robinson was noticeably less tense in this therapeutic environment, and she could almost venture to say his entire appearance relaxed. His continually furrowed brow seemed to erase a few wrinkles, his gangly limbs seemed to spread out every which way like elegant tree boughs, and his hair (now in better condition under Jennifer's care) swayed softly in the breeze, leek and gentle as willow branches. He actually looked as though he would make an excellent beech himself; stern, silent, yet non-aggressive, a strong sentinel standing solidly against a gale.
Jennifer, at this reflection, had the impulse to throw her arms around him and press him into her voluptuous bosom. However, she resisted, for she knew—like a tree, he would make no effort to embrace her in return. The idea, as many ideas about Mr. Robinson did, saddened her.
. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .
I had to reply to this anonymous review from another Alex. (And no, readers, I swear it wasn't me just posting a review on my own story!) Read the entire review; she made some really pertinent points. Other people have mentioned some of the other things she said, but I decided to respond to this one because I can't in a normal review reply. (Shame on you, dear, get an account!)
"I have to admit to being severely creeped out by the constant references to Christianity! Even as a Christian myself." That's one of the main points I'm trying to make. Hit the nail absolutely on the head. It's supposed to be creepy! "Secularism is btw the most common, dominant orientation in Britain: most ( . . . )aren't devout or even visit masses often. Let alone missionarize in any way." I am an American, true, but I watch so many British movies and read so many British books that I believe I have a good sense of British culture. And not just Agatha Christies, either; modern British novels as well. I am, therefore, fairly well aware that they are not majorly religious. However, Snape has not been much in Muggle society for a while, and is somewhat unaware of the absurdity of this institution. If you look deeply, you can see that although Ms. Beeton really does care about her religious beliefs and spreading them, (though she really is quite stupid and really belongs in the 1600s converting 'heathens' in California) Dr. Cromwell uses it more as pretense. I did not choose his name for nothing . . . actually, I did not choose either of their names for nothing. "It also makes the whole setting very non-British because that is NOT how religion is viewed in Britain (I lived there for a time) or in the majority of the Europe!" This will be commented on later by Snape, so he will strangely be the dose of realism in this institution where he is purportedly the one without a sense of reality. I love the irony in that. "Though I would expect HIM to be bewildered by the to a Briton very foreign and intrusive behaviour described above..." He is, slightly, but he does not do anything about it for a while due to his apathetic depression, merely accepting it as it is. Ms. Beeton is not the danger, and he understands that, and actually trusts her to a degree. "At the moment your writing invokes visions to me of Snape being rescued by these people - only for the fic to take a more sinister turn . . ." Maybe, maybe not. Brainwashing is a leetle extreme, and physically impossible, but there is a more sinister point to the story. If you knew me better, you would know that I myself am NOT Christian, (even though I can recite Bible verses off the top of my head, like with the Ephesians 2 8-9 Ms. Beeton loves so much) and that this story is a small crusade against intolerance.
