A/N; Ratings:I don't shy away from the ugliness of the time here, so expect to see hints of sexism, racism, classism, and all that. There's also a lot of swearing (from the get go) and violence (in the later chapters)
In total this story is about 14 chapters long. Most of it's finished and just needs editing. So expect a chapter every week (more or less)
Also this isn't linked to my 'Deal of the Moment series' it's just a story I couldn't get out of my head. I might turn it into a series too, if I get the time.
Chapter One ~ A Tale of Two Women
Joan bowed her head politely as Jenny curtseyed and left her room, happy to go about her day attending to the cleaning. Yes, Joan thought, Jenny was polite, a nice girl, not like Martha, who seemed to have little manners and follow Mr Smith around wherever he went.
Joan lightly shook her head, dismissing the thoughts. She had to be careful. Yes, she did find him a caring man, but it'd be unreasonable of her to assume such hopes. It's not like she'd been discreet in her interest, but it seemed John was either oblivious to her advances, or not interested. She was a widow after all, no man was yet to look her way after they discovered that.
Joan tried to refocus and finish her lunch.
A trip to town would be just what she needed, that would help clear her thoughts, allow herself to see reason. Yes, get some fresh air, that'd help her troubles.
She'd just walked out of the clearing in the woods when she spotted the dreaded Martha in the field. She huffed, if only Martha wasn't so recognisable among the staff, then she might have succeeded in her plan of a peaceful walk. Now her thoughts would be clouded.
And why was Martha away from the school grounds, anyway?
Joan tried to go unnoticed as she approached the low stone wall, separating the path and woodland from Mr Cooper's field. Martha was neglecting her work to gossip with the other two from London in the field, so engrossed they, thankfully, didn't notice her approach. The Londoners out numbered her, and were odd, to say the least. The last thing she wanted was to be forced to converse with them out of social niceties.
Still, she'd let Martha's slack in duties pass for now. She was a good Christian woman after all. But if she saw Martha again, she would have a word in private; give her a chance to correct herself before she went to the headmaster.
Joan tried her best to be quiet underfoot as she walked up the path, following the stone wall. Usually, she wasn't one to eavesdrop, but the man and the girl were most peculiar and, not to mention, extremely loud, that she couldn't help it. She risked a glance over to them. The man, tall, sturdy, with locks of brown hair, and spoke as though he attended Oxford or Cambridge, yet worked harvesting potatoes, and mixed with the lesser class like they were old chums. And the girl, brash, loud, stocky, and more common sounding than any of the staff at the school, who, apparently, saw nothing wrong with doing a man's job, day-in-day-out.
"HA! No way! You! You're the one that put the space chicken in Jake's office." the girl snorted, choking on laughter. Uh, so unlady like in her manner, a waste of her - what could be - good looks, if she wasn't so filthy from the work; her frock and face dirty with smeared mud, her hair tied messily in a bun.
"Yes, well, now you know my secret, I am actually an evil genius." the man said sarcastically, sticking his rake he was using in the ground, leaning on it with his hands, looking almost as grimy as the girl.
Yes, very odd the three of them.
"How'd you make it lay purple eggs?" the girl asked, her voice cutting the air.
Joan heard Martha gasp and, for a second, Joan feared she'd been spotted. There was a moment of tense pause before Martha burst out in a fit of laughter. "NO way!"
Joan relaxed, she remained unnoticed. She was almost directly in their line of sight now, half way up the path, that seemed never ending; their conversation as clear as day .
"Well, that was purely a case of the stars aligning. I'd already acquired the chicken, and was keeping her in my work station; Susan, I called her. Yes, quite a crafty bugger, she got onto my desk and, in her search for more favourable hydration than the water I left out for her, downed a glass of the grape Vitex I had on my desk."
"You're fucking kidding me!" the girl yelled, causing Joan to flinch.
Such language.
"I swear!" the man protested. "Honestly, I'm more surprised that's all it did and poor Susan didn't immediately expire... no offense."
Joan was nearly at the end of the field, she could barely make out Martha ask. "And why's that?" before her voice faded out of range.
When she arrived in the village, Joan was determined to put the whole thing out of her mind, determined to relax and enjoy her day. She'd get a nice treat from the bakery, Martha would surely be gone from the field by the time she got back, and the other two would be busy with their heads down. And, if she timed it neatly, Mr Smith would be just out of his classroom by the time she returned.
Yes, that would do quite nicely.
The bell above the small, stone bakery dinged as she entered. It was a lovely little shop, and the aroma was nothing short of bliss. Why anyone would even attempt to contest there was a greater smell was beyond her.
She approached the counter, behind the glass was an array of cakes, biscuits and freshly baked bread. The shopkeeper; Mr Biggins, brightened when she entered. "Ah Matron, here for one of my buns, I see?" the cheerful old man with red cheeks and a big belly, asked.
She laughed off her embarrassment. "Oh, Mr Biggins. You know me too well."
He smiled at her knowingly, and went to grab her usual order.
The shop bell chimed again. "Ah, Biggins." the voice called, well bellowed would be the correct term.
Biggins looked over the counter. "Ah, Mr Clarke. What brings you here, old boy?"
"Have you seen Mr Cooper by chance? I heard he was back in town."
"You just missed him."
Mr Clarke slapped his knee in frustration. "Blast! I wanted to have a word."
"Whatever for?" Mr Biggins asked, distractingly placing her bun in a paper bag and handing it to her. He briefly refocused his attention. "That'll be a half penny." he told her.
She smiled and handed over the money, stretching over the counter to pass it to him, while Mr Biggins rang up her order as Mr Clarke complained on.
"I wanted to speak to him about that woman and fellow he's got working the field."
Joan's curiosity was piqued, she sneakily glanced towards Mr Clarke, trying to avoid detection.
Mr Biggins scoffed. "Why, awful business, isn't it? Having a woman do such work, and I hear the man is well to do, most strange."
Mr Clarke looked astounded. "Awful? I think it's bloody marvellous! I want to hire them when he's done with them."
Joan turned to face Mr Clarke, her expression of shock mirroring Mr Biggins.
"Good lord man, for whatever reason?"
"I'll tell you, old boy." he looked at Joan and tipped his hat. "And you Matron, you'll want to tell the Headmaster of that school of yours."
Joan leaned in to listen, Mr Clarke looking as if he was about to spilt some intimate secret, moving closer to them. "Ever since that blasted school opened it has been a blight on my land." he began, his voice bitter. "Boys coming over, leaving their beer bottles, disturbing my animals, the retched filth even poisoned one of my herding dogs, been in service with me for ten years."
Joan brought a hand to her mouth. "How cruel! I say, you should inform the headmaster of this. He shall take swift action."
"Here, here." Mr Biggins agreed.
Mr Clarke swung back. "Bah." he scoffed, unimpressed. "That's the first thing I did, it's not my responsibility to discipline the pests. And I tell you, whatever Rocastle is doing to those boys, it's not working."
"Now, now, old boy." Mr Biggins interjected. "It is not of Matron's place to be giving recommendations to the headmaster."
She instantly shot Mr Biggins a grateful smile, he'd just saved her quite an uncomfortable conversation.
Mr Clarke cleared his throat, adjusting his trousers. "Yes, well." He bowed his head. "Apologies Matron."
She smiled politely. "Oh, it's quite alright. But, may I ask what this as to do with finding Mr Cooper? If the students have done something, I'm sure I can inform -"
Mr Clarke waved a dismissive hand. "No need. It's been dealt with Matron."
"How?" Mr Biggins asked. "And what's the two farm hands got to do with it? Come on old chum, you're making this more mysterious by the second."
Mr Clarke lit up, a cheeky look in his eye. "Ha! Typical of you Biggins, you want a story."
"Why, I do. And Matron, I'm sure." he looked at her to answer.
She smiled, internally grateful that she had acceptable reason to stick around. "Well, I can't say I'm not curious." she admitted.
Mr Clarke nodded, wasting no time. "Well, there I was one day, walking about my land on the border of Cooper's field." he began, his tone instantly captivating. "And there I spy the little pests from the school; four of them, bothering the pair, throwing rocks and all sorts. Now call me old fashioned, but that's just not good form, to harm another in such a way."
"Why, here, here." Mr Biggins agreed instantly, thumping his hand down on the counter.
Joan was shocked. The behaviour was so nasty, boys at their worst, even if it was out of curiosity of the two oddities, she couldn't excuse it. "So, what did you do?" she asked.
"Well, of course, I go to intervene; lay my hands on them and drag them to the school myself. No matter whose responsibility, I won't see boys striking a woman!"
Mr Biggins nodded along. "And in such a way as well! Rocks? Despicable."
"Exactly!" Mr Clarke agreed wholeheartedly. "I went to chase down the devils. But then..." He stopped and leaned away, crossing his arms, smiling smugly to himself.
Joan waited for him to continue, completely immersed.
After a few moments of silence, Mr Clarke chuckled, his belly wobbling as he saw both their looks of anticipation. "Turns out, there was no need. I tell you I've never seen a pair move so fast, nor a woman throw so hard. HA! It was a brilliant sight. Chased all four of them down, dragged them by the ears back to the field, one of them even started blubbering like a babe. My only regret is that I didn't have one of those fancy cameras to document the whole thing. Years I've been waiting for the pests to get their comeuppance, and then it plays out right in front of my very eyes! I tell you I felt like an Irishman with front row seats to Cromwell's execution. "
Joan gaped.
There was no way a woman was capable of that.
Surely not.
Mr Biggins scoffed, snapping her out of it. "You are playing me for a fool, old boy."
"Never! You know me Biggins, when have I ever been dishonest."
Mr Biggins thought for a moment. "That's true." he concluded, still thinking. "But a woman?"
Joan nodded in agreement. The boys were fit and healthy, under strict discipline. Why would they lose against a mere woman?
"Yes! Do you believe it, they feared her the most? I tell you it was marvellous. And, my old chum, the story doesn't end there!"
Both Joan and Mr Biggins' eyes popped.
"More!" Mr Biggins gasped. "Well, go on don't keep us waiting old boy. What happened next?"
"They put them to work! HA! They made the scoundrels work the fields. I couldn't believe my luck. I even went back to the cottage and had the wife bring them some tea. I carried a few foot stools to them, sat with them and watched as the pests worked. I tell you; they are of good character, nothing what the gossip the wives are spreading implies."
Mr Biggins thought, seeming to reach some sort of conclusion. "Well, I guess you should invite them both for a round then, let the lads see for themselves, eh? If you think the woman can handle the roughness of it?"
Mr Clarke nodded, an appreciative look in his eye. "I'm glad you think so, old boy. I believe it to be a fun evening. They have travelled far, from what I can tell. Have many stories to share."
Joan glanced between them, eyes wide. She couldn't believe it. A woman's place was not side by side with working men. And especially not these men, who had wives at home, children to feed. What would their wives say, if they found out they were drinking with some scandalous woman.
"And may I ask if the woman on the field is married?" she asked calmly, not giving anything away. "It's just, perhaps, her husband will disapprove."
"That's right you know." Mr Biggin's agreed, looking towards Mr Clarke. "...Unless, the educated lad and her are wed? Then she would simply be with her husband."
"No, no. They are cousins, I believe. And she is not married, I already asked, offered her my son. HA"
Mr Biggins gasped. "You did not!"
"I had to, old boy. You know how I disapprove of the snake he's chained to in Winchester."
"Sometimes, old chum." said Mr Biggins in a tired tone. "You are too forward. What are their names?"
Mr Clarke ignored his complaint. "Keisha Marion, the girl. And Alex Wright, the lad. I tell you; they would make someone a fine partner, a shame both your son and daughter are married off."
Mr Biggins smirked. "I have heard the women gossip, the lad - Wright - will have no problem. And I have heard the gaggle of Maths teachers from your school, -" He nodded to Joan. "- Down the pub, and can safely say the same for Marion."
Mr Clarke scoffed. "Those fools, they all have wives and husbands at home, these two aren't the sort."
"Perhaps, they are free-spirits and are not the sort to settle." she added, keen to move on rather quickly from the subject. She had a feeling this conversation could steer -
"- Maybe that new teacher at the school? I hear he is on the market?" Mr Biggins asked, looking to her for an answer.
Oh, blast.
That's the last thing she wanted. The woman was rough, yes, but she was also beautiful, and a subject of much of the boy's gossip, and even -as Mr Biggins said - some of the teachers. John had not mentioned her, but had late classes and didn't often walk to the village during daylight hours, so they, thankfully, missed each other.
And besides, John couldn't be interested. There were of a completely different class, different character, different disposition, different everything, there was no way John would even consider pursuing her. He was not the sort of man to judge on looks alone.
Joan hesitantly began her answer, choosing her every word, as not to let it be known just how flustered she really was. "Yes... Well, Mr Smith isn't married, nor widowed. And I can't comment on his preferences, I'm afraid."
"We'll see. That man seems to have his head stuck in the clouds, but even he'd be a fool to let a woman like that pass him by." Mr Clarke scoffed. "If she even wants him as a suitor."
Well, she did. She wanted John, and she vowed then and there to pursue him more forwardly, until he told her out-rightly he wasn't interested. She might even ask him to the dance coming up in three weeks. He would notice her at last, and she would have nothing to worry about from this farm hand.
No, nothing to worry about.
Honestly, Martha couldn't leave the Doctor alone for two minutes. She'd just left to tidy up Tits- Pervert's books, a teacher apparently incapable of organising his own desk, when Jenny rushed up to her, telling her the Doctor had fallen down the stairs, backwards, backwards! And it was only six hours in to her twelve-hour shift. How she'd not aged twenty years from the stress she had no idea.
What if a head injury effected the watch? What if he had a normal human concussion and Redfern sent him off to bed, the medical practises in this time weren't exactly stellar, far from it, actually. She was probably the most qualified Doctor on the whole planet, and she wasn't even fully trained! Did they even know about concussions in this time? What if he fractured that skull of his, the risk of infection in this germ pool that was only a few years away from the Spanish Flu pandemic.
She barged in to Redfern's office. "Is he alright?" she asked instantly, scanning him for any clues that he was about to keel over in the next five seconds.
He was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, rubbing his head. Joan was behind him, cleaning him up. She wasn't even wearing gloves, and she was using the water from the sink. That was brown when it came out!
"Excuse me, Martha. It's hardly good form to enter a master's study without knocking."
Martha was so shocked that, that was what Redfern was choosing to focus on, right now... while he was right there. God, this place! She turned in a huff, walking back to the door. "Sorry. Right. Yeah." She knocked on the door obviously, making sure to give Redfern a 'are you happy now' look, and re-entered the room.
She looked down at the Doctor. He looked in pain. "But is he all right?" she asked Joan again, before focusing on him. "They said you fell down the stairs, Sir?"
Most of her panic subsided when he answered back without any slur in his speech.
"No, it was just a tumble, that's all." He explained, grimacing as he rubbed his head.
"Have you checked for concussion?" she asked Redfern, hoping she'll know what it means.
Martha got her answer via Redfern's offended look. "I have. And I daresay I know a lot more about it than you."
Again, Martha was painfully reminded, that here, even though; she'd had more training, studied longer, worked harder, knew more, seen more. That she was still just 'the help' in everyone's eyes.
Why did the Tardis have to land here? In this time?
"Sorry." she said defeatedly. "I'll just tidy your things."
"I was just telling Nurse Redfern, Matron, about my dreams." the Doctor, no, John Smith - she needed to remember that – explained to her. "They are quite remarkable tales. I keep imagining that I'm someone else, and that I'm hiding."
Martha's breath hitched, although she hid it well. Oh no! She screamed in her head. Don't tell her! Things were already complicated enough, with him and two 'angel victims' here. The last thing she needed is more juggling. She only had six hours to sleep as it was.
"Tell me." Joan asked the Doctor, and Martha knew that he would. It was clear he was interested - in that way – in Joan. And while John Smith was certainly no Doctor, he was kind, a rarity in 1913. So, of course, Joan was interested too, very interested. It was so obvious.
"I dream, quite often, that I have two hearts."
Joan went to get her stethoscope. "Well, then. I can be the judge of that. Let's find out."
Martha could do nothing, not in this time. She was forced to watch silently as Redfern used a stethoscope to listen to his chest. John getting this sort of nervous sparkle in his eyes as he watched Matron work.
"I can confirm the diagnosis. Just one heart, singular." Matron joked, placing the stethoscope back around her neck.
They were getting too close, Martha thought instantly. There was only one more month and a bit to go. There was no way anything so intimate could happen in that timeframe, in this time period... right? She pushed her sadness away. She had a new problem, she needed to think of something to say, something to convince Joan it was all make believe, that he wasn't crazy.
"I have... er, I have written down some of these dreams in the form of fiction. Not that it would be of any interest."
Martha almost dropped the thing she was 'tidying.'
WHAT!
He'd written it down!
That idiot!
What if the Family saw it!
Martha looked to Joan. Don't ask, don't ask, don't ask, she mentally pleaded.
"I'd be very interested." Joan prepositioned.
Shit.
John got very shy, moving to get the book from his bedside table. "Well, I've never actually shown it to anyone before." He admitted, handing the book to her.
No, no, no.
Martha watched as Joan studied the front cover of a tattered leather-bound book, a look of awe on her face.
It was too late. There was nothing she could do to stop this, that wouldn't break her cover. And she needed to stay with him.
"A Journal of Impossible Things." Joan read aloud, running her hand down the book and opening it.
Martha tried to get a good look in over their shoulder. Joan was completely amazed as she flicked through the pages, studying all the drawings, and John too worried about Joan's reaction to notice that she'd stopped cleaning and started standing beside them. What if he drew something about the future? WWI? The Spanish Flu? That could change history.
"Just look at these creatures." Matron smiled, all giddy, God she was really putting it on. She flicked to another page, with John looking eagerly over her shoulder. "Such imagination." she exclaimed.
John tried to supress how happy that seemed to make him, but hid it poorly. "It's become quite a hobby." he admitted.
Martha tried but she couldn't see everything. John's shoulder was obstructing her line of sight. Some aliens she didn't recognise, some she did; a Dalek, clockwork things, a big giraffe thing with bulging black eyes. She tried to get a better look.
Joan flicked to the next page, and suddenly seemed a little deflated, her shoulders slumped. "Quite an eye for the pretty girls." she stated, her tone almost cold.
John was quick to deny. "Oh no, no, she's just an invention. This character, Rose. I call her, Rose. Seems to disappear later on."
Martha saw the drawing; she could've sworn it looked like...
"She looks remarkably similar to Mr Cooper's farm hand, I'm not sure of her name." Joan added.
No.
Fucking.
Way.
Martha's jaw hit the floor.
It couldn't be...
Could it?
"Really?" John asked, sounding genuinely surprised. "New farm hand? A woman?"
"Yes, her and another -" Joan gave Martha a side glance.
Busted, Joan had caught her looking. Martha tried to play it off, dusting the table behind her. Joan clearly saw right through her, but didn't say anything, and instead continued talking to John.
"- Man from London. Started working for Mr Cooper about a month ago. Quite a wild thing, by all accounts, associates with all sorts of company."
"Oh, is that so?" John asked, innocently curious. "I guess I must've seen her around and added her to the story somehow. Funny how the mind works."
"Yes, quite." Joan agreed, speedily turning the page.
"Ah, that's the box." John pointed to the Tardis, keen to explain. "The blue box. It's always there. Like a..." He tried to think. "Like a magic carpet. This funny little box that transports me to faraway places." he explained to Joan, but Martha wasn't listening, not anymore.
Keisha was Rose Tyler. That wasn't possible... was it?
Was it like John said, and he'd just seen Keisha around? Martha racked her brain. No, she was sure; they'd not seen each other, even in passing. It was winter, so the daylight was short. They were working at the same time, so they always missed each other. He'd never mentioned her before, and vice versa.
And the drawing looked just like her.
She knew about aliens.
"Holy shit."
Matron and John both turned to look at her.
Fuuuckkkk, she'd said that out loud.
"Martha?" John asked, brows furrowed in concern. "Did you say something?" he looked her up and down, but Martha's mind was too busy going a million miles an hour.
But why give a fake name! Why not say she was Rose Tyler? Was it a time travel thing? What should she do? Should she confront her? What if it wasn't an 'angel napping'? What if they really were the family after all?
She blinked and John was suddenly facing her. "Martha? Are you alright? you don't look well." he said, still looking worried.
Martha shook her head. "No, I'm fine." she said, lying very badly. But it was the best she could do right now. "Just, forgot to do something. I've got to go." She gave a quick bow. "Mr Smith, Matron." Martha spun around and scurried to leave the room.
"Martha, wait." called John.
She sighed, annoyed, forcing herself to smile before she turned around. "Yes, Mr Smith?"
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yes, Sir. I'm fine."
He clearly wasn't convinced, but his shoulders slumped and he nodded. "Right."
Martha sprinted towards Cooper's field at an Olympian pace, her mind still whirling with all the possibilities. Friend or foe, she needed to speak with them, both of them. They clearly knew each other, colleagues they said.
She tried to think of everything the Doctor had said about Rose, anything she could use as proof that it really was her.
'Yeah, I did, yeah. What's wrong with that?'
'Rose, her name was Rose.'
'And we were together.'
'That friend of mine Rose, if she was here, she'd say exactly the right thing.'
'Just don't be offended if it calls you Rose.'
Martha's imagination decided that this was the time it wanted to be funny, conjuring up images of the Doctor rambling, but instead of his usual technical babble, it was him just repeating the word Rose, to differing degrees and tones. 'RoSE, ROse, RoSe, ROSE, rose, rOSE, Rosie, Rose, ROSE'
Well, it did feel like that sometimes...
all the time.
She practically long jumped over the stone wall, frantically scanning the horizon of rolling fields and woodland in the distance. They were meant to be here, they said they'd be here all week!
In the distance, Martha spotted a blonde tuff of hair appearing on the top of the hill, lugging a wheelbarrow in front of her.
There she was!
"Keisha!" she screamed pelting towards her.
Keisha - or Rose, Martha was 70% sure - clocked something was wrong and started sprinting towards her, dropping the wheelbarrow, Alex close behind.
"What is it? What's wrong!" The, yet to be decided, Rose, called frantically, grabbing Martha's shoulders.
Martha, pushed -maybe- Rose's arms off hers, grabbing her shoulders instead, looking the Rose look-a-like dead in the eye. She needed to be sure, to see if there was any hint of deception.
"Are you Rose Tyler?" she asked, her voice full of urgency.
A/N: Thanks for reading, I love to hear your thoughts, so please feel free to review, if you want.
Next Chapter: Rose in the Tardis
When: Sunday/Monday