If you'd asked Martha to imagine hell prior to the Family, she might've painted a picture of pitchforks and flames and dinner with both her parents. This Martha knew better. Knew that what Dante had failed to mention in his Inferno was that if you squinted at the gates of Farringham School for Boys long enough, you'd find the words "abandon hope all ye who enter here" hidden among its curling wrought iron limbs.
It was a Saturday when the two had turned up at the school with little more than an acceptance letter and Martha's wits to sustain them through the next three months. He was amicable enough, the human Doctor. Not that Martha had had much time to make his acquaintance before the headmaster came down to greet Mr. John Smith with a jolly handshake and half a glance at his maid.
It stunned Martha. She hadn't been naive enough to think she'd be introduced as his friend; there were few backstories that came to mind when you factored in gender, race, and year, but still ones she would've much preferred to the TARDIS's concoction.
Because it was a Saturday, John Smith had the whole weekend to settle into his rooms in the teacher wing of the school. Martha had not been so lucky. She'd received a uniform before she'd even been shown her room—laundered, scrubbed, dusted, and polished her way to bed, where she found herself now, aching and bruised and regretting not having cherished 21st century mattresses when she had the chance.
Needless to say, she was miserable.
Nonetheless, Martha was not a crier. No, she was a problem solver, but it seemed this situation was beyond even her grasp. It was for that reason she found great joy in the discovery of a cut on her shin. A small one, already scabbing and below notice on any other day. Probably the result of kneeling on the stone floors. But it wasn't any other day, and a cut seemed to be the only problem Martha Jones, the almost doctor, could confront under these strange circumstances with some measure of authority.
She discarded her wool stockings to better examine the wound. Pondering if it was a terribly bad idea to rip up some of the provided linens to fashion a bandage, Martha was disturbed by the sound of her door creaking open. A pale face popped through the crack, followed by a nervous smile, twin braids, and a uniform not unlike her own, if a bit more worn.
"Ye must be ma new roommate, then?" Said the new arrival in a Scottish accent.
Martha glanced at the empty cot adjacent to her own. She'd been plotting to push the two together, spare herself some back pain while she was here. And though her plans were now squandered, Martha still managed a wane smile.
"Martha Jones. And you'd be?"
"Orla MacKenzie," she stuck out a hand to shake, and Martha accepted. "Now, what 'ave we got 'ere?"
Martha followed Orla's gaze to her own exposed shin. She moved to flatten her skirts back over the leg with an excuse of clumsiness on her lips, but Orla was faster. The twiggy girl rushed to her bedside, hefting up the skirts with little regard for the newness of their acquaintance to get a good look at Martha's not so problematic problem.
She tried to tell her as much: "It's really nothing."
But Orla squinted at the cut for a second longer. "Aye, it's a wee-thing, but no' a no-thing. It's a good excuse anyhow."
"Excuse?"
Orla didn't answer, choosing instead to rifle through a dresser Martha hadn't noticed, all whilst giggling. Martha would've been a bit put off by the strange behavior if what her new roommate produced from the dresser had been anything other than it was.
"To use this," Orla whispered, placing a finger to her smiling lips while clutching a bottle that read whiskey with the other.
Martha couldn't deny, she was intrigued. "What do we need that for?"
"Why, to clean yer wound," she grinned. "What were ye thinkin'?"
They did manage to spare a drop or two for the cut, Orla kindly offering bandages as well, before they started taking turns, passing the bottle back and forth between swigs and questions.
"How'd you get the alcohol, anyway?" Martha giggled.
"Oh, a Scot always kens a way to the bottle," Orla winked.
Swig.
"Did ye come wi' the new teacher? Mr. Smith?"
"Yeah."
Swig.
"Are you one of the nurses here? Because of the bandages?"
Martha had probably gotten a bit more bang for her buck with that question, but she chalked it up to the alcohol and Orla's open book personality. Her new roommate painted a harrowing tale of war and birth, both of which had taken her parents, leaving Orla to care for her brother Ian alone. With few means to employ a young single girl with a child to care for, Orla had come to an "arrangement" with the headmaster of Farringham two years prior to allow her earnings to go directly to funding her little brother's education while she lived at and worked for the school. This arrangement, of course, was not out of the kindness of the headmaster's heart, but rather the lust of his dick.
Martha learned that most of the servants did not have primary employers outside of the school itself, but those that did, as Martha supposed Mr. Smith was for her, had similar arrangements in place. Orla wondered as much.
"So ye and Mr. Smith, then?" Orla smiled into her next swig. "He's a bonny one. Young, too. I'd keep an eye on 'im if I were ye. Those nurses can go a bit feral for the fresh meat."
Martha shook her head. She wasn't sure if she even wanted that to be the case or not. Sure, Mr. Smith was the Doctor, but he wasn't presently the Doctor, and that provided several complications and entirely dubious consent if she were to imagine any such arrangement with her "employer."
And that was ignoring the fact she didn't know John Smith. How much of the Doctor was really in there? What had the TARDIS programmed into him about his relationship with Martha? Did he hold the same attitudes of the era when it came to race and class? She simply didn't know, and probably wouldn't know for some time to come if today's labors even somewhat resembled her typical work week.
In the short time Martha had had to get herself changed into period appropriate clothing, grab the TARDIS's prepacked luggage, watch the Doctor's instructional video, and get John the hell out of the ship before he woke up, she hadn't much time to get to know the man. They'd hitched a ride with a carriage conveniently headed towards the school (one of many things they'd probably have to time travel into existence once this was all over), in which she'd been entirely ignored both by the driver and John as they chatted happily about their employment prospects.
Not that Martha had much to add to the conversation, uncertain of what the future held for her at Farringham. And if she were being honest, Martha was rather distracted.
John Smith moved like the Doctor. Quirked his brows all crooked, waved his arms in grandiose gestures, spoke the same, if slightly less animated. If she hadn't known better, Martha would've believed this was another of the Doctor's performances, his lies—the ones that got them into places they shouldn't be and convinced enemies to become allies.
But it was too good.
Once the Doctor gets what he needs, he drops the performance. He was good at lying, but he didn't like lying. And anyway, he'd much prefer to get on with saving the day as the Doctor than keeping up with whatever manufactured backstory had allowed him to start that process. How else would he boast about being clever?
But John Smith wasn't lying. And it was confusing and strange and scary. He was the man Martha loved, but not really. He couldn't quit the act. No matter how badly she wished he would.
"No, it's not like that with us," she swallowed all that she wanted to say. "I served his family before him, and he kindly brought me along once he was offered the position, is all."
Martha palmed the whiskey bottle back gladly, giving it a swish to test the remaining volume, before indulging in a long gulp. Orla laughed.
"Ye can go ahead and finish the bottle, love. We have Sundays off, and if yer gunna be hungover, ye might as well be hungover."
Hefting the bottle upwards in an unsaid 'cheers,' she took Orla up on that offer.
"To new beginnings."