Author's note -

I can't quite believe this is the 30th story I've posted to this collection, which is very close to my heart. I really do appreciate your support of these little stories - thank you so much to everyone who reads them! As always, I love to know what you think. :)

It's been a while since I updated I'm afraid, but I was inspired to write this ficlet to mark the birthday of the lovely gothamgirl28. Hope you enjoy it, my friend!

The morning of our life

"I'm sorry, Mrs Branson, we have no vacancies for nursing staff at this time..."

Sybil is spending her days walking from hospital to hospital, applying for every vacancy she can find, overcoming her nervousness to ask for work even where no positions are advertised. Despite all her efforts, she gets the same result everywhere.

No job.

As one rejection after another stings her soul, she begins to realise how lucky she is to have Tom as her husband.

During their Connemara honeymoon, she'd been overwhelmed by the intensity of sex with him, lost in a smoky haze of desire sated and rekindled again and again as golden days shimmered into velvety nights. But now, back in the real world, she's learning that their lovemaking, as astonishing as it is, only forms part of what marriage to him is all about.

Evening after evening, as she walks through the door, he looks up at her. At first, he asks – "How did you go, darling?" – and she has to tell him that she still hasn't found anything. As the days pass, he switches to quirking an eyebrow at her, and then to doing nothing at all. The look on her face when she comes home soon becomes enough for him to know at a glance how her day has gone.

And, evening after evening, he cares for her so tenderly. He wraps her in his arms as she comes into the flat, kissing her hair, rocking her as he pulls her head down to his shoulder. They make dinner together, him gently teasing her about her lack of domestic skills, and she forgets her troubles for a while as they snuggle up on the couch. Later on, in the quiet darkness of their room, he holds her close, her head nestling on his chest as he murmurs to her that he believes in her, that he knows she can do it, that he's sure she'll succeed.

She only hopes he's right.

One morning, after more than a week of rain, the sun breaks through the clouds just as Sybil closes the front door. She feels a corresponding lift in her mood and takes her first steps of the day with a renewed sense of purpose and determination. Perhaps it's a sign her luck is changing.

She walks towards the Rotunda Hospital, just off O'Connell Street. As she approaches it, she sees a busy flow of people coming in and out, and is struck by the number of smiles she sees.

Then she makes the connection, and can't help smiling herself.

The Rotunda is a maternity hospital. The women who go there aren't sick, but pregnant. She feels a sudden excitement at the idea of helping to bring their babies into the world, each new life a small flower of hope blooming in the piles of rubble left behind in Dublin by the Easter Rising.

"Could you please direct me to the Matron's office?"

A nod and a jerk of the thumb from an aproned woman with a mop and bucket sends Sybil down a quiet corridor. She finds the right door, and hesitates a moment.

I can do it, I can do it. Tom believes in me, and I do too.

Then, she knocks firmly, twice, and holds her breath.

"Enter!"

She opens the door, to see a trim, grey haired woman seated behind a wooden desk, which is set out with military precision. The blotter is perfectly lined up with the edge of the desk, the pens are standing to attention beside a shining pewter inkpot. The matron herself (for it could be no-one else) is as ship shape and Bristol fashion as her surroundings – cap set straight on her head, uniform immaculately starched and ironed, half moon glasses at the tip of her nose.

"And you are..."

"Branson, Matron. Mrs Sybil Branson." She feels a secret joy every time she says her new name aloud, as if she's renewing her wedding vows each time she identifies herself publicly as Tom's wife.

"Ah yes, Branson. Sit down."

The next fifteen minutes are both frightening and exhilarating for Sybil, as the Matron grills her on her nursing experience. She is thankful for the hours she's spent studying since she came to Ireland and is able to answer most of the questions thrown at her with a quiet confidence.

Tapping her pen on her chin, the Matron considers her next words.

"Hmm... Your level of knowledge is satisfactory for a junior nurse, and I can see you'd have a way with our patients. However, Branson, I'm concerned about one thing. From what you've told me, your work experience so far has only been that of a VAD. I'm not sure I can give a position to someone who is not a professional nurse."

"I've thought of that, Matron. I'm ready to fill the most junior role you have and study for my nursing exams in my own time. I'll do anything – scrub bedpans, sweep the floor, make tea, I don't care. I really hope for a chance to prove myself to you. Please?"

Silence.

Sybil's nails are biting into her palms as she waits. Then, just as she's about to give up hope, Matron speaks again.

"All right. I'll give you a month's trial as a student nurse. Never forget – nursing is a glorious profession, Branson. You have one chance to show me you are worthy to join it. If you don't, I'll dismiss you on the spot."

The blood rushes to Sybil's cheeks and she feels her head spinning as she processes what she'd just heard.

I did it, I got a job. A job of my own... I did it!

She stands quickly, a smile breaking across her face.

"Matron, thank you, thank you so much! I promise, I'll work night and day to show you how much I appreciate this, and to try and earn my place here."

"Report for duty tomorrow morning at ten. Ask for Sister O'Sullivan, ward three. She'll show you the ropes."

"Yes, Matron. Thank you, Matron."

As she turns away, she hears the older woman's voice again.

"Oh, and Branson? Good luck."

Sybil's shouting Tom's name as she runs up the stairs to their flat, and he comes out onto the landing to greet her when he hears her voice. One look at her and he knows what's happened.

Her eyes shine as she falls into his arms, almost crying with delight. He covers her face in kisses, pulling her closer, murmuring to her in Irish.

"Tá mé bródúil as sin de tú, grá mo chroi..."

She moves further into his embrace, heedless of the noise she's making in the echoing stairwell as she moans against his lips. He pushes her against the door of their flat at first, then picks her up and carries her inside.

They stumble and fall together onto the floor, tangled in each other's arms, already pulling at buttons, desperate for each other. As their kisses deepen, she has a final thought before all possibility of thought is lost.

Now, our life together, the life we dreamed of, can truly begin...

A/N -

"Tá mé bródúil as sin de tú, grá mo chroi" = "I'm so proud of you, love of my heart", per Google translate.