There was another problematic facet of the stairs of the Farringham as far as Rose was concerned: wooden banisters. Miles of them. And all those in "public" use were in need of constant polishing, according to her superiors. Settled on her knees in the hallway, she rubbed her rag against the beeswax in the little jar and applied it to yet another already-gleaming banister pole. She then turned to the previous pole and rubbed off the now-dry wax, applying pressure to create the shine. She thought her arms were going to fall off.
Banister polishing: not something one worried about much while growing up on a council estate. Other things generally not worried about in a place where everyone was the same level of broke and uneducated: behaving correctly in front of one's "superiors," proper bowing and scraping, hiding all opinions and keeping one's voice constantly below a murmur. And speaking of speaking, having to remember to say everything in an "old-fashioned" way was just exhausting. She was getting more used to it after almost a month, but was still constantly afraid of saying something too modern or just plain bizarre and having someone realize...well, that she was a 21st century human helping to hide a biologically-rewritten alien. Right. Seemed ridiculous when she thought about it, but it still made her tense. She just tried to sound like a period programme off the telly and hoped she'd managed to watch the right things.
She heard a door open down the hall and saw the Doc—well, Mr. Smith exit to the hall on his way to class. Really, she never knew what to call him anymore, not even to herself. He was so clearly a different man now, but still wearing the skin of the man she knew him to be. In her mind she bounced between the two titles constantly.
Laden with an armload of books, he managed to close the door to his room and strode forward, only to be yanked back rather rudely about two steps in. Rose blinked in surprise... which soon turned to amusement as she watched him realize he'd shut part of his gown in the door. He rolled his eyes in exasperation and she grinned like a loon. She was too far away for him to notice her, and far too amused to go and help him just yet.
He tried simply pulling with his body but the fabric didn't budge, merely pulled his shoulders back and gave him even less leverage. He looked for somewhere to put the books down, tried to lean forward and put them on the wide, flat banister railing but couldn't reach. He heard voices downstairs and peered over the banister as though he was considering calling out, then pulled back without doing so—Rose would have bet money he was just too proud to be seen in his current predicament. He tried stooping to put the books on the floor but couldn't bend low enough to do so neatly and quietly; his only option would be to let them tumble in a noisy mess and again, being him, that was out of the question. Rose held a hand over her mouth in her effort not to laugh. She wished dearly they were in the digital age and that she had something to film this with. She would so never let the Doctor live down his time as a stupid ape.
By now his exasperation was reaching the boiling point. Rose figured it was time to save him, but before she could move there was an unexpected voice from the other end of the hall: "I daresay, Mr. Smith, you're not likely to get very far without some help."
Mr. Smith's face flushed with alarm and dread; he turned to see the voice's owner... and Rose was surprised to see his horrified reaction melt into sheepish relief. "Matron Redfern," he smiled, his ears turning pink. "You're a lifesaver."
Rose's stomach flipped a little unpleasantly. She generally liked the Matron—who was tough, but never without reason or an underlying kindness—but she hadn't realized that she and Mr. Smith had a certain... comfort level.
She watched as the Matron opened the door for him and released his gown. His sheepish smile remained, and apparently without the crutch of blustering about inferiorly-designed human doors he had nothing to make a fuss about. He smiled shyly and nodded at the Matron's gentle teasing, ear tips ablaze, and walked off with her, talking. Rose didn't like this at all. She found herself following them at a discreet distance, listening to their strolling banter with an analytical ear.
Nothing was said that was too familiar or personal, light chat but with an ease about it that kept the conversation flowing. Joan was saying that although they hadn't known each other long, she really did prefer he call her Joan. Mr. Smith smiled and replied that being called John would suit him better too. Rose frowned. He was certainly more willing to talk to the Matron than most of the others he worked with. Rose couldn't say she disagreed with his character judgment, but it was just...ooh. She listened harder.
They stopped in front of a posted flyer in the hallway, announcing the town dance. Joan drew his attention to it, dropping hints about wanting to be asked to go. Rose discovered she was holding her breath.
But then she saw Mr. Smith—John's—eyes as he turned to the Matron. They held a complete understanding of what she wanted, and a sort of kind sympathy that a woman in Joan's position would not want to see. He made polite excuses and said he wouldn't be attending. Joan smiled, tight-lipped, nodded and excused herself, her dignity wrapped tightly around her. Rose ducked quickly into a doorway to avoid being seen.
Really, that dignity the Matron maintained was much the same as Mr. Smith's—they weren't that dissimilar. Joan hadn't been far off the mark in wanting to get closer. Nevertheless, Rose felt a kind of fierce relief, and wouldn't have minded telling the Matron not to let the door hit her in the arse on the way out.
She strode back to her banister polishing with the air of a mother lion who'd just protected her cubs, even though she'd only eavesdropped. She didn't know if her feelings were justified or deluded or would ever be returned the way she wanted them to be, but she didn't care. The Doctor was hers.
Rose counted her recent friend Jenny as one of the few perks of her new life. Plump, round-faced and cheerful, Jenny knew the ins and outs of their job as well as all the gossip, gave freely of her experience and watched Rose's back. Rose was terribly grateful for it—none of the other maids seemed anywhere near as kind.
Today they were scrubbing the floors together in the main entry hall. Rose now realized, with the understanding that only experience brings, that the work people were forced to do before modern machinery was simply soul-crushing. Jenny, thankfully, always kept her spirits up. Today she took Rose's mind off Mr. Smith, who had evidently gone through another night of Doctor dreaming. Facts and images from his real life seemed to leak through to his conscious mind almost constantly, and Rose didn't know if that was bad, good, normal or indifferent. What happened if he remembered who he was before it was time – would that let the Family detect him? Was there a chance the transformation hadn't taken completely? Although if she was honest, she worried less about that and more that he might not be able to change back when this was over. The idea fairly horrified her.
Rose glanced at Jenny's ruddy-cheeked profile as she scrubbed away next to her with three times the endurance of any gym-goer Rose had ever known. The faint traces of a smile still clung to her mouth from the last thing they'd laughed about. Jenny was just a little bit amazing.
Footsteps echoed and Rose looked up to see Mr. Smith approaching, swift as ever. She caught his eye with her smile just in time: "Morning, sir."
Mr. Smith smiled down and nodded, maintaining his pace as he passed. Jenny watched him go with a quiet shudder. "Oo. Scary old thing, that one."
Rose rolled her eyes. "Oh, not you too."
"Why not, me too? Skulkin' around here like a vulture, racin' to every appointment like he reports to the Queen herself." She dunked her rag in the soapy water and attacked a spot on the floor, smirking. "Nothin' that bloke needs more'n a good stiff drink and a woman."
Rose blushed ferociously for reasons she didn't entirely understand. Jenny caught it and cackled. "Oh, do we have a candidate?"
Rose's jaw dropped. "Jenny!"
"Oh, hush! There's no point tryin' to convince me you're not sweet on him. I see it in your face every time he walks by. Though for the life of me I can't understand why."
Rose fought to cool her cheeks and come up with a good excuse, but was interrupted by a smug voice ringing out behind them. "I say!"
Rose and Jenny knew the voice immediately. They sobered and bent to their work as Jeremy Baines approached, trailed by Hutchinson. Baines appraised them coolly. "Does this school pay you to work or to chatter like hens?"
Jenny's head was bowed. "Beggin' your pardon, sir. Won't happen again."
"Oh, I'm not confident of that." Baines' gaze fell upon Rose, and his smile grew oily. "I think you might need some supervision," he purred.
He walked smoothly behind Rose, who became acutely aware that she was still on hands and knees and thus her rear was very much on display from Baines' viewpoint. She immediately sat on her heels. Not a moment later she was horrified to feel Baines' hands gripping her waist, physically pulling her back up to all fours.
"Ah ah ah..." he said. "No sitting down on the job." Rose coloured furiously as his hands took the long way down the sides of her bottom before he removed them; she felt just this side of nauseous. She looked over her shoulder to see him lean against a wall behind her, apparently settling in for the duration.
"Now scrub," he leered.
Rose shook with impotent rage; she wasn't at all sure she could keep her cool or, by extension, her job. She fought to remember her reasons to behave before she ruined everything, till a commanding voice boomed across the hallway. "BAINES!"
Baines and Hutchinson blanched and stood at immediate attention. "Yes, sir!" replied Baines.
Mr. Smith strode thunderously into the foyer, majestically angry. He didn't slow his pace until he'd brought his face within inches of the boys'. "Did I actually see you lay hands on a servant?" he hissed in disbelief. "Did I really see you fondling one of the domestic staff?
Rose tucked her head down, fighting hard not to beam with sheer delight.
"No, sir."
"You mean I didn't see it? So my eyes are deceiving me? Or do you call me a liar?"
"No sir! I... I mean—"
"What I mean is if I ever again see you manhandling a member of the staff in such a manner I guarantee no decent school within two hundred miles will ever look at you. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir." Baines actually seemed to be shaking.
"Off to class," sneered Smith. The boys cleared the hall in remarkable haste.
Rose looked up at his profile in relief and cheerful gratitude. "Thank you so much, sir. You wouldn't believe how many times I've—" Suddenly his gaze shot down to her, revealing an incensed glare just as fearsome as the one he'd shown the boys. Rose choked on her words.
"Did I ask for an opinion, Miss Tyler?" he snapped.
"N-no sir."
"Then that means I don't care to hear one. Kindly return to work and in future, do you think you could manage to do your job in a manner that doesn't...inflame the boys' prurient natures?"
Rose was too shocked to even close her mouth, let alone reply. She watched him sweep off toward the classrooms, imperious as ever.
Jenny was kind enough to continue scrubbing without a word.