A bell chimed when Ianto opened the door to the pawn shop he'd discovered after walking around the outskirts of Cardiff. The city looked so different and was much smaller than what he was used to.
"Edwin Wilson's Pawn Shop" was written on the sign above the shop. Before entering the shop, he had spent some time looking at the shop windows to see what was available.
A porcelain dinner service, a heavy iron, several lampshades and clocks, ranging from giant grandfather clocks to more modern wristwatches. This was undoubtedly the right shop to sell his stopwatch. But, just the thought of parting with the piece made his heartache.
He remembered that the stopwatch had broken the night Jack had to shoot Suzie and that Jack had intended to get a new one. Ianto had rescued it from the trash that night and had it repaired. The happy grin on Jack's face when he returned it whole, had been priceless. Maybe he could return after he had been paid and buy her back.
After he closed the glass door, he looked around the small shop, inspecting the stuffed shelves. He wondered how many of the items for sale were actually worth anything. Paintings, porcelain, jewellery, and evening gowns shared this space with a slew of worthless tats that looked like they belonged in the garbage.
"Good afternoon, young man. What can I do for you?" Ianto looked around when he heard a voice. At first, he couldn't see anyone, but then he noticed the counter on the other side of the shop and an older man with a bushy grey beard and a monocle on his nose. This had to be Edwin Wilson, the owner of this cabinet of curiosities.
"Good afternoon, sir," Ianto said and hesitantly stepped closer. He was aware of the older man's scrutinising looks but ignored them. His modern suit and coat looked out of place even in a pawnshop with its eclectic selection of clothes for sale.
"I would like to sell this stopwatch," he said, placing the silver watch on the counter.
The pawn shop owner adjusted his monocle and examined the stopwatch closely.
"That is a very fine piece of handicraft," he finally said.
"Thank you," Ianto said, relieved. "It belonged to someone very dear to me."
Mr Wilson looked up, intrigued. "Oh? So, why do you want to sell it?" His interest was piqued.
Ianto smiled uncertainly. "Oh, nothing special. I'm a little short of money. Actually, I'm looking for work."
"Try the docks or the mines, they're always looking for workers," suggested the man, who was still suspicious of Ianto's unusual attire. "But you look more like a peacock from London."
"Ah ... yes. I guess nothing escapes your keen eye," Ianto said politely but did not elaborate. "I'm looking for a job in the health service. I actually want to apply for a job at Westwood Mental Asylum."
"The nuthouse?" Wilson blurted out.
Ianto simply smiled and nodded.
"Good luck with that," the older man said, shaking his head. "There are many strange stories about that place. Some say the house is haunted. Not everyone who goes in comes out."
"Well…, mental institutions tend to spark scary stories. I don't believe in the supernatural," Ianto said politely.
"Good for you, young man, good for you."
"So, about my stopwatch..." Ianto returned the man's attention to why he was at the pawn shop.
"Oh yes, of course. It's metal, not silver, but the workmanship is excellent," said Mr Wilson, "I'll give you twenty pounds for the watch."
Ianto had no idea how much the banknote was worth in the 1950s; he just hoped he could buy everything he needed with it. With a heavy heart, he accepted the offer and handed over Jack's stopwatch.
He spent the next few hours in town buying toiletries, knickers, pyjamas, shirts, a tie and a cheap suit. He even found a suitcase to complete the picture. How much you could buy in 1958 with a twenty-pound note was astounding.
Ianto was relieved to have finally found out the year he had ended up in, thanks to a newsagent's shop he'd passed during his shopping spree. He had dreaded asking random strangers what year it was. He planned to get a job at Westwood, not become a patient. In the past, you were sent to such institutions for the most insignificant of reasons.
It was already late in the afternoon when he took a taxi with his last pennies.
Time to apply for a new job.
Ianto stood in front of the metal gate at the main entrance to the Westwood Mental Asylum compound. He wore a new dark grey suit with a thin blue tie with white stripes and held his used leather suitcase in his hand. The taxi had just dropped him off.
He had only one chance to get this job. It was either all or nothing.
Ianto took a deep breath to calm himself. Then he pressed the door chime and waited.
A few minutes later, the security guard from earlier today and his large dog approached the massive gate.
"What do you want?" The man barked. "Our visiting hours are from two to four."
"I'm sorry to bother you, sir," Ianto apologised. "My name is Ianto Jones, and I am looking for work. Could I speak to the director of this institute?"
"A job? Do you have an appointment?" the guard asked sternly as he reached the gate.
"No, sir. I just returned from London and didn't have time to apply. Could you please let me speak with someone? I really don't know where else to go tonight."
"This is not a hotel, young man," the guard shook his head disapprovingly.
If necessary, I can come back tomorrow, but I don't see a difference from today. Let me speak with someone from the staff," Ianto put extra effort into making puppy dog eyes. He wasn't keen on sleeping in the woods tonight.
The guard sighed. "Come on, Bruno, let's go back inside and speak with Nurse Richards."
He pulled on the leash to get his dog moving.
"You wait here," he said to Ianto, "I'll go back in and see what I can do."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!" Ianto said and bowed slightly.
Ianto sat in Chief Nurse Richards' office with a cup of tea, facing the older woman across her desk, which stood in the centre of the otherwise mostly empty room.
Nurse Richards was in her 50s, tall and haggard, with a stern expression on her face. Her greying hair was neatly tucked into a bun. She was dressed in a light blue gown with a white apron and hat—the standard uniform for the nurses in this facility.
"So, Mr Jones. I must say that this is an unusual way to apply for a job. Typically, we hire new employees based on recommendations from earlier employers. But you just show up at our door with nothing. What kind of job are you looking for? Scrubbing the floor? We already have a caretaker."
"Thank you for seeing me, Nurse Richards, I'm very grateful for the opportunity. My skills are quite adaptable, and I can do whatever you need from me. But I'm here to apply for a job as a nurse," Ianto said confidently. Displaying insecurity would get him nowhere this afternoon.
She gave him a sceptical look.
"It would still be nice to see some references or a curriculum vitae. Being a nurse in this facility comes with a lot of responsibility. You're lucky that we need to hire more people; otherwise, I wouldn't bother listening to you. So, tell me a little bit about yourself, your experiences, and why you think we should hire you."
Ianto fixed his gaze on her and hoped his story would be good enough.
"My name is Ianto Jones. I was born in Cardiff but spent most of my adult life in London. I worked as an accountant in my fiancé's family business," Ianto paused momentarily before continuing solemnly. "However, in recent years, I've spent all of my time caring for my beloved wife-to-be."
His gaze was drawn down to his entwined hands. Lisa's face flashed through his mind. While caring for his drunken father was undoubtedly good training, the time he'd spent caring for Lisa would prove to be the most valuable now.
He knew nothing about nursing when he had been forced to care for her after the Battle of Canary Wharf. Everything was self-taught. He'd spent endless nights reading and practising to ensure he could supply the best care. Lisa had always praised him for his ability to insert a needle into her veins.
Inserting a cannula, administering infusions, dosing pain medication, simple tasks such as measuring fever or applying ointment to her skin where the cyberman extensions had rubbed her skin raw, to reading the complicated technical hospital equipment, his responsibilities while caring for Lisa had been extensive. He was confident that there was nothing he couldn't handle in the 1950s.
"Your fiancée?" inquired the nurse.
"Yes. Her name was Lisa. We were supposed to marry, but... before we could set a date, she became ill. To our shock, it turned out to be stomach cancer. I was her main carer for two years, and I stayed with her until the very end," Ianto's voice came to a halt. "She died about four weeks ago."
"My condolences," Nurse Richard said, clearly moved.
"Thank you. That's why I'm back in Cardiff. There is nothing left for me in London."
"Your family lives here?" she wanted to know.
"My parents died years ago, and I don't have any other relatives. I just came back because staying in London was too painful, and Cardiff is the only other place I've ever called home," Ianto explained. He hoped not having any attachments would work in his favour.
"Your ears," the nurse said abruptly.
He unconsciously touched his earlobes. "What's wrong with them?"
"Holes. You have holes in your earlobes. Even women wear only clip-on earrings. Holes are abhorrent. Are you a gipsy?" she asked, taken aback.
Ianto's heart skipped a beat as he remembered his piercings. He cursed inwardly, looking for an explanation.
"No! It was my mother's fault," he blurted out, desperately trying to think of a story. "My mother had always wanted a daughter. It drove her crazy that I was a boy. She pierced my ears and didn't care if it was barbaric or not. She made me wear dresses and earrings. At least until my father put her in a mental asylum in Newport."
Was the nurse buying his story? Her stoic face was hard to read.
"They took her away before she could do any more harm, and electroconvulsive therapy helped her to ease her confusion and live out her final years peacefully," Ianto continued. "I am very grateful modern medicine made it possible to give her that chance."
"Mental health facilities are an important pillar for society," Nurse Richards said thoughtfully and nodded appreciatively. "Science helps improve mental health so that patients can be reintegrated back into their loving families," she said. "Many people underestimate how important our work is."
"I agree," Ianto said eagerly. "I know that with my patchy experience, I should apply for a lower position in a city hospital. But I'm far more interested in the work you are doing here. My mother's health improved so much with the right treatment that it would mean a lot to me if I could now do my part to help others. I would be grateful if you could give me a chance."
Ianto knew that the 1950s were far from truly helping the mentally ill; it was all trial and error for the most part, but he better keep those cynical thoughts to himself when applying for a job at Westwood.
Nurse Richards's solemn features softened, and she finally nodded.
"As a nurse, you are not only responsible for the care of the patients but also for the kitchen and the cleaning of the hospital rooms as well as the patients' common rooms. You will be given a private room and three meals a day. Your working week consists of seven days, with half a day off once a month. The weekly wage is five pounds. Will you accept the offer?"
"It would be an honour, ma'am."
"Welcome to Westwood Mental Asylum, Nurse Jones," Chief Nurse Richards said as she stood up and shook Ianto's hand.