Doctor Maxwell Needleson headed down the drive, a bag in his hand, a lightness to his step. It was going to be a good day, especially if he could take over some of the care of Skeffield Manor. The old doctor was getting on in years, and there were a lot of people at the manor. He would always have work, if they accepted him.
Right now he was there to check up on Skeffield, Sr., as well as one of the mechanically enhanced men from the war, the sort of people who had machinery and magic to keep them alive.
Max had no problem with such people. He had gotten over his squeamishness in medical school, and he thought all of it was rather silly nowadays. He reserved his anxiety for things that actually mattered — like getting enough clients.
Max was the only child of a very poor family of immigrants. He had worked hard to get into medical school, and his parents had taken on quite the debt to pay for it. It hung over his head like the sword of Damocles sometimes.
At the same time, he felt smug in his new middle class pretentions. He wore a suit, and looked as though he belonged in it. He carried his Gladstone bag with authority, and even his shoes sounded authoritative when he walked down a hall.
After serving his time in the poorer sections of the city, he'd gotten a chance to join a small village practice, and jumped at it. The hours would be better, as he wouldn't be required to work the night shift, and if he earned enough, he might be able to better support his parents and pay off debts.
Right now, he lived in a rented room in the village. He had two shirts, which he washed very carefully by hand so they needn't be replaced as often. He hadn't paid for meals with his room, because it cost more, and so pretended he had eaten more often than he had, if anyone asked. In reality, he usually ate a quick sandwich. He was intent on looking as if he made a comfortable living while scraping by on as little as he could till he could actually earn enough for that.
Someday, someday he would be rich, he had decided: or at least what felt like rich to him now. A home of his own in a little village, regular patients to see, enough money for a housekeeper to cook a Sunday roast, and his parents living either with him or nearby.
He supposed there was a shadowy possibility of a wife in there somewhere, but that part never felt quite real to him. He could picture the roast clearly enough to make his mouth water, and he would love to have his parents near him, knowing they were safe and cared for (he had always been close to them), but every time he tried to get his mind around the idea of a wife, a slim figure in white and lace, with a kind smile and soft hair, he couldn't quite manage it. The filmy idea slipped away between his fingers, and he would move on to other parts of the daydream, giving it up.
He couldn't actually imagine the rest of it, either — sharing a bed and a home and a life with someone else, on such an intimate scale. He imagined it must be nice, and that he must want such a thing (because nearly everyone did, aside from a few quite strange people who preferred their own gender, or nobody at all), but he couldn't feel it.
Perhaps he had not met the right woman yet.
At any rate, he was in quite good spirits as he walked to the manor. It was a lovely spring day, and he had begun to whistle as he walked along by the hedges, swinging his bag just a little. He'd never have done so if there were anyone around to see him; that would never do to help his reputation as a solemn, respectable, and middle-class doctor.
But there was no one around, and a bird sang happily in a nearby budding tree. The air smelled of the perfume of spring, making him feel as young and happy as a spring lamb. Oh, it was lovely to be alive!
He was hungry already from his light breakfast, but that was all right. Even hunger wasn't so bad on such a day. It added a sharp alertness to his senses that being full might have dulled. He concentrated on how the air smelled, how the gravel crunched under his feet, and what it must be like to be a bird.
Such nonsensical flights of fancy were usually something he didn't focus on. Life was filled with duty, and that meant there was little time for daydreaming. But just now, he could snatch a few guilty moments. Flight must be as natural to birds as walking was to him, not particularly noteworthy or something to rejoice over. But surely it did bring them joy, or they wouldn't sing so?
Of course naturalists said they sang to mark their territory — that a bird's song was more often a mating call or a warning to other birds than sheer happiness, but he couldn't quite believe this prosaic, glum view. No, birds sang because they were happy, at least some of the time. He was sure of that, even if he would never tell anyone. It sounded like a very unscientific belief, but he was convinced of it nonetheless.
"Lovely day, isn't it, sir?" said a voice from quite nearby. He jumped. He'd reached the manor's hedges unawares, too consumed with his silly daydreams. Perturbed now, he looked at the man who'd greeted him.
The man was leaning on a fence, his shirtsleeves rolled up, the top of his plain workman's shirt unbuttoned. Sweat made the fabric cling close to his muscular body. He had sharp dark eyes, warm and intense, impossible to ignore. Max looked away quickly, not liking the way they seemed to see through him.
"Er, hello. Dr. Needleson, here to see patients."
"How d'ye do, Doctor?" said the man, standing up and coming over to the gate to open it for him. His arms swelled with muscles, bristled with dark hairs, and Max found himself briefly fascinated by the sight. Natural health and honest toil were, in their own way, as beautiful as birdsong.
The man held out a hand, as if daring him to take it. Max did so, and shook his hand firmly. A bit extra firmly, in fact, though he wasn't quite sure why he felt the need. It seemed important to assert his masculinity to the fellow, after the latter had seen him enjoying the day and the birds and being a bit too casual in his walk.
He did not look at the bit of chest exposed, or the hair there. As a doctor, he was of course inured to all physiology, but he felt uncomfortable with looking closer all the same. He forced himself to meet the very dark eyes, eyes so dark there was no color visible except dark brown, no contrast between pupil and iris.
"You'll hear it soon enough if you haven't yet," said the man, jerking his head toward the huge stately home that towered past the gardens and walks. "I'm one of the gear guys. My name's Cliff."
"That's a very unusual name," said Max, successfully containing his surprise. The man seemed in such robust health, it was difficult to imagine him as having magical or mechanical additions inside himself.
"Not really. Short for Clifford. My first name's Eugene, which I don't much care for." He cast Max another challenging look, slow and lazy, sizing him up.
"I'm Max," said he, not sure why he felt the need to get on a more even level with the man. Perhaps to show he wasn't bothered by his status.
It was a legal status as much as a physical one. Laws were in the works to repeal some of the harsher legislation passed against these men, who had served their country well and then been denied many rights in it. But these laws were still very much a work in progress. At least they were getting some ink in the press, and were a subject of debate in the community, enough so that some people were changing their hatred and fear into pity and understanding. Still, it did little to help people like this man, if they needed medical care or a job. They could still be refused either, for no reason but their status.
They did not, technically, count as alive in the eyes of the law. It was unnerving to think about. This man could, presumably, still feel and think as well as anyone. He should not have rights no better than those of a corpse.
Max had dissected enough corpses in his time, learning anatomy, studying what had caused someone to die. He was unconcerned by the sight of a cancer victim, or a young person who'd drowned, or nearly any corpse at all. On a mental level, he could of course recognize that it was a shame they had died, and that family must miss them, but all the emotion of it had been burned out of him in medical school and then by his time in the hospital. There was no more left; corpses did not provoke emotion in him.
And this man, somehow, did. As if he was a singing bird.
How very odd, thought Max, and walked along, his steps firm and crisp on the drive. He enjoyed the sight of the buds of spring, the way things were beginning to come alive. The gardens were a busy place, with men dressed somewhat the way Cliff was (but not quite so...distractingly) in plain workman's gear, turning the soil and planting and tending.
It took a lot of men to run the manor, and he knew many of them were mechanicalized. The Skeffields had made their home something of a refuge for men needing work. It clearly did take a lot of people to run the place, but they could've found "regular" folks with little difficulty. There was charity involved here, if a muscular, roll-up-your-sleeves sort.
Really, it should not require charity to find work for men who had served their time honorably in the war and survived it scathed and scarred, but still very much alive, whatever their legal state. And yet the world was a place of hardship for many, perhaps most, of humanity, and nobody had gotten off easy from the war.
Max had been too young to join, and had missed its horrors, barely. Then he'd gone to school, and had ample opportunity to study the effects of some of the war's horrors. There were always lots of amputees who needed care, and men whose lungs were damaged by poison, and others who'd been crippled by horrible magic bombardments.
There was always work to be done in the healing vocation, although it often felt like an inadequate mop-up after the fact, or like offering a cup of tea to treat a gangrenous wound that would never heal. He could face it only if he kept his strength in place, and didn't allow his confident mask to waver.
He might go home hungry and to a small room, debts over his head, a single extra shirt waiting to be changed into so he could wash the first, his eyes swimming with exhaustion so he could hardly see straight, but it had always been important — and indeed a matter of pride to him — that he keep up the all-knowing doctorly front. He had needed to seem like he had the answers, to give his patients some of the confidence and hope he often couldn't share.
It was better than nothing, though rarely enough. There were operations to perform, symptoms to check, bandages to change, drugs to dole out, and painkillers to give as a balm when there was little else he could offer.
He had been so glad to move away, into the healthy countryside, where there would be less anguish (he hoped), and more opportunity (he dreamed).
If only everyone had the same rude health as this fellow, he would be happy indeed. Of course, it wasn't good for business, but even so there was always work for a doctor: symptoms of aging to check on and relieve, children to nurse through the childhood diseases, accidents to mop up, broken bones to tend, all the usual life trials that might hit a village.
He hoped they would accept him, and let these dreams come true. They did not feel like gigantic dreams, in the whole scheme of things, and yet to him they were mountainous. To live a content life, provident and provider, to have work he could enjoy rather than grit his teeth through, and to make a difference while making a comfortable living — it was a huge dream to aspire to for a man from humble beginnings still trying to keep the wolf from the door.
"Just in here," said Cliff unnecessarily, looking back at him. There was a smile in those dark eyes. It was assessing, arresting.
Once again, Max felt that strange sensation of being seen into. It was somewhat uncomfortable. "Er, yes." He stepped through into the dimmer recesses of the mansion, blinking around. It was large and echoey inside, and decorated with great sensibility. He didn't have to be an expert to see expense and care had both been in great supply when the house was being decorated. It looked both grand and friendly.
"I'm not really supposed to be in here, so let one of the inside servants show you round," said Cliff, standing just inside the door and giving him a look that was partly apologetic, partly gleaming. He had very interesting eyes. Max would find them distracting if he had to look at them often. It was odd for Max to be the focus of such intense attention.
In medical school, he had been poor and everyone knew it. He'd been held in a fine disdain. Others had come through family, from money, or at least respectably middle-class backgrounds. He'd been gangly, poor, and obviously rather hungry and of an immigrant background. Though he'd outgrown his accent by now, there'd been no hiding it from his fellow students back then.
Certainly no one had looked at him as if he were interesting.
He'd not had enough contact with people who weren't patients to experience much in the way of gazes like that, either. He wondered what it could mean, and why it made him both excited and uncomfortable.
Little of the human anatomy escaped his perceptions, but he found he was not so wise in the ways of people's behaviors. Natural, normal, and non-pathological behaviors, that is. What was it that made eyes shine so very bright some of the time? It was a thing unquantifiable by science, and yet surely of interest all the same. Like the singing of a bird, it held meaning that could not be dissected with a scalpel.
Why did a hope-filled, happy gaze shine so very much while a sad man's eyes held only darkness and defeat? It seemed worthy of further contemplation and study, but right now he had work to do.
A member of the staff took him to see Skeffield, and he felt very uncomfortable in the large room with its fine furnishings. However, the grouchy and querulous old man soon put him at ease.
"Open the curtain if you're going to quack me," said Skeffield, coughing into his handkerchief. "It's just a cold. My worst trouble is the heart, and I've already got men dealing with that." He seemed fed up with them, as well as Max.
"All the same, I'd like to hear your symptoms," said Max gently.
"Hm." He studied the doctor for a moment. "You're new here. Do you like the village?"
"Very much, sir. Might I listen to your heart now?"
He went through the examination with care and attention to detail, and the medications all seemed in order. Experts were clearly already doing their best for the man, and Max would only be called in to treat slight ailments and such. Still, it was good work, and he was lucky to get it.
When asked about his diet, however, the answers Skeffield gave were enough to set alarm bells ringing for Max. "That's a great deal of heavy food," he said. "Haven't your doctors spoken to you about what you eat?"
"My doctors are fools," said Skeffield, waving a hand. "They keep me up to date on medicines, but it's not easy to change my diet, and I've stopped trying."
"If you would keep trying, you might have a healthier, happier time of it in reward." He closed his bag after dispensing some pills to ease the old man's cough, and looked at him closely. "Less heavy foods, more fresh fruits and vegetables."
"Vegetables." Skeffield made a face, as if he was a small boy turning his nose up at cabbage. Max nearly laughed at the incongruous sight of it. "I'd sooner eat skunk."
"At the very least, try to eat more fresh apples and oranges, and any other fresh fruits you can get hold of," he said, figuring he could tackle the subject of vegetables again in future, when the man was less irascible from a cold. He couldn't really be forced to do anything he didn't wish to, and there was no reason to antagonize him further at the moment.
"I can get hold of any fresh fruits I wish, my good man," said the older gentleman. "I'm a Skeffield, and I could do it easily." He sank back in his bed, coughing.
"Then I suggest you do so," said Max. "It will do wonders for your health. Your body is crying out for healthy things that won't overtax your heart, and fresh, ripe fruit is just the ticket."
"Very well. I shall put in an order tonight." He grimaced as though the thought pained him. "I prefer stewed fruit." He raised his brows.
"That's fine once in a while, but it can't be the basis of your healthy eating, nor can meat and greasy puddings."
"All right, all right." He raised a hand. "I shall try again, young fellow, and see if I can manage it. I suppose a bit of fruit's all right once in a while." Then he smiled at some inner joke. "The world's full of variety, after all. Ha! Now then, you'll see some of my staff, too? You know they're enhanced, correct?"
"Of course, sir," said Max. "That won't be a problem."
"Good. You can send a bill as soon as you're done."
He'd been hoping to be paid today, but he supposed that was too much to hope for from a rich person. Inwardly, he sighed.
"Oh, and make sure you have some refreshments from Mrs. Jenkins. She's the best cook."
"May I speak with her about your diet?"
"Yes, go on, but you mustn't blame her for what I eat. No one can control that but myself!"
"I am well aware, sir," said Max dryly.
Skeffield laughed, a pleasing sound that made Max smile. He said his farewells and left, his steps light. For all his grouchiness, the old man had a fire inside that made it seem as though he might have a longer life than dour minds would predict. He also had a sense of humor, and was at least willing to try again with dietary changes. Changes could be especially difficult for older clients, but even just trying again could make a difference. Max was glad he'd have him as a patient, even if he likely wouldn't see him often or get paid immediately.
The cases of the mechanicalized men were all fairly simple and easily dealt with, but they took time. There were a lot of men working here, and many of them had some ailment or other that needed tended to. A few had old injuries from the war requiring treatment, but most had issues more contemporary.
Max prescribed pain tablets for a number of them, changed dressings, and approved the continuous use of the burn ointment for an accident victim. He set a broken toe, removed a couple of really bad splinters, and treated a few cases of venereal diseases from shamefaced sufferers.
It wasn't a difficult surgery, but it was time-consuming. Mrs. Jenkins brought him mugs of tea, then switched to coffee on finding that he liked that better. (He hadn't meant to mention it, it just slipped out.)
At the end of seeing everyone, he was invited to stay for supper with the Jenkinses, who showed him every sign of interested civility.
He found himself seated at the long, scarred wooden table elbow to elbow with Cliff, to his surprise. Apparently the mechanicalized men often ate like one big family in the kitchen. It was a relief, to sit down to a huge meal where everyone seemed to have a gigantic appetite. He couldn't shake the shamed feeling that he was getting away with something as he reached for the bread dish again. He used a slice of warm brown bread to mop up the juice from the roasted beef and potatoes.
He didn't want to seem as hungry as he was. When Cliff glanced over at him, he tried to slow down. The mechanicalized man leaned nearer and spoke in a low voice. "Save room for pie."
His soft, slightly gravelly voice near Max's ear made Max feel funny, oddly jumpy and fluttery inside. He wasn't sure why. He gave Cliff a nervous smile and a quick nod.
While it was distracting being right next to Cliff and having so much good, hearty food to choose from, he did managed to snatch a few minutes after the meal to speak with Mrs. Jenkins. He carried dishes from the table, following her back and forth as she worked, with another couple of helpers.
Her face was red, and he wondered if she was working too hard. She seemed tired, but just kept going. "I spoke with Mr. Skeffield about his diet," he began.
"Yes?" She sounded distracted.
"He's willing to try more fresh fruit, although I couldn't budge him on the vegetable issue."
She stopped and looked at him now, so quickly he almost bumped into her carrying a stack of heavy white plates. "Er, sorry," he said.
"Did he actually say so?" she demanded, putting her hands on her hips and giving him a stern, motherly look. "Or did he say he'd think about it?"
He thought back. "He said he'd put in an order for some fresh fruits tonight."
"Well, well." She gave him an appraising look, raising one eyebrow. "He must like you a lot. We've given up on trying to change anything he does round here. The man deserves some peace. Still I don't say you're wrong. I know he should eat better, but I do what I can. I can't have the man not eating, and I can't make him eat what I say, like I could if he was a little boy."
"I understand completely. I'm not blaming you." He spent a few minutes talking about the diet changes that would be useful for Skeffield to make, if he was willing, but didn't try to pressure her, just let her know what the ideal would be. "I'm not asking you to force them on him," he assured her. "Thank you for listening, though. It's more than many people will do."
Modern medicine had only recently started studying dietary changes, and many people didn't take such things seriously, doctors and laymen included. It was often considered little more than an old wives' tale, that what one ate could affect health.
"Go on now, before it gets dark. Don't you have a wife or family to get back to?" She looked at him closely now.
"Oh, no, I'm in the boarding house by the local bar."
Her brows rose. "They don't clean the sheets very well there."
"It's good enough so far. I hope to move somewhere better if practice picks up. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Jenkins. I hope to see you all again under favorable circumstances." He picked up his Gladstone and headed for the door.
Mrs. Jenkins hesitated, then spoke carefully. "You might let Clifford walk you back, seeing as it's nearly dark."
"I suppose," he said, not certain why that would be necessary. "I doubt I'll get lost, though."
"Well, you're new here. Never hurts to have someone familiar with a place show you round."
"It's fine with me either way. But I should head back now. Thank you again for your hospitality and excellent meal."
"Oh, that's no problem, now. You drop by anytime. We like to keep the doctors sweet round here." She gave him an affectionate look. "And I doubt they feed you very well at that boarding house."
He had no reply to this, since they didn't.
Cliff was waiting for him outside and took a few quick steps to reach him, then slowed to match his pace so they were walking in step. He'd changed his shirt for supper, and he looked neater now, his sleeves not rolled up, his chest and arm hair no longer exposed. Somehow he was just as arresting and distracting, though, and Max wasn't sure how he felt about that.
It unnerved him to be so aware of someone in a non-professional capacity. He tried desperately to think how it would feel to take so much notice of a slim young woman with big, soft eyes and a white lacy dress: to think of her curves, the revelation of a few extra inches of skin. He kept his gaze ahead as much as he could, not wanting to stare at this man, who was so far from that female ideal.
Mrs. Jenkins's alert look at him had made him feel exposed, as though there was something visible about him that he hadn't wanted anyone to see. He'd tried so hard, all the time, to work and be good and be acceptable, middle-class, successful, and a good doctor. He didn't want people seeing he was hungry and poor and had taken far too much notice of his dinner mate.
"You go to them dances round here on the weekends?" asked Cliff.
"What dances? I haven't so far." No one had spoken to him about any such thing.
Cliff tugged his flat cap off and held it in his hands, turning the brim, then seemed to realize what he was doing and put it back on hurriedly. "Well, they have 'em nearly every week when the weather's decent enough. People get together, play music, have punch. Some of the young people dance, of course." He looked at Max, the question clear in his eyes. "Do you play an instrument?"
"Oh, not for ages. Why, do you play something?"
"Just the harmonica. I was thinking you could come down and join us sometime of an evening. We have a little band, sort of, gets together for those dances. We're welcome in the bar because we're pretty good. I think the villagers are getting used to us."
He looked at Max again, a question intent and clear in his eyes. "What did you play, when you did?"
"Fiddle," said Max softly. He'd had no time for it in ages, and no fiddle, either. It had gone to pay for textbooks. "My father taught me when I was small. I used to enjoy it, but it's been a very long time."
Cliff drew a breath, almost in relief, as though he'd been holding it or something. "Well, you want to show up and practice with us sometime, we have a fiddle you could borrow. You stop by some evening, and we'll see if you can get back into the swing of things. Be glad to have you play with us, if you're ever in the mood."
"I don't know. Would that be appropriate? A doctor playing an instrument at a dance?" He frowned, thinking about it. "I need to earn respect and find patients."
"Well, we'll be your patients if they won't," said Cliff, his gravelly voice soft, gentle. "And I don't think anybody's ever held music against a doctor. If anything, it's an advertisement for skilled fingers." He flexed his hands, as if to demonstrate.
Max found himself wondering where the man's mechanicalizations were, and what they affected. He looked away again from those strong, tanned hands. Hairs decorated the backs of them, and he did not want to keep staring at Cliff's body hair. It felt inappropriate.
"That means playing poorly would be the worst thing I could do." It really had been a while since he'd played, although he suddenly missed the warmth of music flowing from a bow, singing from a fiddle.
His father had been proud of him, when he learned so young. Just a few simple tunes at first, but he'd taken it from there. He couldn't read music, but he could play by ear, or he used to be able to. "I'm very rusty, I'm sure."
Cliff laughed. "Me too, sometimes."
Max looked at him quickly, and realized it was a joke. He smiled faintly, raising one brow.
Cliff shrugged, looking proud of himself. "Well, you'd best come and practice with us, Doc." He laid a hand on Max's arm. "I'd enjoy seeing you."
Max stared at him for a moment, feeling warmth light in his heart. He had been lonely for so long. But this felt like more than an offer of practicing music together, and perhaps even more than friendship. He wasn't sure why, or what it meant, but some inner warning about not getting attached, especially to the wrong sort of person, kept him from immediately jumping in it.
He studied Cliff's eyes in the growing dusk. You could, if you looked closely enough, distinguish between pupil and iris after all. He had an interesting face, craggy, expressive, a face that had lived through and seen a lot, but wasn't bitter and hateful.
Cliff looked kind, intelligent, and thoughtful. Max found his face appealing, from the cleft chin to the broad brow, and the way his hair fell just so from under his cap. It was a little too long, needed cutting, but it looked good on him...
"I'd like that," Max found himself saying, as if it was a dream, and it wasn't him speaking at all.
Cliff moved back slightly. He had been quite close. His smile was satisfied. "Good. We practice tomorrow, and then on Saturday, if you have free time. Come any time around supper. You can stay and eat, and then practice, see if you've still got it in you to want to play."
"I can drop the bill by if I come tomorrow," he said thoughtfully. It would save a stamp.
Cliff gave one slow nod. "Good. It's a plan. I'll be seeing you then, Doctor." He took his cap off again, and gave Max another nod. It was a friendly, but slightly uncertain expression.
He was waiting for something. They'd stopped walking.
"What? Oh, we're here." Max looked around. "That seemed like a shorter walk than I remembered. Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow, then, unless something comes up. Good day." He raised a hand in an awkward wave and hurried into the boarding house. It was lit up from inside, dimly, and looked more comfortable and homey than it really was.
Cliff said nothing more, but watched him go. After a bit, he put his cap back on and headed away into the dusk, back down the road they'd come by.
Max thought he heard the sound of humming, but couldn't be sure.