Post by Nerweniel on Jan 10, 2005 15:53:51 GMT -5
As Time Goes By
A/N: Another Jean Brodie fanfic *grin*!
The soldier stared down at his left arm in wonder. The wound had been cleaned and bandaged, of course, and very effectively as well- he barely felt it anymore. Still he was very glad it was his left arm- and not the right one, not his painting arm.
He’d not been thinking of that as he’d ran into the burning building in front of him, having heard children scream- but now, as an afterthought, he realized that having wounded his right arm would have been horrible to him. He had to draw, had to paint… it was like breathing to him, and he knew very well he could not live without it.
Even though he knew that he would never paint a masterpiece again. His one and sole masterpiece still stood against the wall of his studio, almost finished but not quite, electric blue eyes gazing at the empty place in wonder.
The soldier closed his eyes. He shouldn’t remember her. He really shouldn’t.
Teddy Lloyd had entered the Home Guard in 1944, the previous year, after his wife had passed away and the last one of his children had entered boarding school. His youngest daughter had always somehow been his special baby, and now she was gone and his wife was gone- what was there yet to live for?
Oh, who was he deceiving?
There had not been anything to live for since that one day, in 1932…
The almost black-haired man dug his nails deep into the bright white bandage round his arm, in a vain attempt to, with the pain, chase his thoughts away. It didn’t help- it never had, after all.
With little interest, he allowed his eyes to wander across the room he was lying in. A quickly-constructed field hospital it was, and staring at the people in the small beds beside him, Teddy realized he had been very lucky indeed.
Many of those people had not yet awakened, and some of them looked as if they weren’t going to awaken anymore at all.
The nurses did their best, of course- Teddy knew they did, as he regarded the worried faces of the woman who walked in and out the room at a quick pace- but even they were in fact not much more than simple, almost untrained Edinburgh woman who had volunteered, just the way he had volunteered for the army.
Teddy closed his eyes for a second- just as a voice, apparently addressing him, echoed through the already noisy room.
“Excuse me, Sir, may I inquire after your name? You didn’t have a passport with you, and-”
“Teddy Lloyd.” he automatically answered.
She gasped and his eyes fluttered open. He knew that voice. Of course he knew that voice. A pair of electric blue eyes linked with his- and she was gone.
“Sister Jean, what is wrong?” one of the other nurses called after her, but already the woman he knew so very well had disappeared in a cloud of white and pale.
Suddenly feeling terribly tired, Teddy allowed his head to fall back on his pillow- then closed his eyes. He’d only seen her face for a split second, but it had been enough… her gasp had been enough, her voice had been enough.
She had not much changed, he almost involuntarily thought- and wondered why that surprised him the way it did. Her face was almost unaltered, except for a few tiny wrinkles around the corners of her eyes and mouth- but she’d taken good care of herself, obviously, and it showed. The colour of her eyes- the intensity of her gaze- was exactly the same as he’d painted it once- and as he had always remembered it. A little more sadness had crept into them, perhaps, but not much.
And of course she was still beautiful. Well into her forties, perhaps, but still as beautiful as she ever was. Her beauty, that his artist’s eye had seen years earlier, was not dependent on age. It just was there, a part of her, just like her nose, just like her eyes.
Just like that damn smile of hers, of which he had dreamt so many times- just like that goddamn, terrible- horribly wonderful Mona Lisa smile of hers…
***
Jean stared at her own face in the mirror, locking the toilet door behind her back. In five minutes, someone would probably be banging against the door, yelling at her for locking it- but honestly, she did not care. Tears had started running from her eyes as soon as she heard the relieving click of the key in the keyhole- and she hated herself for them.
Why was she crying, after all? Because she had just met an old colleague? Because she’d just been reminded of her past as a teacher?
Jean closed her eyes and leant her forehead against the mirror.
Or, perhaps, because she had met the one man she had ever loved again?
You thoroughly stupid woman, she heard herself scold. Haven’t you told him “arrivederci” ten years ago? Hasn’t he told you that he could not follow where you led?
Then again, Jean bitterly reminded herself, she had not been exactly “leading” in ten full years. After being sent away from Marcia Blaine, in the spring of 1935, she had managed to, through some savings and a few published short stories, prolong her situation of relative wealth for four years.
With the cold, bitter winter of 1939, though, poverty had arrived- and in fact the war had arrived at precisely the right time for Jean.
She had immediately volunteered as a nurse, knowing that it at least would secure her of some food and shelter if needed- but also, and mostly, because it excited her heroic imagination. Wars had always been something very thrilling to her- and even now, as she was well into her forties and not at all that rather naïve little girl which she’d been during the Great War anymore, she still felt a strange sort of pride while wearing the small, white nurse cap atop of her still golden head.
She, Jean Brodie, was a nurse once more- like Florence Nightingale. A faint smile graced her delicate features at this mere thought- oh wouldn’t her girls be proud of her, if they could see her like this…
Harsh reality knocked on the door with the hand of one of her fellow nurses, though- and with quite a bang Jean landed back on earth again.
Studying her face in the mirror, she frowned as softly, she dabbed her eyelids with one of those white, linen handkerchiefs which she despised so very much. Ladies, she heard herself say, should have silk, little, handkerchiefs- with their initials embroidered in the upper right corner.
She almost snorted at her thoughts, looking down at the little white piece of cloth in her hands with a truly sad look in her eyes.
Perhaps the dream then really was broken.
***
As Jean slipped on her white cap again, a few hours later, to walk her last tour to check on the wounded before the night, she slightly trembled as she entered the door she’d escaped through just mere hours earlier. One, quick glance into the room, though, assured her that he was indeed asleep- just like the greater part of his fellow wounded- and on tiptoes, she walked to the back and the room and back, dutifully checking people’s heartbeat here and there.
On her way back, though, she could not but came to a stop next to the bed containing the man who’d shocked her so very badly earlier. As she tentatively stepped closer, she nearly smiled. Spying on Teddy Lloyd in his sleep- now that certainly was an activity she’d taken part in only one time before.
The mere thought made her tremble.
That night at the studio. That one night at the studio- the night she, high and noble Jean Brodie, had fallen for the first time in her life- and fallen hard. She’d bounced into bed with an artist and woken up with a man indeed- and with a man she loved as well, and that was which had shocked her.
She couldn’t but smile though, as she looked down on his face, finally relieved of its usual restlessness by the relaxation of sleep. Pity she couldn’t see his dark brown eyes, Jean reflected- but he was handsome without them as well. A tentative finger softly, very softly traced his features- only pushing a little against the thick, brown hair covering part of his brow.
She could only just hold back a terrified scream as suddenly, a remarkably strong hand closed around her arm.
A/N: Another Jean Brodie fanfic *grin*!
The soldier stared down at his left arm in wonder. The wound had been cleaned and bandaged, of course, and very effectively as well- he barely felt it anymore. Still he was very glad it was his left arm- and not the right one, not his painting arm.
He’d not been thinking of that as he’d ran into the burning building in front of him, having heard children scream- but now, as an afterthought, he realized that having wounded his right arm would have been horrible to him. He had to draw, had to paint… it was like breathing to him, and he knew very well he could not live without it.
Even though he knew that he would never paint a masterpiece again. His one and sole masterpiece still stood against the wall of his studio, almost finished but not quite, electric blue eyes gazing at the empty place in wonder.
The soldier closed his eyes. He shouldn’t remember her. He really shouldn’t.
Teddy Lloyd had entered the Home Guard in 1944, the previous year, after his wife had passed away and the last one of his children had entered boarding school. His youngest daughter had always somehow been his special baby, and now she was gone and his wife was gone- what was there yet to live for?
Oh, who was he deceiving?
There had not been anything to live for since that one day, in 1932…
The almost black-haired man dug his nails deep into the bright white bandage round his arm, in a vain attempt to, with the pain, chase his thoughts away. It didn’t help- it never had, after all.
With little interest, he allowed his eyes to wander across the room he was lying in. A quickly-constructed field hospital it was, and staring at the people in the small beds beside him, Teddy realized he had been very lucky indeed.
Many of those people had not yet awakened, and some of them looked as if they weren’t going to awaken anymore at all.
The nurses did their best, of course- Teddy knew they did, as he regarded the worried faces of the woman who walked in and out the room at a quick pace- but even they were in fact not much more than simple, almost untrained Edinburgh woman who had volunteered, just the way he had volunteered for the army.
Teddy closed his eyes for a second- just as a voice, apparently addressing him, echoed through the already noisy room.
“Excuse me, Sir, may I inquire after your name? You didn’t have a passport with you, and-”
“Teddy Lloyd.” he automatically answered.
She gasped and his eyes fluttered open. He knew that voice. Of course he knew that voice. A pair of electric blue eyes linked with his- and she was gone.
“Sister Jean, what is wrong?” one of the other nurses called after her, but already the woman he knew so very well had disappeared in a cloud of white and pale.
Suddenly feeling terribly tired, Teddy allowed his head to fall back on his pillow- then closed his eyes. He’d only seen her face for a split second, but it had been enough… her gasp had been enough, her voice had been enough.
She had not much changed, he almost involuntarily thought- and wondered why that surprised him the way it did. Her face was almost unaltered, except for a few tiny wrinkles around the corners of her eyes and mouth- but she’d taken good care of herself, obviously, and it showed. The colour of her eyes- the intensity of her gaze- was exactly the same as he’d painted it once- and as he had always remembered it. A little more sadness had crept into them, perhaps, but not much.
And of course she was still beautiful. Well into her forties, perhaps, but still as beautiful as she ever was. Her beauty, that his artist’s eye had seen years earlier, was not dependent on age. It just was there, a part of her, just like her nose, just like her eyes.
Just like that damn smile of hers, of which he had dreamt so many times- just like that goddamn, terrible- horribly wonderful Mona Lisa smile of hers…
***
Jean stared at her own face in the mirror, locking the toilet door behind her back. In five minutes, someone would probably be banging against the door, yelling at her for locking it- but honestly, she did not care. Tears had started running from her eyes as soon as she heard the relieving click of the key in the keyhole- and she hated herself for them.
Why was she crying, after all? Because she had just met an old colleague? Because she’d just been reminded of her past as a teacher?
Jean closed her eyes and leant her forehead against the mirror.
Or, perhaps, because she had met the one man she had ever loved again?
You thoroughly stupid woman, she heard herself scold. Haven’t you told him “arrivederci” ten years ago? Hasn’t he told you that he could not follow where you led?
Then again, Jean bitterly reminded herself, she had not been exactly “leading” in ten full years. After being sent away from Marcia Blaine, in the spring of 1935, she had managed to, through some savings and a few published short stories, prolong her situation of relative wealth for four years.
With the cold, bitter winter of 1939, though, poverty had arrived- and in fact the war had arrived at precisely the right time for Jean.
She had immediately volunteered as a nurse, knowing that it at least would secure her of some food and shelter if needed- but also, and mostly, because it excited her heroic imagination. Wars had always been something very thrilling to her- and even now, as she was well into her forties and not at all that rather naïve little girl which she’d been during the Great War anymore, she still felt a strange sort of pride while wearing the small, white nurse cap atop of her still golden head.
She, Jean Brodie, was a nurse once more- like Florence Nightingale. A faint smile graced her delicate features at this mere thought- oh wouldn’t her girls be proud of her, if they could see her like this…
Harsh reality knocked on the door with the hand of one of her fellow nurses, though- and with quite a bang Jean landed back on earth again.
Studying her face in the mirror, she frowned as softly, she dabbed her eyelids with one of those white, linen handkerchiefs which she despised so very much. Ladies, she heard herself say, should have silk, little, handkerchiefs- with their initials embroidered in the upper right corner.
She almost snorted at her thoughts, looking down at the little white piece of cloth in her hands with a truly sad look in her eyes.
Perhaps the dream then really was broken.
***
As Jean slipped on her white cap again, a few hours later, to walk her last tour to check on the wounded before the night, she slightly trembled as she entered the door she’d escaped through just mere hours earlier. One, quick glance into the room, though, assured her that he was indeed asleep- just like the greater part of his fellow wounded- and on tiptoes, she walked to the back and the room and back, dutifully checking people’s heartbeat here and there.
On her way back, though, she could not but came to a stop next to the bed containing the man who’d shocked her so very badly earlier. As she tentatively stepped closer, she nearly smiled. Spying on Teddy Lloyd in his sleep- now that certainly was an activity she’d taken part in only one time before.
The mere thought made her tremble.
That night at the studio. That one night at the studio- the night she, high and noble Jean Brodie, had fallen for the first time in her life- and fallen hard. She’d bounced into bed with an artist and woken up with a man indeed- and with a man she loved as well, and that was which had shocked her.
She couldn’t but smile though, as she looked down on his face, finally relieved of its usual restlessness by the relaxation of sleep. Pity she couldn’t see his dark brown eyes, Jean reflected- but he was handsome without them as well. A tentative finger softly, very softly traced his features- only pushing a little against the thick, brown hair covering part of his brow.
She could only just hold back a terrified scream as suddenly, a remarkably strong hand closed around her arm.
.
