Showing posts with label 20th century. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 20th century. Show all posts

03 September 2017

Author Interview: Xina Marie Uhl on WHITER PASTURES

This week, we're pleased to welcome author Xina Marie Uhl with her latest release, WHITER PASTURES (Icebound series). Here's the blurb about the novelette.

A romantic novelette in the Icebound series, an ongoing collection of polar delights.

Behold dogsleds and penguins. Howling winds and cold, pitiless wastes. This is Antarctica, where the intrepid inhabitants of the frozen ends of the earth battle the terrain, and each other, to find love—in a past much like that of the  early 1900s. 

Reluctant spinster Florance Barton fled to the British Antarctic base to escape a scandalous love affair. Amidst the handful of other women there, Florance is the perfect chambermaid, meek, mild, and forgettable. No one has a clue that she’s also a novice spy. 

When handsome young Handy McHanagan arrives at the base, he sets everyone agog. He’s charming, artistic, and ... an accomplished gardener. His arrival may be a mistake on the part of naval command. Or is it something more sinister?

Killer seals and subzero ice storms and aren’t the only danger in Antarctica: a enemy spy is on the loose. Florance has been ordered to choose between queen and country and her heart. Because penguin is off the menu nowand murder is its replacement.

Get your copy:


Ebook (Amazon: Kindle Unlimited or $1.49 purchase price)
XC Publishing / ISBN-13: 978-1-930805-91-0 / 41 pages
Author website / Amazon book page / Goodreads book page



**Q&A with Xina Marie Uhl**


Before we get started, I have a matter of confusion to clear up. What’s with your name? Did you make it up, or were your parents just weird?   

No, I did not make it up, although you are not the first person to ask me that question. My name is pronounced Zeena, though it is spelled X-I-N-A. When I was growing up, I would always know when the teacher got to my name due to the pause and stumbling pronouncement. After Xena: Warrior Princess came out people began to say my name correctly for the most part. I have met a few Zinas - who spell their names with a Z. Also a few people have admitted that their dogs were named Zina. Since I love dogs I find that a compliment. 

Your latest release, Whiter Pastures, revolves around a maid in Antarctica who must overcome her timidity to carry out a distressing mission from faraway England. Dashing young Handy McHanagan is the object of attention and it’s unclear whether he’s a good guy or a bad guy until the resolution. In the course of the adventure, there are many unusual elements such as spinsters, bribery, drunkenness, explosions, panic attacks, hysteria, art exhibits, and special varieties of snuff. How on earth did you combine all these?

The question might better be asked: why did I combine all these? Alas, the answer is unknowable. I have one of those restless minds that is forever googling faraway places and reading explorers’ log books and, when I’m tired of that, watching dark comedies. Somehow that all meshed into one strange, but I hope diverting and amusing tale.

Don’t worry about that, Xina--I can safely say that the answer is yes. Tallyho, then! I can’t recall ever seeing a historical romance set in Antarctica before. When does the story take place and what caused you to set it there?

The story takes place in 1900, which is just prior to Robert Falcon Scott’s first Antarctic expedition, the Discovery, in 1901. The idea is that the British Antarctic Base at Hope Bay exists to support the explorers who come later as well as conducting their own scientific and military endeavors.

As for why I set the story there, I’ve long been curious about the frozen reaches of the earth, probably because I was raised in the desert and have never lived anywhere that falls below 32 degrees Fahrenheit in winter. I’m an avid traveler and I love to read about explorers as well. It took such grit and determination and sheer physical strength to scale mountains, ride rapids, and sail iceberg-choked seas, alone and in fear for one’s life. As a soft hearted landlubber I marvel at such deeds.

I can trace my fascination with Antarctica to an official beginning when I read Endurance by Alfred Lansing, the true story of Ernest Shackleton’s incredible voyage for the South Pole in 1914. When he and his crew became stranded the real adventure began. The book is full of more twists, turns, and excitement than any fictional thriller, and it is all the more mind-blowing because Shackleton and his men braved the most difficult circumstances to triumph in the end. Since then, I’ve done a lot of reading about Antarctica, and I’m first in line to see documentaries like the recent A Year on the Ice, which shows some stunning photography of the Antarctic winter, the first time that’s been done in a movie.

The story includes a few women who live and work on the British Antarctic Base in Hope Bay. How historically accurate is it?

Women weren’t part of the Antarctic bases. In fact, the British Antarctic Base wasn’t built until 1945. However, the Swedes discovered the area in 1902 and built a stone hut in 1903 which still stands in part today. The Norwegian Polar Institute has a great map of Antarctica to orient readers below, with the Hope Bay station located at the very tip of the Antarctic Peninsula near Deception Island.


Because the British base wasn’t actually established until 1945, I took liberties with that detail. I also took liberties with setting women there. I did give them roles that women would likely perform such as cooks, maids, and secretaries. The protagonist, Florance, is a maid. When she’s not spying for certain Scandinavians, that is. As you can probably tell, the story has a decidedly quirky bent, but besides that, and the liberties I took with characters, the story is accurate, but most decidedly fiction. In addition to writing historical fiction, I write historical nonfiction as a freelancer, and I have two degrees in history. So I’m a mean researcher. But good history does not always translate into good fiction so the narrative must always come first. Still, it was loads of fun researching Antarctic expeditions, and my favorite form of procrastination when I should have been writing. I even consulted supply lists to make sure that I was mentioning the correct foods. Can’t forget mockturtle soup and laxative vegetables, you know!

The main character’s name, Florance, is spelled in an unusual manner. There are also unusual names throughout the story - Handy, Gorge, and Electa. Is that intentional?

Yes, definitely.  I happened upon this article on the Mental Floss website about the least popular American baby names from 1880 through 1930, according to Social Security records. The names are, by turns, cringe-worthy and hilarious. It’s fascinating to see the diversity and the bad spellings, though really not terribly surprising, I suppose. We have some strangely spelled names today, too. Anyhow, a perfect storm formed in my mind - the explorer mania, Antarctic interest, bizarre names, and my silly sense of humor collided. I decided to write a series of stories called Icebound, which would focus on relationships at the frozen ends of the earth, and I would use names from this list. There are plenty to choose from and they should lead to lots and lots of stories.

The story is a mix of genres - historical, humor, romance, action. What does that mix say about your writing in general?

That I don’t like to color inside the lines, I suppose. I have fiction that is fantasy, humor, cat-related, romantic, and a mixture of all of the above. I want readers to be fully entertained and engaged by my work and to me, that means operating on a number of different levels, genre-wise. The heart and soul of the Icebound stories is relationships, though. That’s why I say they are romances with historical and humorous elements.

Last question: what’s next after Whiter Pastures?

That would be a novella in the Icebound series called All Mouth and No Trousers. It will be debuting soon - at the end of August. It’s a standalone story, but it takes place with the same characters--in different degrees of importance--as Whiter Pastures.

Thanks so much for having me here! I hope you’ll check out Whiter Pastures for yourself. I think you’ll agree that it earns its place here on Unusual Historicals!


About the Author

Xina Marie Uhl spends her days laboring in obscurity as a freelance writer for educational projects and dreaming of ways to scrounge up enough cash to: 1. travel the world, and 2. add to her increasing menagerie of dogs, cats, and other creatures. The rest of the time she writes fantasy, romance, historical fiction, and humor. She is the author of fantasy novel Necropolis, a collection of fantasy short stories called The Ruling Elite and Other Stories (with Janet Loftis), A Fairy Tail and Out of the Bag, a collection of humorous fantasy stories, and finally The Cat’s Guide to Human Behavior, a humorous self-help manual for cats struggling to understand their humans.

You can find her on Facebook, Twitter, and WordPress, where she writes about historical research, writing, and whatever strikes her fancy. Join her occasional newsletter for character artwork, exclusive fiction, and up-to-date news on the release of her fantasy novel, The King’s Champion, and other projects.

17 August 2017

Excerpt Thursday: WHITER PASTURES by Xina Marie Uhl

This week, we're pleased to welcome author Xina Marie Uhl with her latest release, WHITER PASTURES (Icebound series). Join us again on Sunday for an author interview, with more details about the story. Here's the blurb about the novelette.

A romantic novelette in the Icebound series, an ongoing collection of polar delights.

Behold dogsleds and penguins. Howling winds and cold, pitiless wastes. This is Antarctica, where the intrepid inhabitants of the frozen ends of the earth battle the terrain, and each other, to find love—in a past much like that of the  early 1900s. 

Reluctant spinster Florance Barton fled to the British Antarctic base to escape a scandalous love affair. Amidst the handful of other women there, Florance is the perfect chambermaid, meek, mild, and forgettable. No one has a clue that she’s also a novice spy. 

When handsome young Handy McHanagan arrives at the base, he sets everyone agog. He’s charming, artistic, and ... an accomplished gardener. His arrival may be a mistake on the part of naval command. Or is it something more sinister?

Killer seals and subzero ice storms and aren’t the only danger in Antarctica: a enemy spy is on the loose. Florance has been ordered to choose between queen and country and her heart. Because penguin is off the menu nowand murder is its replacement.

Get your copy:


Ebook (Amazon: Kindle Unlimited or $1.49 purchase price)
XC Publishing / ISBN-13: 978-1-930805-91-0 / 41 pages
Author website / Amazon book page / Goodreads book page



**An Excerpt from WHITER PASTURES**

A Novelette

Hope Bay, Antarctica, 1900

The coal pan in the bottom of the heater had jammed again. Florance had tried all of her usual fixes—shoving it in further and yanking it out quickly, shimmying it from side to side, and wedging the metal handle of her favorite scrub brush in it to pry it open—but nothing would work.

"Must you make such a racket, girl?" Electa's voice somehow managed to communicate boredom, disdain, and irritation all at once. She didn't bother looking up from her typewriter but continued to pluck the keys one by one, hunting and pecking for each as if she were a particularly choosy hen searching for the perfect piece of corn.

Florance gritted her teeth. Electa knew her name—Florance had informed her of it on at least three separate occasions—but she couldn't be bothered to call her anything other than girl. When she deigned to speak to her at all, that is.

It vexed Florance that people insisted upon referring to her as a girl when eternal spinsterhood was drawing ever nearer at twenty-nine years of age. Florance knew the reason for it, though. She was a rather quiet person, not a stupid one. The help always had to scurry hither and thither, seen but not heard, while the decent people carried on with the important work. The ability to be invisible was the very thing that had brought her to this frozen base to begin with, after all.

With a discordant screech, the coal pan slid free, unbalancing Florance so that she landed squarely on her bustle. Coal dust puffed up in a cloud around her. She sneezed. Electa rolled her kohl-lined, brilliantly blue eyes in exasperation.

"Sorry, Mum," Florance mumbled before she could stop herself. She was trying not to mewl so much. It's just that her mouth sometimes functioned apart from her intentions.

Florance patted coal dust off her once-white apron, tucked that frizzy errant piece of hair back into her bun, and slipped on her trusty leather gloves before hurrying outside to the coal bin.

A gale had ended late last night, and this morning was clear and eye-wateringly bright, as usual. The atmosphere down here seemed thinner and drier than back in dreary old England, and she had never quite gotten used to it. Workmen hauled cordage and secured lines while scientists checked the weather station for readings and polished and oiled the delicate motors, instruments, and generators that had to be maintained at all cost. At the coal bin, she swept aside the powdery white snow covering it with a few abrupt motions. Thank heavens it came easily, unlike in the dead of winter when it was often necessary to bring a sharp iron stake and a hammer to remove the solid glistening mass.

As she scooped coal out of the bin and into the pail, a bitch trotted by, three half-grown pups following in single file. Dunderwaffle must have left the kennel doors open again. This summation was supported by the sight of two male dogs snarling at one another mere yards away, hackles raised and eyes alight with malice. She had been in the line of fire of fighting mongrels once before and had suffered a nasty ankle bite as a result.

"Get!" she shouted. She lobbed several good-sized chunks of coal at them. The smaller of the two danced off, ears flattened against his skull. The other, a black husky with unsettling yellow eyes, stood his ground, looking directly at her with teeth bared. Refusing to give in to the impulse to shrink back, she shouted louder and stepped toward him. "Go away!"

His canines shone white and fierce in the sunlight, but he slunk back before turning and trotting away as if that had been his intention all along.

"Menace," she accused under her breath.

With an awkward swing, she hefted the heavy pail of coal and made her way back to the Commandant's office to finish loading the heater.

She had gone no more than a dozen yards when suddenly, the weight of the pail vanished.

"Let me help you with that, miss," said a warm, strong male voice.

"Oh!" Florance squeaked. "Why, thank you, sir."

A flash of white teeth and a cheerful grin. Lively brown eyes met hers.

"My pleasure, you can be sure." He gave a slight bow. "Handy McHanagan at your service."

Did she detect a bit of a brogue? Heavens alive! Her heart fluttered like a bird caught in a trap.

She nodded. "Miss Florance Barton. So pleased to make your acquaintance."

As they walked, she stole glances at him. Younger than her, most probably. A foot taller, at least. Thick, dark hair neatly combed back around a zigzagging side part, and underneath, a face that she found utterly, completely, transformatively gorgeous in all ways, amen. She tried to control her burgeoning excitement. He must have arrived on this morning's ship. Certainly, she would have recognized him otherwise.

On the steps of the administration building, he paused, looking out at the post as men scurried about hatless and in shirtsleeves. At twenty-three degrees Fahrenheit, she was practically sweating herself.

A vaguely troubled expression flattened his lips. "I was sure it would be different here."

"In what way, sir?"

His eyes flickered to hers, and he gave a rueful smile. "Greener."

She didn't understand for a moment. Out here, green was for tinned vegetables and putrefying wounds, nothing else. Then she realized what he meant.

"Goodness, not another one! No one told you that you were headed to Hope Bay and not Hope Cay?"

He expelled air from his nostrils as he shook his head.

"And that Hope Bay lay in Antarctica?"

"Australia . . . Antarctica. They sound a bit alike."

No, love, she thought, they most certainly don't.

"If it's any consolation, you're not the first to have made that same mistake."

"I'm afraid I need a bit more than consolation right now." He looked rather crestfallen about the whole situation.

Well, he certainly wouldn't find that inside the administrative building. Quite the opposite, instead. But she kept her opinions to herself. 


About the Author

Xina Marie Uhl spends her days laboring in obscurity as a freelance writer for educational projects and dreaming of ways to scrounge up enough cash to: 1. travel the world, and 2. add to her increasing menagerie of dogs, cats, and other creatures. The rest of the time she writes fantasy, romance, historical fiction, and humor. She is the author of fantasy novel Necropolis, a collection of fantasy short stories called The Ruling Elite and Other Stories (with Janet Loftis), A Fairy Tail and Out of the Bag, a collection of humorous fantasy stories, and finally The Cat’s Guide to Human Behavior, a humorous self-help manual for cats struggling to understand their humans.

You can find her on Facebook, Twitter, and WordPress, where she writes about historical research, writing, and whatever strikes her fancy. Join her occasional newsletter for character artwork, exclusive fiction, and up-to-date news on the release of her fantasy novel, The King’s Champion, and other projects.


11 June 2017

Author Interview & Book Giveaway: Jeffrey K. Walker on NONE OF US THE SAME

This week, we're pleased to welcome author JEFFREY K. WALKER with his latest release, NONE OF US THE SAME (Sweet Wine of Youth, Volume 1). One lucky winner will receive a copy of the novel in Kindle format. Here's the blurb about the novel.

Fiery Deirdre Brannigan had opinions on everything. She certainly hated the very idea of war in 1914. Childhood pals Jack Oakley and Will Parsons thought it a grand adventure with their friends. But the crushing weight of her guilty conscience pushes Deirdre to leave Ireland and land directly in the fray. Meanwhile the five friends from Newfoundland blithely enlist. After all, the war couldn’t possibly last very long… 

They learn quickly how wrong they are and each is torn apart by the carnage in France.

What began with enthusiastic dreams of parades and dances with handsome young soldiers turned into long days and nights in the hospital wards desperately trying to save lives. And for the good and decent young men in fine new uniforms aching to prove themselves worthy on the field of battle, the horrors of war quickly descended.

But it is also the war which brings them together. Deirdre’s path crosses with Jack and Will when they’re brought to her field hospital the first day of the slaughter on the Somme. Their lives part, their journeys forward fraught with physical and emotional scars tossing them through unexpected and often painful twists and turns. But somehow, a sliver of hope, love and redemption emerges. And their paths cross again in St. John’s.

When the guns finally fall silent, can Deirdre overcome her secret demons through a new life with battered Jack? Can shell-shocked Will confront his despotic father’s expectations to become the man his young family deserves?



**Q&A with Jeffrey K. Walker**


So let's find out more about the story behind the novel...

Why and how did you become a writer?
I’m a latecomer to fiction, having started this first novel at age 56. However, as an attorney and consultant and professor, I’ve written for a living most of my adult life—most of what lawyers do involves complex research and writing. So I came to fiction with a full tool box for doing the mechanics. It’s the world-building and storytelling that’s new and challenging for me, so None of Us the Same taught me a lot of the craft of writing.

None of Us the Same is set during and after the First World War. How did you come to that time period for this historical novel?
Two reasons. First, I’ve always been fascinated by this period in history, much more so than the Second World War. That might seem odd for an American. I spent a lot of my legal career in public international law—treaties and law of war, that kind of thing—and the period before and after the First World War was the golden age of international law. World War II was really the final act, the denouement of the First World War—the international order was fractured by the conflict and not very effectively put back together, leaving space and oxygen for fascism, Nazism, Stalinism.

Second, I set out to write a book about the terrible damage war does to the young men and women drawn into it and how they struggle with putting their lives back together after the war. Initially, I assumed I’d set the book present day, using Afghanistan or Iraq. As I dug into the project, I couldn’t shake the feeling I was appropriating the stories of young men and women struggling real time. To a guy like me who spent 20 years in uniform, it felt a little wrong. So the First World War offered a compelling alternative setting, yet with many of the same problems that young veterans face today. I guess you can say I was a bit of a coward and that landed me in 1914 rather than 2014.

How did you approach researching the book?
I’ve been a big historical fiction fan since I was 11 or 12 and read one of my parents’ completely age-inappropriate Book of the Month Club selections. It was something by James Michener. I can’t exactly remember which one, maybe Hawaii. Ever since, perhaps because Michener was such a meticulous researcher, I don’t like books with a lot of historical groaners in them—and my wife will attest that I actually groan out loud when I read inaccuracies—so I was a little neurotic about research for None of Us the Same. Among other things, this included a research trip to Newfoundland during iceberg season and you'll see its gems in the book. (Everyone should put Newfoundland on their Bucket List. Beautiful land with genuinely friendly people.)

I’m really drawn to social and intellectual history, so spent a lot of time reading ‘Lost Generation’ poets, novels written by veterans of the War, newspapers and magazines of the period, as well as a mountain of more traditional historical sources. Memoirs and letters were very important to me so I could get period-appropriate voices in my head. I also visited some amazing museums, like the Imperial War Museum in London and the Royal Newfoundland Regiment Museum in St. John’s. I hope it was all worth it, but I’ll leave it to readers to check their own level of groaning.

Did you rely on actual historical persons or are your characters 100% fictional?
As 100% fictional as any character can be, I suppose. I’ve never been a big fan of “fictional biographies” in general because so few authors do them really well. I mean, there’s Hilary Mantel and then there’s the rest of us mere mortals, isn’t there? So I went to some effort to avoid using real persons. For example, my two male main characters are from Newfoundland and join that Dominion’s regiment in 1914. The First World War was a traumatic and emotional right of passage for the Newfoundlanders—they sustained huge losses for a very small place and the regiment is highly revered to this day. To not offend anyone, there is no one named in the book above the rank of captain nor above the position of platoon commander. I pulled last names for characters from the regimental roster and from old St. John’s city directories, but that’s as far as I went. My female main character, an Irish nurse you met in the excerpt, is completely fictional albeit her hospital did exist, as did her casualty clearing station on the Somme. So I wove my fictionalized characters between the seams of real people, places, and events.

That said, the second volume in my trilogy does incorporate a historical person or two because I really needed them for narrative purposes.

So None of Us the Same is the first volume of a trilogy? Was that a challenge your first time out—three books all at once?
Yeah, a little crazy wasn’t it? I wanted to approach the theme of “war changes everyone and everything” on three different levels: individual, social/cultural and political. That lended itself quite naturally to a trilogy. All three are—or will be—heavily character-driven, but the overarching themes track these three aspects of change. None of Us the Same focuses on the wide range of individual traumas and struggles. The second book—Truly Are the Free, should be out in the Fall. It looks at the enormous social upheavals and change caused by the War and is partly set in post-War Harlem and Paris. (It features a main character from the storied 369th U.S. Infantry Regiment—the “Harlem Hellfighters.”) The third book, No Hero’s Welcome, will look at the violent political upheavals in Ireland in the wake of the British Empire’s widespread exhaustion caused by the War.

The alternative to a trilogy would have been a Michener-esque doorstopper of a saga, 800 pages long. I had serious misgivings about anyone giving a new fiction writer that much benefit of the doubt.
  
About the Author

JEFFREY K. WALKER has worked as a stock broker, bomber navigator, criminal lawyer, international consultant, and law professor. He’s lived in ten states and three foreign countries. Although None of Us the Same is his first novel, he’s written his entire life, including undergraduate sports coverage, an opinion column in his law school newspaper, hundreds of trial motions, a losing Supreme Court amicus brief, and several scholarly chapters and articles. He dotes on his family and has never been beaten at Whack-a-Mole.
  
Connect with Jeff on his author page and blog at http://jeffreykwalker.com/  or:
             On Instagram at https://instagram.com/jkwalker.author 
             On Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/jeffreykwalker 
             On Twitter at @jkwalkerAuthor
             Or Email him at jeff at jeffreykwalker dot com
  
None of Us the Same is available at the following:
 www.amzn.to/2qvJSJm  (Amazon)
 http://bit.ly/2qxoMd3  (Barnes& Noble)

08 June 2017

Excerpt Thursday: NONE OF US THE SAME by Jeffrey K. Walker

This week, we're pleased to welcome author JEFFREY K. WALKER with his latest release, NONE OF US THE SAME (Sweet Wine of Youth, Volume 1). One lucky winner will receive a copy of the novel in Kindle format. Join us again on Sunday for an author interview, with more details about the story behind the series. Here's the blurb about the novel.

Fiery Deirdre Brannigan had opinions on everything. She certainly hated the very idea of war in 1914. Childhood pals Jack Oakley and Will Parsons thought it a grand adventure with their friends. But the crushing weight of her guilty conscience pushes Deirdre to leave Ireland and land directly in the fray. Meanwhile the five friends from Newfoundland blithely enlist. After all, the war couldn’t possibly last very long… 

They learn quickly how wrong they are and each is torn apart by the carnage in France.

What began with enthusiastic dreams of parades and dances with handsome young soldiers turned into long days and nights in the hospital wards desperately trying to save lives. And for the good and decent young men in fine new uniforms aching to prove themselves worthy on the field of battle, the horrors of war quickly descended.

But it is also the war which brings them together. Deirdre’s path crosses with Jack and Will when they’re brought to her field hospital the first day of the slaughter on the Somme. Their lives part, their journeys forward fraught with physical and emotional scars tossing them through unexpected and often painful twists and turns. But somehow, a sliver of hope, love and redemption emerges. And their paths cross again in St. John’s.

When the guns finally fall silent, can Deirdre overcome her secret demons through a new life with battered Jack? Can shell-shocked Will confront his despotic father’s expectations to become the man his young family deserves?



**An Excerpt from NONE OF US THE SAME**
Chapter One — Deirdre

The old one in the last bed had riled them again. One of the trainees, impossibly young in a stiff white pinafore, stood pleading and wide-eyed. "I can't bathe Mr. Duffy again, Sister! He…he…touches his…his…nether parts when he sees me comin' with the towel and basin," said the girl, struggling out her careful words in unconcealed mortification. Only the good Lord Himself knew what the Daughters of Charity would make of this poor girl's conundrum. But Deirdre Brannigan was a lay nurse, not that it eased the suffering of the trainee standing before her burning with embarrassment.
"Fetch a friend or two who can hold his arms while you bathe him. 'Tis hard enough keeping everyone and everything clean without your delicate sensibilities aggravating the situation," Deirdre said with mild scolding, calm in the fretting storm.
“I've… I've tried that," the trainee said, two others vouching the truth of her timid protest with vigorous nods. "His… manhood still becomes… quitetall… anyways. And he likewise leers at me in a most distressin' manner." An unsettling murmur rippled across the clustered trainees, tinged with an edge of mutiny. Deirdre knew she must nip this.
"Ladies," she began with deliberate sternness, as if she were not just a few years clear of training herself, "let us be mindful this is a charity hospital with a mission to care for the least fortunate of our Lord's children with kindness and understanding."  She sucked at her cheeks a little, checking a smile that rose from her unintentional imitation of Sister Mary Evangeline. Deirdre soldiered on, channeling the formidable matron. "If our Blessed Mother could bear the pain and sorrow of kneeling by the cross of her precious Son, I would hope and pray you can muster the strength to endure the sight of an addled old man's… nether part. Regardless of its height."  She stared down each trainee, ending with the complainant, who burst into loud sobs.
"Bridget, you're made of sterner stuff. Dry your eyes and blow your nose now." She handed her an immaculate handkerchief, speaking quietly and taking the poor girl aside. "Come along. I’d a few tricks from the sisters when I was a trainee myself. I'll entrust them to you, for use with present and future Mr. Duffys." She turned and gave a backward nod and scowl, signaling the stricken girl should follow and stop her sniffling.
As the two women approached Mr. Duffy's bedside, he was gleaming with lurid anticipation. Running a purple tongue over cracked lips, he reached under the bedclothes and rubbed himself with surprising vigor given his decrepitude. Deirdre, terse and businesslike, pulled his arms over the blanket. "These will remain in plain sight, Mr. Duffy, or I'll have the porters bathe you with lye and the dandy brush from the horses." He fell into an offended silence, shocked by her unexpected bluntness.
After pulling the nightshirt over his head, Deirdre commenced bathing the spent old man, his mind half gone from decades of drink, running a soapy sponge over the yellowed skin of his sunken chest and spindle arms. She handed over the sponge to Bridget for washing his other side. Half done, they pulled the sheet back over his chest, then folded it back from his lower body, leaving him exposed upon the bed. A crooked grin crept across the old man's toothless gob, his withered penis rising from the greasy grey pubic hair. Bridget gave a short gasp and began a turn that Deirdre froze with an icy glance. Drawing a wooden tongue depressor from the pocket of her apron, Deirdre bent it back and thwacked the old man's withered scrotum.
"Aggghhh! Y’are a right demon bitch, y'are! Damn ya to hell, woman!" the old man yelped. He curled on his side, both arms shoved between his legs.
Deirdre turned to Bridget and said, clear and even, "You can finish bathing Mr. Duffy now. He'll be giving no more trouble this day." Not taking her eyes from the old man, she handed the tongue depressor with dignified ceremony to Bridget and said, "I recommend liberal use until such time as he learns to act proper at bath time."
Bridget would share her secret with the others before the hour was out, so Deirdre hoped. She walked back down the double line of beds filled by broken men with a litany of illnesses. Some would soon be back to their poverty and filth. Others would pass to their reward here—perhaps tonight, maybe in a week or a month.
As she reached the day room, the door flew open and trainees flushed out in their identical uniforms, like schoolgirls off to summer holiday. Deirdre halted one by the arm and asked, "What's all the caterwaulin' here? You'll disturb the patients with your silliness."
"'Tis war! Have you not heard, Sister? We're to fight the Germans!" The girl's eyes were wide and wild with anticipation of parades and dances and handsome young soldiers in fine uniforms. She knew the girl had every reason to be thrilled, young as she was. She released her, the girl scampering down the corridor to join with her friends in their jubilation.
In the now deserted room, Deirdre could hear the bells of Dublin—Catholic, Protestant, no matter—commencing to sound. First just the one, probably St. Patrick’s, this side of the Liffey, a few blocks away. Then another, more distant than the first. Likely the Pro Cathedral off Sackville Street, the Catholics joining from the other side. Soon enough, every church in the city added its peal. Above the din, she could make out cheering, a crowd already gathering on St. Stephen's Green. Deirdre stared down from her window, scowling at the burgeoning celebration on the Green below. Speaking to no one, maybe everyone, she muttered into the antiseptic air, under the crescendo of bells.
"Those stupid, stupid old men. What have they gone and done to us now?”

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