Chapter 3
“Ah, come in, Lawson. Good to have you back.”
Matthew pushed the office door closed as he came in. Master Greaves had one of the corner offices on the first floor of their building, as befitted someone with his status as a senior administrator for the Ministry as a whole. He was leaning back, as if everything was going his way.
Matthew had planned for this, with every bit of precision he’d previously applied to trial filings and the many reams of supplemental documentation.
He did not know how long the discussion was going to be, though he suspected that this four o’clock was the last slot in Greaves’ diary.
Greaves was not a man to linger beyond the expected hours.
Here, Matthew’s planning had meant avoiding the Boar House tie and other signs that he’d gone to Schola.
Greaves hadn’t gone to any of the Five Schools, and he was known to be touchy on that point.
Instead, Matthew was in an undeniably respectable navy suit for day wear, with an entirely neutral dark grey tie and a spotlessly white shirt.
His only concession to his education and training were the cufflinks his brother had given him, set with red jasper.
They rarely showed, however. Even if they had, it was not the blatant sign that a garnet or ruby might be.
The jasper certainly didn’t imply either a private income or that Matthew was frivolous with his money.
Neither of those things was true, regardless.
He nodded once and crossed to the chair in front of the massive desk, monitoring himself for the balance of appropriate civility without too much mindless deference.
Matthew had rank here, hard-earned. Today was about the question of where that might be deployed.
He did not have to prove himself from scratch.
Fortunately, there were ways things were done in the Ministry, and Matthew knew them well.
He could have nearly mapped out this conversation before having it, except for the actual decision of where he might be working.
But there were steps that had to be done in a particular order, and Matthew respected that.
“Good afternoon, sir. It’s been excellent to be back.” Matthew had practised this bit in advance: how to say what he wanted the way he wanted. “I’ve settled in and caught up a bit on the general range of changes while I’ve been gone.”
“Remind me where you served. And—” There was a broad gesture of the hand, the sort that suggested the sweep of a sword, even though Greaves had almost certainly never been near anything more dangerous than a thin-bladed steak knife.
The pause resolved into, “A summary of what you’ve been doing the last few years, with an eye to where you might be interested in picking up.
We have half a dozen positions open now or in the near future. ”
“Sir.” He’d expected this. Mind, he’d also made sure Greaves was on the list that got the summary of his work since the beginning of the war.
“Served in logistics, sir, then trailing behind those fighting their way from Normandy to Berlin the last year of the war. Limited direct action, but a great deal of coordination of ammunition and key supplies.”
“Bit of a waste of your magical skills.” That was dry. “But we can’t deny you’re good at the paperwork.” Greaves leaned back slightly further.
Matthew felt that he was permitted a slight smile of acknowledgement at the compliment, which he had absolutely earned.
“Quite, sir. From 1945, I was attached to the Nuremberg trials, initially under the British prosecutor, David Maxwell Fyfe. I did not have the legal background, of course, of the prosecution staff for Britain. But my German and French were more than good enough to assist with a wide range of documents. I picked up a fair bit of Russian as well and eventually a bit of Polish. When the initial trials ended, I was asked to stay on when the Americans took over to assist with the initial translation and processing of the documents in further trials. As things are being turned over to the current governments, I have returned to Albion.”
“Doing a bit of a number of things. As you did here, I remember. A bit of time in Materia, but your primary training is in the Quadrivium and the various elements of research and administration.” Greaves glanced at his desk, then looked back up.
“May I ask why you didn’t go into the Courts?
If you wished to now, we would be glad to recommend you to a post there.
Though, of course, it would involve further training. ”
It took all Matthew’s self-control not to flinch.
“I prefer the Ministry, sir, but thank you for the consideration.” He did not know how to explain how little he wanted to see of people’s pains and miseries, even the smaller-scale ones.
Five years of horrors conveyed in forms and paper and photographs had embedded themselves in his brain.
The horrors described in clinical language were even worse than the others, honestly.
Now he took a breath and forged forward with the necessary information.
“My older brother was involved in the plant hunting trade before the war.” He could see the question coming.
“Donald was killed in ‘42 in an air raid while on leave, sir. But he gave me the interest in Materia. That’s not my formal training, but it was a help with the languages.” Much of the professional literature in the materia field had been in German and French for the last century, when it wasn’t in English.
And like almost everyone who went through Schola, his Latin was competent and useful for dealing with older writing.
“Mmm.” That got a tap of his fingers. “We might have something in a few weeks that would let you take on a few useful tasks along those lines, then. So, you’d prefer a good, solid administrative position. Papers at a desk, nothing in the field.”
Again, Matthew sat on the brief impulse to say what he wanted.
It flickered out immediately, anyway. It had been more than a decade since his desires had anything to do with his life, in basically any dimension.
“I’ve polished my skills with that sort of administrative work.
If you happen to have a department that needs its files thoroughly reorganised, or a better designed archive.
Or, of course, the workaday business of the Ministry, tracking fees, certifications, or whatever’s needed.
The topic matters less to me than the need for the work to be done. ”
As soon as he said it, he knew that wasn’t entirely true, but he’d said it.
It would have to be true now. He’d just have to figure out how to take on that challenge with all the others.
“I do also have some experience— though I’d want to brush up— specific to enchantments and managing their proper renewal.
” And it was sufficiently distant from anything he’d done in the last decade to be manageable.
“Ah, yes,” Greaves shuffled a couple of pages in front of him.
“Let’s start you off there. If you’d present yourself to Mirabel Wright tomorrow morning, first thing, she’ll get you settled.
I don’t know if you know her? Dunwich, perhaps five—” Another glance at the papers.
“Six years ahead of you. She’s had the position open for six months. There will be a backlog to deal with.”
A backlog honestly sounded like a gift. He could find out how she wanted things done, put his head down, and do the work. Better yet, he’d have excellent reason to duck socialising or invitations out for a drink if he wanted them. “That sounds grand, sir. Should I take a note up to the office now?”
“If you wouldn’t mind. Let me just write it up.
If you turn out not to suit, she’ll let me know, and we can see what else might be available.
Or, of course, we do know that men coming back often find they want different employment.
To be honest, we’re short-staffed as it is these days, but we understand that the war changed things.
” That last bit had the sort of feeling behind it that made it clear the war hadn’t changed terribly much for Greaves, when all the columns were totted up. Matthew did not comment, just waited.
A minute later, Greaves had filled out several bits on a note that had been partially written.
“Third floor, east hall, room 310 is where her secretary is. You needn’t bring anything specific tomorrow.
She’ll get you set up with equipment. Consider it the end of your day after you take the note.
I’m sure you finished up what you were working on already. ”
“I had, sir, yes, since they didn’t know if I’d be back.
” He’d finished at noon, actually, which had meant nearly four hours of finding anything useful to do so he wouldn’t visibly twitch at the idleness.
Now it was time for Matthew to stand, to offer the slight bow that was acknowledgement without too much uxorious deference.
He took the folded note in his left hand, then offered his right for a sturdy handshake.
“Good to be back, sir. Thank you for your time and have a pleasant evening.”
From there, it was back to the staircase, up two floors, and along to find the room.
Mistress Wright— Matthew had peeked at the note to make sure he had the proper form of address— was not in.
Her secretary was a young, efficient looking woman, perhaps twenty-five.
She gave her name as Harlow and took the note, scanning it briskly.
She showed where Matthew should come in the morning and sent him away again.
He respected that. She clearly had things she was finishing.
He was at something of a loss when he got back downstairs.
Matthew could go back to his flat, which was small, oddly shaped, and not remotely homey.
It had a number of advantages over his housing for the last five years, not the least involving adequate plumbing and the sort of excess of hot water he didn’t know what to do with.
But he had nothing in the cupboard for supper, and he didn’t much want to pick anything up.
However, it was Tuesday. Tuesday was one night where there would be a certain sort of people at Urania’s Apples. They had good pub food still. He’d heard that much. He didn’t really want to talk to anyone, but he could sit and listen to other people near him, and see what that did.
The pub, at least, was also conveniently located.
Of course he’d done his best to find a flat nearer the Ministry quarter.
The pub was a block or two out of the most direct route home.
And at this time of day, he could have a beer— cider would imply something else he certainly wasn’t up for— and a meal before it got too busy.
He made his way along the street, his satchel over his shoulder.
When he entered, it took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the light. There were a few small groups already, but only half a dozen people were visible. There might be more in the snug or the back room, or upstairs, but probably not. Behind the bar, he saw a familiar and welcome face. “York!”
Ian York had been the publican here before the war. He was over sixty now, so he’d not have been called up. Now his hair was more grizzled than Matthew remembered it, but his face had the same grin. “I never. You’re back, then?”
“Back. Been back a few weeks. Finding my feet.” Matthew took a few steps toward the bar. “Pint and something to eat, I don’t know what’s on offer these days.”
“Got a pie. Little meat, more veg, but it’s filling. Usual source.” That meant the kitchens were in excellent hands. “And I’ll get the pint. Looking for anyone?”
Matthew shook his head. “Not tonight. Just a place to be where I know what to expect, enough.”
“Ah, that’s a thing we’ve heard a fair bit.
You’re one of the last likely to find your way back.
We’ve a scrapbook of those who won’t, if and when you want a minute with them.
And you know where we keep the privacy.” That was a kind offer, and certainly not one Matthew was at all ready to deal with right now.
He’d need to sometime, so he didn’t put his foot in it.
Now he nodded. “Not tonight for that, either. I’ll find a time to come in and look at the book.
Tuesdays and Fridays are the most likely, still?
” People came and went, but those had been the days when the men and women of the Ministry with less socially approved preferences had most reliably come by.
Ian York wasn’t biassed about what people liked, so long as they chose partners who wanted that.
It didn’t matter if those were men who preferred men, women who liked women, or people who liked a bit of both depending on the offer.
They were all quietly welcomed. Plenty of people who liked it the other way round, too, of course. That was just good sense for a pub.
York would not have had the worries about police raids such establishments had in London in his catalogue of concerns.
At least here, Matthew’s preferences weren’t prosecuted.
But no one here needed or wanted the scandal, or the worries about how it might spill over onto work and friendships and the infinite connections of Albion’s magical community.
He’d turned away to get the beer, bringing back a glass brimming over with the head.
“Tuesdays and Fridays most likely. We get musicians in on Saturdays now, until closing, if you want a bit of that. Or want to avoid it. Sunday dinner, you know restaurants have different limits on the rationing yet, right?”
“I do. Still figuring that out. I’ve been living off canteen food for years, and the Army before that. Different problem.” Matthew shrugged. It wasn’t as if most of it tasted like much.
“You have a seat, have your beer. I’ll bring out the pie. And a list of shops you might get things, better than the rubbish that’s on sale some of the quick places. How’s that?” York bustled off before Matthew could do more than nod.
It wasn’t home, not exactly. But it was a place that at least didn’t turn him away or make his stomach do uncomfortable flips. Right now, that would do as a start.