Work of the Women [Owen]

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Country: Allied France, in an Allied base. More specifically, far enough from the current front line to give the men a break, including several members of the 3ID.
Current Time: 12:50
Weather Conditions: Warm, sunny May day, but with a chance of rain. Darkening clouds on the horizon are an omen of this, and there is a restless breeze in the air. Many soldiers are going outside and enjoying the fresh air while they can.


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Suds bubbled up to her elbows as her hands worked, the dishcloth roughly rubbing bits of food off the dishes in the sink. Her tongue ran over her lips to wet them, brow furrowed in concentration as she continued to clean the lunchtime round of dishes. Outside, several soldiers cheered as a game of rugby (or was it that American sport, football?) went on, the sounds of bodies ramming together heard through the slightly-opened window. They were ignored, the ATS ladies busy cleaning up after those men, as well as helping prepare the next meal of the day.

"Yoo'd hink 'at those pigs ootwith woods be a wee cleaner durin' mealtime, wooldnae ye?" commented Whitney Lyne, a Scotswoman who Niamh had known from training, and who was now drying the dishes. The two were still more acquaintances then friends, but Lyne was a sensible woman, not known to flirt with or sweet talk the men. "Bernadette tauld me 'at she saw a body slurp a stew sae fest, reit it ay th' bowl itself, it got doon his sark an' aw ontae his unif'rm! Ah ken we dorn't aw hae th' best table manners (includin' myself) at times, but that's riddy!"

"Ith's besth tho noth complain, Whiththy," Niamh replied dryly. "I've seen worse, an' t'is is comin' from a lass with a ridiculous number o' men in 'er family. Ya mighth jinx somet'ing, lassie."

Lyne raised her eyebrows, pausing in the wiping of a well-stained coffee mug. Giving Niamh a hint of a look, the Scotswoman said, "Ah was jist makin' a comment thaur, lassie! Ah didne pure techt tae soond whiny loch 'at wee wench up wi' th' AA crews. She whines abit hoo 'er fingers hurt efter maintenance, yit haur we ur, nearly cuttin' uir fingers aff every day while slicin' up th' beef! Ah dunnae kinn whit 'at woman's problem is!"

This kind of workplace chatter was typical of Whitney Lyne. Usually, a response from Niamh would get Lyne to keep quiet for a few minutes, and then, she'd pull another conversation starter out of her head. Even though chatting helped things move sometimes, the Pavee much preferred to work in silence, or with the occasional word here and there. That way, if someone barked an order or something wasn't quite right, Niamh would notice, and not be burdened down by an unwanted racket. Serving under Section Leader Fell had done that to the young Pavee.

"But honestly," began Whitney again, "they're pigs. Ah mean, when they're nae sloppin' their scran aroond, they're chasin' us kimmers. Every time Ah gang tae mah room, Ah hae tae make sure nae a body is followin' me wi' nae weel intent. Serioosly, whaur ur their commanders? Nae bide, Ah bit those commanders ur jist as bad! Ye shoods hear abit 'at Charles Norris fellow; he has burds followin' heem aroond loch puppies!"

"Yes, I heard, Whith," said Niamh. It was true, Charles Norris was a magnet for women, with his rugged exterior and "tough-'n'-gruff" personality. Ever since he had rolled in, the kitchen gossip had been rife with mentions of "the handsome sir, the incredible Flight Lieutenant, Mr. Devil-May-Care Charles Norris, the only good American". At times, it was humorous, but at other times, it could be worthy of gagging. If Niamh had to make a guess, she would say that roughly seventy-five percent of the volunteers at the base had fallen in love with him.

"Oi, Dunlevy!" cried another woman, another Section Leader by the name of Claudia Holmes. She stood over by the window, an assortment of baked goods cooling on the counter beside that. "I need to run up to Fell for a moment, could ya watch the bread and buns for me? I don't need the boys outside sneaking a snack, especially with all these newcomers rolling in!"

"Can do!" Niamh replied, dropping the dish in her hands and pulling out her arms. She shook them a few times, then went over to a rack of clean tea towels. "Lyne, can ya thake over fer a momenth fer me?"

"Eh, wa nae?" said Lyne. "Fell's mingin' when something's it ay place, sae I'll spaur ye th' royal bitchin'."

"T'anks," said the Pavee, nodding with a smile. Niamh then made her way over to the freshly-made goods, grabbing a rolling pin as she did so. Other then being useful in flattening dough for use in cooking, they were also as effective as frying pans in smacking away the hands of greedy soldiers.

[⊕ Owen Pearson]

Owen sat in the dining hall, a large room which although amass with chatter a short time ago, had now almost completely emptied out. The few people who remained in the long rows of tables included: a few privates who were writing frantically off to one side, probably forced by a superior to write home, but really just hoping to get outside before all the spots are taken for whatever game was being played outside; a group that was constantly gambling, this time it appeared to be cards, but you could be sure that the whole group was placing bets, the ones who were playing along with the people watching; the few people who were cleaning up the room, mainly women who would otherwise work as cooks; and Owen.

In front of Owen, lying on the table, was a sketch coming together. The graphite lines were coming together one at a time as they formed into a scene that was going on nearby. It wasn’t the letter-writers, or the gamblers, or the cleaning people. He was drawing the group of women who were busily working away inside the kitchen, whom he could see through the serving counter that the soldiers would go by in a single file line to get their food. They were very interesting to draw as they did not know of the scribbles in Owen’s sketchbook and would just act naturally. This became his choice over the other possible subjects because of the great detail around them, the pots that hung from a rack on the ceiling, the lights that kept them from cutting anything they shouldn’t be, and the many personal touches that they had obviously added to the free spaces themselves.

He took another sip from the mug of coffee that sat just off his sketchbook, and set it back while the taste settled inside his mouth. It was such a vile drink; no wonder the British liked their tea. Although he could have been outside right now to soak up the last bits of sun as the other soldiers were, but he preferred the quaint space that he was in to draw in contrast to the lively football game that was taking place outside.

A large cheer came in from outside through an open window. One of the cleaning girls who could see out the window swooned. Owen held back his laughter knowing already who must have scored. It was so funny to watch the volunteers fall for him that the gamblers had already been making bets on who would be the first to get knocked up. Owen opted out of the pool of betting, but thought it was interesting what those soldiers were doing to try to improve their odds. The women were divided into three groups, the ones who were after Norris, the ones who didn’t want him, and the ones who already had someone. The first group was much larger than the other two.

After taking another sip of coffee, he went back down to the sketch coming together on the piece of paper. One of the cooks had moved to the window to watch over a cooling loaf of bread. The cook had her rolling pin in hand, ready to take out any of the men who tried to take it. Sadly for the men, this was enough to keep them off. The woman looked tough and could probably have taken out most of them without the rolling pin.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Whitney snorted, shaking her head at the swooning volunteer. Niamh's eyes flickered to the other woman, then to the mess hall beyond the serving area. Alanna Masterson, a woman from the Canadian Prairies, was gazing lovingly out the window at the men playing their game. She had been one of the first to fall was Norris, and was known for practicing her eye-fluttering when nobody was looking. Unbeknownst to the men, she also had a small shrine in her room dedicated to Charles Norris, and tended to by her and her bunkmates. Fell had discovered it under Alanna's bed during an inspection one day, although surprisingly, Fell hadn't done anything about it.

As Niamh's eyes flickered back to the loaf of bread, as well as the half-a-dozen buns beside it, Lyne began to talk again. "Ah wonder when Fell's gonnae crack doon oan th' Norris fans," said the Scotswoman. "Every time he walks by ur someain mentions heem, th' burds aw gang a bampot. Hoo can we gie wark dain when half ay uir force ur lovesick an' wantin' his attention? Ah mean, we coods hae tois mair burds in haur tae help, but nae - they got assigned tae helpin' th' aa crews. An' fa goes an' gi'es orders tae th' AA crews fur whit planes nae tae shet?"

"Norris?" asked Niamh. Whitney turned her head, and gave an assured, rapid nod.

"Norris! Bludy, bludy Norris! Ah bit ye they whined tae Feel, they did! She's a body tae dae anythin' tae gie someain tae haud yer weesht, ye hear?"

"I wouldn'th say t'at abouth Fell if I were you, Lyne," said Niamh, glancing out the window. A few Privates were coming a little too close to the window, and Niamh threw them a dark look. They immediately changed their route, moving away from the kitchens and the cooling bread within. "She's a force tho be reckoned wit' when she's angry. You should have seen her when she saw the shed; I mean, I thried tho thell her t'at Sthephen had egged t'at horse on - "

"Oi! Why's dare a buk in de bleedin' dishes?!"

Niamh halted as she was cut off, raising her eyebrows quizzically at Lyne's words. Sure enough, a slightly-moistened, small brown book was stuck between a couple of plates. Gently, Lyne moved the dishes back, and slid the book out from its hiding spot. Turning it over to its front cover, the woman's eyes found no title, so she flipped open to the first page.

"Joornal ay Own...no, Owen...Pareshon?" the woman read aloud. "What's thes daein' in uir dishes?"

"I'll thell you whath iths noth doin': bein' read," answered Niamh sternly. She immediately walked over and snatched the book out of Lyne's grasp, snapping the journal shut afterwards. Niamh then stuffed the book into one of her apron's three pockets, and went back over to the bread. "We don'th need tho invade someone's privacy now."

"Ah wasnae gonnae reid it!" argued Lyne. "Ah was jist curioos tae whit it was! Geez, calm doon a wee, Dunlevy...."

[⊕ Owen Pearson]

It wasn’t much longer before the drawing had reached its stopping point, a perfectly shaded perspective drawing showing women busily working away in an army kitchen. If the army saw it, guess what would be on their recruiting posters instead of the woman with the immensely gigantic biceps that was on there now. Owen finished off the last of the coffee as he closed the book.

Pilling his dishes on top of each other, he placed them on top of the book. He got out of the seat, simultaneously picking up the pile in his right hand and the bag in his left. Quickly, he brought the dishes to the window and set them down on the counter where they were instructed. He walked out of the dining place unknowing, a bag floating across the floor on his left, and his mind whirring with thoughts.

He made the choice to head outside and soak up the last moments of sun before the ever-approaching clouds pulled themselves on top of the fields. Taking a place on the porch of the building, he was just within the sun’s exposure on a comfortable bench. Seeing the football happening on the field, he thought that it would be a great time to include another sketchwork into the same book. It would provide a nice transition between the two pages.

Reaching into the bag gave a different choice to him at this time. The book wasn’t in there. He searched frantically, knowing that he had stuffed it in while he was in the dining room. The whole mood of thoughts in his mind had changed their courses, making finding this journal the most important thing on his mind. Owen got up from the bench and made his way to the dining hall in a panic.

Going into the dining hall, still much like the way that he had left it, he moved quickly to the table place that he had been sitting at to check if it he had dropped it there. Upon reaching that place, there was no journal within sight. Where could he check for the book? After a short moment of thought, he quickly went to the return area to ask about it. Upon reaching the window to the kitchen, he asked the nearest woman, “Has a book been turned in by anyone?”

[Niamh Dunlevy]

While Owen had been exiting the kitchen, heading for the porch outside to do a bit of drawing, Niamh was busy fixing up one of the kitchen's knick-knacks. It was a small pot of violets that Claudia Holmes had bought at a local florist's; violets were her favourite flower, and she often commented on having several pots of such back home. Although the watering of the flowers was supposed to be her responsibility, she was a busy woman, and the volunteers often did it for her. As a result, Claudia was a bit...easier on them then Fell, and for that, many were grateful. Fell was a good, stern leader, but she had a tendency to be a little too stern at times.

To get the amount of sunshine needed, the plants were kept up on a tall cupboard by another window, indirectly exposed to the sun. If one was to water them, they had to reach up, almost on their tip-toes. Carefully, Niamh wrapped her hand around the pot of the plant, her other gently holding a chipped mug of water. Tilting the mug, it took only a few seconds for the plant to be watered, and Niamh smiled approvingly. Placing the mug back down on the counter beside the cupboard, she turned to Lyne and said, "Lyne, t'is one needs washin'. I'mma goin' back o'er tho t'e bread."

"Aye aye!" barked Whitney, striding over to the counter and grabbing the mug, spinning on her heel and moving back over to the sink afterwards. Niamh strode over to the bread, grabbing the rolling pin where she had left it nearby. Another nod came as the Pavee assured herself the bread was safe - not even a crumb was missing. Punishment awaited those who stole food - the message was slowly being hammered into the men's heads, much to the women's satisfaction. The most recent (and creative) use of a cheese shredder to get the point across had definitely cut down on instances of stolen food.

Suddenly, a flustered soldier came up to the return counter, much haste in his step. Only an idiot wouldn't see that he was panicking. "Has a book been turned in by anyone?" he asked; the two women in the kitchen stopped what they were doing, and looked and smiled at him.

"Yup," said Niamh. "One was sthuck bethween thwo o' t'e dishes - I'm assumin' yer 'Owen Pareson'? Don'th worry, we didn'th read ith, Voluntheer Lyne o'er 'ere justh flipped ith open tho t'e firsth page. All t'ere was was a name."

"Yeah, a nam," said Lyne. "Niamh ower haur snatched it awa', sayin' Ah shooldnae reid it. Ah wasnae, anyways - jist curioos."

"'Ave ith back, lad," said the Pavee woman, moving over to the counter and pulling the journal out of her pocket. She tossed the thing at the man's face, a slightly mischievious twinkle in her eyes as she did so. "Buth ye mighth wanna investh in a lock o' some sorth if ya feel ith's gonna be violathed if ya misplace ith. Half t'e kithchen's normal sthaff are gossips."

[⊕ Owen Pearson]

OOC: Sorry it took so long. My muse finally snapped tonight! ;D

Owen stood waiting for an answer at the counter of the kitchen. By the looks of it, he had asked the women who was in charge in the workplace, a lucky move by the looks of some of the women who were gazing longingly out the window. The woman had just come back from the window where a loaf of bread was waiting likely tempting the greedy hands of the soldiers below.

Wait a second, he remembered this woman. She was the one who had almost taken down three of the men by herself, armed only with a humble cheese grater, due to an instance of taking a few crumbs of blueberry pie from the same windowsill. Now, two of the soldiers have taken up a lengthy stay within the close views of the doctors, while the other went AWOL due to fear of eating in the cafeteria. Owen still found it quite humorous how the girls in the kitchen would taunt the last one, making it understood why he would have run off.

Two of the women, one of which he had addressed, within listening distance had turned towards the counter where Owen stood with two large grins on their face--there would have been three, but there probably weren’t enough teeth to go around. Now they both were watching intently on the conversation between the two who stood at the counter. Owen couldn’t figure out whether they were wondering about the woman’s reaction to the situation or his own reaction to it.

The woman at the counter finally talked, saying "Yup.” the woman took a brief pause as a sense of relief washed over Owen’s face. The woman continued on, "One was sthuck bethween thwo o' t'e dishes - I'm assumin' yer 'Owen Pareson'?” Another pause, he decided to take it to answer the question. “Yes, tha-” She cut him off, “Don'th worry, we didn'th read ith, Voluntheer Lyne o'er 'ere justh flipped ith open tho t'e firsth page. All t'ere was was a name." The woman motioned towards one of the other woman in the kitchen.

Owen started to state his appreciation, “Oh, yes, than-“, but was cut off by this new woman, Lyne, who said, in a dialect surprisingly more confusing than that of the first woman, "Yeah, a nam,” Lyne motioned toward the woman he was talking to, “Niamh ower haur snatched it awa', sayin' Ah shooldnae reid it. Ah wasnae, anyways - jist curioos." The woman looked much sorrier near the end. He had a feeling that she was trying to convince him to show it to her by looking so upset that she couldn’t look.

Before Owen could respond to Lyne, the main person in the kitchen, Niamh, cut in, pulling the tattered journal out of a large pocket, the doodles on the front showing towards him. She threw the Journal threw the air carelessly saying, "'Ave ith back, lad." He was able to catch it by sandwiching it between his palms before it hit him square in the left eye. The elaborate arboreal leaves he had drawn on the spine were less than an inch from his nose. If he had been in the army for only slightly less time, he wouldn’t have caught it. Owen grinned slightly seeing the mischievous look in Niamh’s eyes that said sarcastically, It couldn’t have been me, I’m just a weak and futile woman.

She continued, likely upset in seeing that her actions had not blinded the man, "Buth ye mighth wanna investh in a lock o' some sorth if ya feel ith's gonna be violathed if ya misplace ith. Half t'e kithchen's normal sthaff are gossips." He brought down the notebook, and held it, balancing it with one hand, holding it by its end to the table, waiting a moment to see if she would continue on with her conversation.

The woman didn’t continue, or at least was waiting for him to speak so that she could ruin his attempts again by interrupting. Owen decided to go on himself and said, “It’s just a bunch of worthless drawings.” He opened the notebook and leafed through the pages in the direction of the women. “I don’t understand why I keep all of them, half of them are utterly pointless.” Realizing how grateful he was to have it back anyways, he continued with an offer, “Either way, is there something I could do to repay you two for getting it back to me. I must thank you for giving it back so generously.”

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Good things came to an honest man - or in this case, an honest woman. The man was offering his help in return for a journal given back, which caused Niamh and Whitney to look at each other. Grins spread across their faces as they looked back at Owen, and Niamh motioned with her head.

"Oi, come 'round back, lad," said the Pavee, "and 'elp Whithney wit' t'e dishes. T'ey're one o' t'e mosth thime-consumin' chores in t'is enthire base, and ith's only 'cause half o' t'e lads 'ere seem tho use more dishes t'en whath is sane. If you're good, we'll give ye a biscuith, sthraighth from t'e oven. WHITHNEY!"

"Och aye, ma'am?" replied the Scotswoman, turning and standing at attention with dripping fingers and wrists.

"Pile t'e resth o' t'e dishes intho t'e sink an' check on 'ow t'at pie fer t'e Officer's Mess is doin'. I 'ear we've goth quithe a number o' lads wit' quithe t'e appethithe on t'eir way, an' we'll be not'in' buth banjaxed if we don'th keep an eye on t'e goods!"

"Yoo've got it, Nivvy!" chirped Whitney, whipping off a salute with a chuckle and hurrying over to the oven in the corner. Niamh nodded at her, then bent down and undid the latch on the special "countertop door" that flipped upwards, like in a bar. Fell had installed it herself to stop people from hopping over the countertop; it needed to remain clean so food could be safely prepared. Always a neat freak, never one to leave a potential hazard be, Sally Fell's strictness could sometimes be a godsend, even though it could make her seem unbearable.

"All righth, here's t'e deal. Don'th sample anyt'ing, don'th make off wit' any of t'e decorathions, and wash yer hands in t'e basin in t'e corner. If Fell comes back, I'll thell her we said ye can 'elp. Like I said, if ye are good, I'll give ye a biscuith tho nibble on. How does t'at sound tho ye?"

[Edward"Butcher"McMillan]

BOO-YA!

Dunlevy - 7CP

Pearson - 6CP

-JT