I'd designated one of the former sitting rooms that now served as a Hutch workroom to be where we would carry out the interviews and decision making process for filling Mr Stevenson's request for a bookkeeper in his printing establishment.  Arriving there early the next morning, all smiles and tingles at the prospect of finally getting one of our most difficult to place men an enviably good position, I was surprised to see Pritchard sitting alone in the room, his lips pressed together and eyes wide with worry.

My heart stopped.  

"What is it? What's happened?" I asked, praying I wasn't going to be met with another disaster the moment I'd come crawling back out into the daylight. I reached out and placed my hand on the door jam for support.

Pritchard shook his head. "No applications. None of the-the men want the job."

"What?"

He shrugged helplessly.

It only took seconds for the fear to turn into anger. Fierce, face-flushing anger. 

"Why the bloody hell not? Have they no idea what a godsend that position is? How many people do they think are out there willing to employ a man in a wheelchair?" 

Pritchard stuffed his hands in his pockets and started to rock a little bit back and forth. I knew I had to mind distressing him too much, but the anger was seething to the surface so quickly I could barely reign myself in. If I stayed there any longer, I'd explode at the poor man and what would that bring us? 

"Fetch them. All of them. I want to see them in here as quickly as possible. I don't care what they're doing,  they're all to report here."  I turned around and left, barely hearing Pritchard's yes ma'am as I made my way to the side door.  

The sun was out, the back garden basking in spring light and warmth. I hardly noticed. My feet took me to the vegetable garden where a few men were working, hunched between the rows pulling weeds. I paid them no mind as I walked rapidly along the stone-slab walkways, focused entirely on what I was going to say to the men.

Cowards! They had no inclination to leave the warm cocoon I'd created for them. Going back out into the world was too frightening of a prospect! London! Terrifying! How dare they turn down such a good opportunity! I'd thought giving them an extra day to think things over would have allowed them time to get over their initial surprise and hesitation to the idea of re-entering the job market. Obviously, I'd thought wrong.

Chewing on the side of my thumb, I walked round and round the vegetable garden. How was I going to get them to take that step forward? Push their chairs all the way up to London myself? Mostly likely. James said that I could kick a mule to death and perhaps that's what I would have to do here. Kick as low and as painfully as I could. If the carrot didn't work then the whip would have to, wouldn't it?

One of them would have to take that position, even if we had to throw a sack over his head and trundle him up there strapped to the top of the car like a piece of luggage.

I thought I heard my name being called but had my mind so much on the men whose heads I was going to knock together that I didn't register it until I was out of the garden again and charging back towards the Hutch.  Whatever it was, it wasn't my priority at that moment.

Pritchard had done what he was told and the men were assembled in the workroom,  wheelchairs parked haphazardly around the central table. I stood rooted just inside the doorway with my hands on my hips, glaring at them. 

They all kept their heads ducked and refused to look me in the eye, finding the carpet or their own laps more interesting. None of them made a sound. 

I was still so angry, I just might have been shaking.  

"I've been informed that none of you want Mr Stevenson's generous offer. Is that true?" 

Silence.

"Well? A good job with an accommodating employer and every last one of you are turning your nose up at it? What kind of a showing is that from Cloud Hill men? You do know you are crippled, don't you? You haven't forgotten, by any chance? Let me tell you, there isn't a massively long queue of employers out there begging to take a man who can't even get up a simple flight of stairs because he's got no damned legs."

Except for Fitzroy who was nervously tapping a pencil against his fingers, none of them moved even a hair's breadth. They just sat there, still as statues while I berated them.    

"Splendid. Really splendid. I'm truly impressed." 

I glared at them for a few moments, waiting for one of them to protest.

Come on, say something. Fight back. Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me it's not what I think it is.

Silence. 

Have it your way. Here comes the whip.  

"We must fill this position. That means one of you will be going. But to determine who that will be,  I want each of you to think of reasons why this position should not go to you.  I want to know why you are the most incompetent man here and are an utter disgrace to this program. I want to hear it. I want to hear exactly what useless pieces of work I've been housing and training for so long. You've got two hours." 

I stalked out, leaving the basket toad brigade to stew in their own juices and marched down down the hallway to the office. The loud clacking I could hear through the closed door told me Pritchard was typing up letters. Probably in an attempt to drown out what I had to say to the others. I opened the door and went in. 

The relentless banging of the typewriter was enough to drive anyone to distraction, but I found Morris waiting patiently inside, sitting in the chair my the window I normally occupied when I had written work to do. 

He was in causal shirtsleeves and suspenders, but still had heavy bags under his eyes and looked dead tired. I considered sending him back to bed for a moment, but discarded the idea. He was already there and I needed an opinion as quickly as I could get one if I were not to lose confidence and sink back down into numbing inactivity. 

I had to be pushed forward, too, despite myself. Here comes the whip.

Morris stood up when he saw me, a smile on his face. "Good morning, Mi. . . Miss."  His eyes caught on the bruises on my face and he stumbled with his words for a moment. I'd not put on any cosmetics even knowing how quickly news spread. The men would bring how James and I looked together quickly enough. 

"Good morning." I gestured for him to follow me and we went across the hall to one of the smaller archive rooms that had possibly once been a dressing room. It was packed to the gills with file cases and binders but at least it would be somewhat quieter than in the office with Pritchard banging away at the typewriter.

My anger was still at a low boil but I forced myself to forget about it in favour of the matter at hand.  Morris was still examining my face with an expression stuck somewhere between disbelief and unease. I'd have to take care of that first, it seemed. 

"Tell me, is there perhaps a man in the Infirmary who looks just as bad?"

Morris stared at me for a few seconds before he said, "Davis looks a right. . ." and then his eyebrows shot up in understanding and surprise. "Davis, Miss?"

"You can tell the men he's had his lathering. They can call off whatever they were planning." I pulled a chair out from against the wall, and sat down. Morris pulled out a chair for himself and sat. He was grinning now. 

"Sykes thinks he got into a punch up down in one of the village pubs. Chewed his ear off for razzing the locals. Wait till he hears this. He'll go off his head!"

"Really? Well, you can set them straight if Davis hasn't already."

Morris shook his head, still grinning from ear to ear. "He's not said a word. You really gave him his lathering, Miss? Really? He looks a right mess. Knocked him about good, you did!" 

"Yes, Morris, I did. Now, can we get on with business?" 

He nodded, but couldn't quite manage to keep the grin off his face and the twinkle of amusement out of his eyes. 

"How much do you know about running a shop? Selling to shops, that we know you do well. But could you run one?"

His eyebrows shot up. "Run one? Oh, in a pinch, I'm sure I could. My uncle was a haberdasher. Had his own shop until shortly before the war. From him I know what I know about selling, but it's not something I'd want to do permanently. I prefer the road, me." 

"Of course. I've come up with some new ideas for Field Rabbit, but I lack the knowledge to know if they are practical or even sound. Spare me a few minutes and tell me what you think. You've seen the lay of the land and talked with people. I haven't. "

I told him about the best of my ideas: a sweets shop in London. Not only featuring our line of hard candy, but also offering cakes and several baked goods that we would make on premises. 

Morris tilted his head back and pursed his lips. "The idea is to employ ourselves and not wait about in the hopes of tripping over several more Mr Stevensons, then? Take our products straight to the customer and cash up the profit?" 

"Exactly. If established business won't provide employ, we'll damned well have to provide it ourselves.  We might still be able to find a vacant position here and there, but yes, that's the idea."

Morris rubbed his chin and observed the ceiling. Finally he said, "Why stop at London? Why not have several shops in different towns? I've seen that some greengrocers and emporiums are doing just that in the larger towns. The same shop with the same name in different locations, like. I've heard it said that's the way of the future, but as of yet, very few are doing it."

I hadn't thought of that, even though I'd seen two of the Woolworths emporiums up in London myself. The idea was fast taking hold in America, but only starting to be known here. I'd been focusing where I thought there might be the biggest potential, but Morris was right. Why not elsewhere, too? 

"And it's good to keep the men, together," Morris went on. "Likes of us, well, one of the best things about Cloud Hill is that we're all crippled here. Even the ones that don't look it on the outside. Makes a man feel like he's with his equals and not like a one-armed man in a world full of two armed men." He lifted his stump and smiled. "For some of us, that's much harder than for others."

Yes. It was, indeed. I thought I'd recently seen a room full of men for whom it was much, much harder.

"So, you'll help me, Morris? And more importantly, help me find others who'll help us set up this new venture? It's worth a shot, you think? As a salesman?"

He looked surprised. "Of course I'll help, Miss! Why wouldn't I? I want to see us all get into the workforce and be a success as much as you do. Get our lives back, like you keep telling us. And why not try to launch a shop under our own banner, as it were? I see no reason why it wouldn't work."

About an hour later, Morris left to go back to the Infirmary and rest.  We'd come up with a strategy for "The London Project" as we were calling it. We had decided on a first shop there and if it was successful, then branching out.  He'd agreed to accompany Stevenson's new man up to town and start scouting for locations as quickly as possible. I wanted to get the venture up and running by autumn and Morris was already turning cartwheels at the prospect of being stationed in London for that long. 

I didn't blame him. 

I stood up and stretched, my bruised arms and torso complaining loudly, then consulted my wristlet. It was time to return to the stubborn basket toads. 

Now that I had a plan ready to go into action, I felt much calmer as I walked down the hallway, interested to see what I would find waiting for me.