Preston Child - The Fountain of Youth

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, her right hand barely keeping even enough not to spill the coffee from the cup she was holding.

Nina exhaled and slammed her red biro down on the papers under her hands. “No, Gertie, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. The light just stings like hell.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Of course it does. I feel like a right idiot,” the forty-year-old assistant apologized. “But here is a nice cuppa for you, if that could in any way afford me forgiveness.”

“Blessings!” Nina replied with a smile, thankful that she had something to wash down the awful dryness in her throat.

She was sitting in the small office adjacent to the library archives of St. Vincent’s Academy of History and Science in Hook, Hampshire. It was a modest institution — one of those she’d sworn she would not revert to — in the Hart district, where an old colleague used to teach in the late 90s. When the board of directors decided to change the nature of the establishment a few months before, they’d restructured the faculty to only three permanent lecturers. These they incorporated with several visiting professors and teachers to bring the college more diverse and interesting tutors.

Under the main library building, the Scottish history expert decided to make her home in the deserted chamber of dust and darkness. Not only were her eyes deteriorating and sharp light was out of the question, but she also enjoyed the absolute privacy of the location. It was a welcome change out of the harsh spotlight, not to mention a well-earned break from being in hazardous situations.

“So, how are they doing?” Gertrud asked as her eyes combed the scribbled writing and typed submissions in front of the visiting lecturer.

“Not bad, actually,” Nina replied, sipping her coffee. “I think they grasp most of the subject in context, but some of them are entirely too preoccupied with politics in their theses.”

“I suppose it’s all about influence.” Gertrud pursed her lips and shrugged.

“How do you mean?” Nina asked.

“Surprisingly, most of the students at this institution are not from here. In fact, they come from all over England. Many of them are sent here by their families, and those families all have one thing in common…more than just being wealthy land owners, that is.”

“Do tell,” Nina implored, minding her lips on the scalding beverage.

“Well, I’ve just always found it peculiar how a lot of them happen to be of German origin — I mean, contemporary German origin. At least as far as the students studying sciences here are concerned. It’s not so true of the history students. Why would they bother sending them to a little, godforsaken school in the English countryside if they could be educated by the most prominent universities in Europe, right?”

“I suppose,” Nina said. “But perhaps, like me, they just thought it would be less stressful to be away from distractions and better for academic focus to have a more personalized education out here.”

“Perhaps. I just think their families have some sort of influence over them to get them to study in avenues they normally wouldn’t care much for,” Gertrud answered.

“Are these families rooted in politics, then?” Nina asked.

“Most, yes. I could be way off, but I think it could be the reason your students are more politically orientated, you know? Just rapping it off here. I’m not an expert or anything,” she chuckled. “Let me leave you to your work. I have some research to finish for Prof. Hartley, anyway.”

“Alright,” Nina smiled. “Thanks for the lovely coffee!”

Gertrud walked into the brighter light of the landing that led to the stairwell and gave Nina a jovial wave as she vanished around the doorway. Suddenly Nina felt utterly lonely. She chalked it up to the illness spreading through her body, influencing her psyche. She tilted the green mug where her coffee barely filled the bottom.

“Shit,” she murmured. A break would be welcome, but she felt reluctant to brave the light and the obligatory greetings and small talk on her way to the kitchen. The thought of fake-smiling and clenching her fists to get through trivialities she was not in the mood for was too much to bear to leave the secluded tomb of her students’ clumsy efforts. The dark, once her enemy in the subterranean tunnels of the Ukraine, had now become her ally and she did not want to leave it — not even for coffee.

Eventually her lack of concentration won the joust and Nina stood up to refill her cup. Her chest itched and she scratched, involuntarily igniting a coughing fit that had her rib cage constricting so intensely that she collapsed to her knees. With every expulsion, her back stung as if punctured by a railroad spike and her throat burned from the effort. Much as she tried to keep it down, her coughing came out loudly in the dead silence of the basement area.

When she eventually regained her composure, Nina’s eyes were watering profusely. The stabbing pain in back persisted and her chest was still heaving in an effort to catch her breath. The pounding headache that ensued was only worsening and she thought to take a headache pill with her fresh cup.

“Fuck me,” she panted, clearing her throat to get her voice back. Her body ached, but she perked up to look as normal as possible when she left the dark, tiny office. Along the steps ran an old wooden balustrade, winding along upward to the ground floor where the stained glass windows shed a plethora of colors at her feet.

Muttering voices came within earshot as Nina tiptoed to the kitchen at the end of the passage. As she drew nearer to where the kettle beckoned, the voices became clearer. Two women were speaking in hushed tones, but Nina’s hearing had become exceedingly better since her sight had begun to wane and she could hear the words, though she could not place the subject.

“He’s out of his mind if he thinks I’m going run those records for him again,” the older lady argued.

“You have to. It’s your duty as department head, Christa, to do research for the Dean. This is something important. It was the saving grace of so many children over the years and you owe it to…” the other woman tried to reason, but the first snapped her to silence.

“I owe nothing to the legacy of a bloody Kraut and his twisted regime, Clara! My allegiance is to my husband, not his mother.”

Nina had to come in for her coffee, so she pretended to be oblivious to the conversation. Even so, upon sight of her both women fell silent and nodded to her in mock tolerance.

Aye. There it is, that lovely fake amity I’ve come to love around here, Nina thought to herself as the two women smiled kindly at her.

“Good day, Dr. Gould,” Mrs. Clara Rutherford greeted, prompting her colleague with her eyes.

“How are you getting on here at our little establishment, dear Nina?” Dr. Christa Smith asked, dunking her tea bag into her cup.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Nina said mildly, trying to urge the kettle to boil the water faster than what science allowed. “So far it is very pleasant, thank you.”

“I trust you don’t find our curriculum too primitive, what with your extensive travels and, well let’s just say it, celebrity,” Christa said in questionable jest.

Clara lightly slapped her on the hand. “I’m sure Dr. Gould does not appreciate all the unwanted attention, Christa. Am I right, Nina? I’m sure I would loathe all that public attention myself, even if I was responsible for so many successful explorations of historical value.”

“Hardly a celebrity, Dr. Smith,” Nina said softly. Having done her homework on the establishment before accepting the invitation from Smith as a visiting lecturer, she knew that Clara was Smith’s lapdog. She’d never finished her doctorate and thus deemed herself lesser than the charismatic chairperson of St. Vincent’s Academy of History and Science.