Mrs Oliver's Interview

I was surprised to be invited to the interview, not least because I hadn't applied for the job.

Normally, it took place in the person's home. The parents could better assess whether I was a good fit for their household, and at some point, they would shepherd in their little darlings to meet me. This one seemed to be taking place in an office. Perhaps it was an agency.

I'd been signed up to a few agencies in my time (all reputable, of course) but this most assuredly wasn't one of them. In any case, my enrolment with them had lapsed one after another, and my insurance and so on would run out soon, as well.

I was on the verge of retirement. I'd put it off, and put it off, as so many of us do. At last, it was time to let these things wind down, and allow myself to be ushered into a quieter, slower life. I wanted to tend my garden, and visit my son and grandchildren in Australia.

And then this letter dropped through my door and I thought, Why not after all? One last job, as they say. Anyway, it couldn't hurt to look.

The typo in the job title irked me (he means "live-in", surely), and I itched to reach for my trusty purple pen.

The morning of my interview arrived. I wore smart, comfortable clothes, moved my sundries into my better handbag, and caught the bus into town.

I stared up at a tall but seedy-looking office block. My first thought was that an agency that would set up shop here wouldn't be putting my name on its books!

Curiosity is a powerful motivator for me, which is a nice way of saying I'm a nosy old biddy, so I set my jaw and went inside. The lift didn't work, obviously. Knees clicking, I made my way up the dusty stairwell.

I paused on the fourth floor because my heart was galloping, and again on the sixth, because I was feeling a little clammy. It wouldn't do to attend an interview with sweat patches.

Pulling the letter out of my bag, I checked the address. It was rather fancy, actually. Thick paper that was nearly card, and big looping letters across the top. Floor seven. Only one more to go. I'd be damned if I turn back now, after this effort.

At the top, I found a seemingly deserted corridor. It was gloomy, and cramped, and seemed to get more so the further down it I went. Right at the end, I found the place. A piece of card had been pinned to the door confirming the address, but no business name.

Hmph! I thought.

Should I knock? I drew myself up to my full five feet one inch, pushed the door, and put my best foot forward.

It was a poky little space, more a cupboard than a room. When I got that fancy letter, I'd expected a bright and spacious office with dark, shiny furnishings, overlooking the sweeping high street. Not this windowless little shoebox at the (excuse me) arse-end of the building. With a filing cabinet apparently made of cobwebs and a couple of mismatched chairs.

An older gentleman was hunched over the rickety desk, peering at papers. I'm afraid that is as much as I can tell you about him.

"Pardon me," I said, "I'm looking for Mr Reaper."

The figure held up a thin finger, and gestured to a seat.

As I sank onto it, I was surprised to find myself not at all impatient to have his attention. He could've continued perusing his papers until the end of the world without looking at me even once, and I'd have sat there, not very comfortable, but still grateful to escape his notice.

Unfortunately, after hardly any time at all, he put the paper down, and turned his gaze on me.

"Mrs Oliver?" he said, and I gulped, my bowels trembling.

It was the strangest interview I ever attended, but I did my best to acquit myself. Even though I found myself near frightened out of my wits at first. Of course, at this point I still had no intention of taking the job, but one must do one's best. Self-respect and all that.

He didn't so much ask questions as state facts about my life and pause for a cursory confirmation from me. I must say, he'd done a thorough background check. He knew I'd originally trained as a schoolteacher, specialising in English, and after I'd had my own children I'd retrained as a nurse. He knew I'd only been arrested once, for a protest against the war. But he also knew I had very little family left living; only my son and grandchildren remained.

He asked whether I'd spend my retirement with them.

"The climate wouldn't suit me," I said firmly.

"You have impeccable references," he murmured, rustling through the papers again. I liked that. Not at the beck and call of some gadget like everyone else these days. He was speaking again...

"...and you are aware there are some light housekeeping duties required. Only as pertains to the child, of course."

"Of course," I said politely.

He tapped the paper in his hand with the back of one finger.

"Your experience as a teacher will be valuable. She may benefit from some tutoring."

I made more agreeable noises. I felt him stare at me, and diverted with sudden cold.

"You haven't been to the doctor's recently."

"I'm as fit as a fiddle, young man," I said severely, lifting my chin.

"You are not," he countered. "By my calculations, you have eleven months. It will be your heart, in the end."

I gaped at him. What a preposterous thing to say! And the gall of him, to say it with such certainty.

"You had better come with me," he said, and I thought, Not on your life!

But then my body got up, and my feet strode after him, and my brain, I'm afraid, was barely involved. Except to remember that I am, after all, a nosy old biddy. I wanted to know how he thought he knew this, and who he thought he was, anyway. So I followed him back out into the corridor, and accepted his cold hand to help me up on the back of his pale horse.

That's funny, I thought, There definitely wasn't a horse there when I arrived. How did it get up the stairs? How did it turn 'round?

The shabby corridor lengthened and darkened ahead of us, and then dissolved into mist.

~

When the mist mostly melted away (it never dissolved completely), we were on a long, swooping driveway. The horse didn't change his pace at all. He just kept going with smooth strides and hardly an ear-flick to acknowledge the world having shifted around him.

The house seemed a long way in the distance. Goodness, I thought, My bottom is going to hate me tomorrow.

A blink later, and the house loomed over us; we'd have been right in its shadow, if there'd been any sun. The gentleman dismounted, and helped me down.

He patted the beast on the neck, murmuring softly, then led me through a grand front door which he didn't bother to unlock. The horse stood as if tied, waiting patiently for his return.

Somehow, it was easier to look at the gentlemen here, in his own place.I still couldn't tell you what he looked like, though, because he was wearing a long, black, hooded robe. It should have been creepy, but it was too bizarre, and following so many other odd things.

Besides, he patted his horse.

He escorted me to a sitting room, which was decorated in dark green, black, and silver. A heartbeat later, he was coming back through the door with the small child in tow. She looked to be about three, and appeared perfectly normal. Which is to say, she looked entirely out of place here.

It took a moment to realise the gentleman had pushed back his cowl to reveal a skull, but again, I accepted this as another surreal thing in a string of surreal things. It was almost as if I should have expected it all along. The girl was clutching at the skeletal hand as if this was normal. She was perfectly unafraid of him. Of course, such little ones often are.

The claim that I only had eleven months to live seemed more credible, now.

"This is Lucia," the gentleman said, giving the little shoulder a paternal squeeze. "Lucia, this is Mrs. Oliver. I'll let you two get acquainted, while I see to the horse."

~

I accepted the job. There's no Time here, you see, except what he allows for Liori to grow. That's why things can be so disjointed, at times; why the long ride to the front door can take a single breath, or he leaves for a Call-out and is back when you look again. Normal human intervals just get left out.

I come back to the world to see my family twice a year. A few days at Christmas, and a longer stay over the summer. Sometimes I pop back for groceries, too, and the things Liori needs, and each time I call Aaron and ask after the little ones.

Some years ago, I convinced Mr. Reaper to hire a stableboy, and send him on errands like that instead of me. I still go occasionally, of course, and make my phone call... but I hoard my Time more carefully, now.

In this way, we spool out my lifetime over several years, instead of a handful of months. At first, I measured my Time in weeks, and then in days. Soon it will be hours, and I am not quite done yet. I want to see my grandchildren grown, and of course I'm the only mother Liori has ever known. If I'm not frugal with what I have left, she will be barely seventeen when the gentleman claims me at last; a cruel time for a young lady to lose a mother figure.

Is there ever a good Time?

I'll put it off, and put it off, like we all do when it comes down to it. But when the Time comes, at least I won't be frightened. Not now that we've become acquainted. And after all, you remember, he patted the horse.

This is my second entry to RMS' challenge: An Encounter With Death, which you can read about here:

I haven't yet decided which every will be my official one.