IVORY AND INK

By Stacy Graven

It's 1964.

Evie Jernig, a Welsh botanist with stationery and a heart broken by royalty at a fountain.

Max Dash McGuire, a sleep-deprived medical student at Oxford with a God-given intellect who finds joy in lemon drops and an inkwell despite circumstance.

As happenstance would have it, a colleague of Evie's, Dr. Feldane, encourages Evie to attend Oxford for a doctorate that could heal her heart with knowledge overflowing. Yet she is left with a late ferry, wrong room number, a garden, lots of walnuts, telephone booths, and a twelve-year-old postal carrier in an England fruit market with more wisdom than she imagined.

"One of those yet to be found," he says, as he walks away into the crowd.

Will Evie find what she is looking for? Will Max?

Through journal entries, a diner, letters, forty-one months, class, a housekeeper with no last name, an artistic grandmother, an uncle who survived polio, and students with an aptitude for studying and laughter, will they come together as they look to God for help? Or will they be torn apart under pressure?

Dreams, faith, friendships, records, and a garden may be just what the doctor ordered.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885407519

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IVORY AND INK

Stacy Graven

ISBN 979-8-88540-750-2 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88540-751-9 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by Stacy Graven

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Part 2

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

About the Author

For Marsha

Prologue

Oxford University

April 17, 1964

I took the MCAT today. Steely gray glares from Professor Finnegan helped nothing. Every time he opened his silver pocket watch as he walked by then closed it with an abrupt click made me die a little more inside. Pencil tapping from the other exam participants helped nothing either. But, I'm still alive. At least I think so. My hands don't look like a ghost.

Nonetheless, I digress. Certainly God gave us brains that could discern whether or not we are ghosts or whether or not our hands have the pallor for it. I prefer the latter. Not. And, of course, I am thankful to our Master for that. Becoming a doctor has been at the forefront of my mind since Isabelle fell down the staircase at Ruemington's two-story delectable cottage nestled in a mix of oak and willow trees along the outskirts of Herefordshire several years ago. Drastic, really. Yet, I have come to terms with it. It'd be a shame if I fell short this far along in the process.

But, again, I allow the pencil to get away from me. It is no small feat to dip it into this deplorable inkwell. One day, I'll abandon the venture and use a regular pen. Ballpoint. Perhaps, I'm too old-fashioned for that.

Anyway, I must finish this so I can traverse the halls of the library a stone's throw away from where I now sit. I have many, many plain-covered books to check out and study. Hopefully, there is at least one with a red- or maroon-colored cover. It takes the boredom out of the hundreds of black and white pages between it. Plus, maroon is my favorite color.

So long for now.

Max Dash Mcguire

*****

Bodnant Garden, Wales

April 17, 1964

I have just found a shady position on a patch of lawn. I can't imagine why anyone would ever leave this place and why my ancestors decided England and America were their homes! Wales is my home, especially this garden. Purple shades of orchid, lavender, and a darkened magenta dance in my peripheries as I now write. Botany was always the right choice. If anyone asks, the story about being born in a meadow of sun-kissed, orange wildflowers, it's true. Nobody, not even Helena Jernig, my crazy great-grandmother, could ever deny it. She witnessed the event with her own two eyes. I, unfortunately, am too young to remember it. Pah, what a shame. One minute old and incapable of capturing memories. Well, I suppose God intended it that way. Maybe one day I'll be able to ask Him.

Perhaps, I interrupt myself more than I ought in these entries. As I was saying before, studying in this place has put a damper on my dampers. I am a darned ray of sunshine, I am! Just ask my colleague, PhD Dr. Feldane, she is quite the character. She takes the plant life seriously and I intend to be like her.

Unfortunately, I must close this entry earlier than expected as some gray clouds have gathered slowly over the course of my writings and eat the sandwich that Meredith made for me this morning. She is an indelible chef. I hope I never have to replace her.

I'll write again soon, my dear paged friend.

As the Welsh say, Hwyl.

Goodbye.

Evie Jernig

Part 1

Chapter 1

Evie Jernig

Cardiff, Wales

August 1, 1964

When the trees speak, you'd expect there to be voices, but no voice is able to communicate what they intend to say. Brain chemistry is an interesting thing. The mug at the cusp of life in front of me steamed, creating a vesicle of leaf veins twirling to life in the air. I used a silver spoon from Helena's old varnished set to stir it while I thought on Sir Alastaire. Nothing is quite what it is made out to be. Fortunately, the trees provide me the comfort that God gave them to give to passersby who might need cheering up. For, I certainly did. That's why I had decided to study them, and yet, here I was in the courtyard of Helena's mansion dreaming of a man that would never be mine. Ever. The last encounter seemed to declare that.

Evie, listen to me. We've already discussed this. Remember? I have to go away and marry in royalty. It doesn't mean I love you any less.

I sat on a teal bench with my hands folded in my lap while I stared at the line of palm trees in front of the hill of architectural mastery. A white dome grew above gray rock crags and a zigzagging pathway interrupted it. Red roofs dotted my vision. Welsh turrets looking like fingers reached up to the sky, asking God for attention. Green bushes hugged the front of buildings on the edge of the hilly cobblestone streets. The cerulean water fountain annoyed me as I heard the splash of old rusted coins plop to the little tiles, never to be recovered.

Looking at Sir Alastaire's eyes sparkling like chocolate ice, I said, And that's why I have a serious problem. Why is it that you have to follow such cultural protocols? You were the person I chose. Why did you all of the sudden change your mind?

This place, Portmeirion, no longer carried that delectable European Disneyland that everyone was talking about. It felt more like Portprisione. Alcatraz. Jail. Work. Whatever place you like to be the least, that's what I was feeling. That's where I was.

Alastaire's crisp tenor voice nearly sang as he continued, Evie, would I ask you to give up Catholicism? Or God?

Oh, he'd pulled the religion card again. That's usually what the conversation came down to. An elderly lady with a walker, socks and sandals, periwinkle hair, and a handbag with the Eiffel tower on it paused long enough to scoff at Prince Alastaire. Charles. Charlie boy. That's what he liked the least, so he will remain to be called. At least when I was fuming angry. However, fuming is relative.

Nonetheless, I stood from the bench and yanked the simple single-banded opal ring from my finger. Well, then why on earth did you buy this blasted thing for me, Charley?

Actually, can I have that back? I'm going to give it to the king's daughter, Princess Melody.

Does that mean your feelings are recyclable?

The elderly lady was moving slower than I thought she had been. She pointed a shaking arthritic finger our way and said with a quivering voice, My little darlings, I will shut you up, I will. Squibble, squabble. That's all young people do all day long, I swear.

She shook her head mumbling in Welsh as she passed a figurine of a tortoise. The scales on the back were painted a mariner green, reminding me of the existence of sea turtles.

Boy, how my story telling gets away from me sometimes. Needless details, I know, but that's how I saw it. At least that was a pleasant memory from Portprisione. One day I might be able to call it its real name again, but that might take a long while. Forty-one months is a long time to be connected to someone. Granted it isn't thirteen years, but sometimes three years and five months might as well be an eternity. So, I shall continue.

Coins glittered at the bottom of the fountain as blue as chemical dye, yet it was pure. As pure as the impurity of the symbolism of my ring. Nobody believed me about the whole thing anyhow. Sir Alastaire had a palm spreading across the shoulder blade on my back. I'm sorry, Evie. This isn't how I wanted this to go. I thought I could forgo the social protocols.

My eyes glazed over, looking as glossy as Helena's donuts she used to make. I'd never take it away from you. Now please, go. Go in peace, Prince Charles Alastaire. We are okay. Please, go in peace.

The back of his tanned hand, the same size as my appetizer plates, grazed my cheek as he looked over his rounded shoulder. His jaw ran as parallel as the rungs of a ladder. Unfair. Biting his ChapStick-covered rose-colored lips, he blinked before he turned his head to face the gray cobblestones alone.

You're sure you won't come with me?

His voice sounded like the crystals of ice I found on the outer surface of a carton of ice cream. I mean, well, icy.

I dropped the opal ring in the rippling fountain and watched as it shimmered purple, swirling a few inches slowly to the tiny tiles.

Alastaire, it isn't like that. Not anymore. I give you the rest of my peace one more time.

He tucked his hands in the pockets of his khakis, and I heard the light clack of his Perry Ellis Christian shoes for the last time. Or what I thought would be the last time. Unfortunately, I had to see them on the evening news once in a while as they tracked him and Queen Melody's life and reign.

I was just poking at the plate of glazed donuts, still warm, that Meredith had made for me per Helena's recipe when I heard Meredith's melodic voice call out my name, bringing me from my somber self-deprecating moment.

Evie darling, Dr. Feldane is here! She's carrying a box of leaves. Should I take a message, or will you see her now?

Stuffing one of the donuts in my mouth on an impulse of frustration, I stammered, I'll see her now! Although it probably sounded nothing like that, Meredith seemed to understand.

People, I wasn't so sure I could handle, but a box of leaves? I could almost guarantee I could see this box of so-called leaves that Meredith was talking about. Even Dr. Feldane would provide a momentary solace. She was always so analytical and into the facts, she wouldn't give a peep to my personal life. Standing up, I readjusted the navy pencil skirt just above my hips and brushed the crumbs off my thighs. Refolding my white collar at the end of my ringlets, I followed Meredith through the ornate door as she held it open for me.

*****

Max Dash McGuire

Oxford, England

Early morning, August 2, 1964

A light snore startled me as I realized I had been drooling on my books again. Again. I hadn't considered that medical school would be that exhausting. Taking a sip of lemon herbal tea that was less than lukewarm, I scribbled a few more terms on the page.

Hematology

Iron deficiency

Anemia

Thalassemia

Tapping my pencil on my temple, I mumbled, Thalassemia, think, Max Dash, think… Thalassemia, thalassemia, thalassemia…

Lars Skippy, my roommate, was flopped on his bed across the room, reading a thesaurus for leisure. I never really understood the kid. He was only like twelve. Although, that might be an exaggeration on my part. He was actually nineteen with an intellectual girlfriend who would come over and spout candid theories for hours. I usually took a brisk walk across campus on those days. Nonetheless, I tolerated his genius, young self. He was familiar, very familiar, with all of the material. And, I mean all of it.

His deep voice, which no one ever expected from his small frame, rumbled as he said, Thalassemia is a group of hereditary hemolytic diseases caused by faulty hemoglobin synthesis.

Rolling my eyes, I planted my face in the crease of my book and said, Thanks, Lars. Thank you very much for your expertise.

Not even raising his eyes from the thick midnight-blue thesaurus, he mumbled, Of course, Max. You had it somewhere inside your frontal lobe.

Did you get that line from Susan?

Slamming the book shut, he swung his legs over the bed, and the strings of his gray hoodie bounced against his board-like chest. Pulling at the sandy hair at his widow's peak, he tossed the thesaurus to the side, letting it bounce against the plush mattress a couple of times before steadying it with his palms.

As a matter of fact, I did. A knock on the door interrupted his speech. In fact, that is most likely her there now.

My face was still making acquaintance with the creased interior of the spine of my medical textbook when I heard him stand to open the door. Abruptly, I raised my head and took two more sips of my herbal tea. It didn't take more than that to realize the less-than-lukewarm, watered-down, flavorless beverage was no longer of use to me or of any sustenance.

I turned to speak just as Susan entered, pushing her round glasses up the bridge of her nose. Auburn hair parted down the middle rested on either side of her face, landing at the top of her shoulders. The volume had increased since the last time I had seen her, signifying the potential of a perm. That was another thing I just couldn't understand. Being bald was one of the best choices I had made three and a half years ago, or forty-one months. If my math was correct, it was something to that effect now.

Holding her books high, brushing her chin, concealing her argyle button-up shirt, she offered a greeting in her high feminine ringing voice that sometimes reminded me of a trumpet or flute, and said, "Hey there, Maxie! Have you read the new article Professor Finnegan found in Time mag—"

Sitting backward in my wooden-slatted chair, I held up a hand. Yes, yes, Susan. I have. It's a great one. Turning back to Lars, I finished, I think I'm going to go down to the corner and buy a Sprite from the convenience store that invests in American delectable imports. This lemon herbal tea just isn't cutting it. I stood to leave, but the door was still blocked. Surprisingly, even though Susan was only five two, she definitely owned her space. Excuse me, Susan. May I get past?

I grabbed my room key off the chiseled end table that every student carved their initials on as the underground tradition of this suite of dormitories. So far, there were over one hundred initials on the underside of the end table. Lars and I had a bit