The rest were unremarkable pleasantries concerning the day to day operations of the Ministry of Child Welfare, the sort of compulsory but banal small talk which I can tolerate only so much of. I was about to open the second envelope when I heard a bell chime. Remembering Agnes’ insistence on punctuality, I tucked it back betwixt the pages, then followed a series of signs to the dining hall.
I should say galley. Like my room, it quite resembled what you might expect to see aboard an ocean going vessel. Long, rusty tables made from the same iron as the chairs, and just about everything else I’d seen so far for that matter.
Above, a great chain like the sort which drives a bicycle wheel whirred about, strung between a pair of massive gears. The grubby looking children seated at the table below showed no concern whatsoever, despite the constant racket.
I took the nearest seat but was soon ousted by an irritated Agnes, who clued me in to the fact that I was intended to sit in a particular place and must remember to return there for every future meal. It’s been a long time since I’ve been anything but a guest in someone elses home, so I know better than to protest the house rules.
All around us, missing wall panels revealed thumping, grinding machinery of the sort I felt quite fearful to be seated so close to. The children serving the rest ducked and hopped over exposed machinery so deftly it could only be muscle memory. I wondered how long until I’d be equally accustomed.
When the servers reached me, they deposited onto my plate what I couldn’t deny was a nutritionally sufficient meal, but only just. The thinnest cut of beef I’ve ever seen outside a deli, assorted greens, rice and potatoes.
“There’s a floor for cattle? He really thought of everything” I remarked to the lad sitting across from me. “Mind your station” he muttered, not even making eye contact. I picked at my food, wishing for spices before realizing they’d have to be manufactured someplace within the building. A ‘needless frivolity’, Gramps probably decided.
Just enough, not more. A theme which extended to the clothing worn by everyone seated around me. Some grey, some blue, some white. Still others wore a queer black apron over a stained white frock, like something you might expect on a butcher. I wondered if they were responsible for putting the meager portion of meat on my plate.
No good to ask. I knew better by that point. It wouldn’t be ‘minding my station’, after all. This place had a definite, rigid structure to it. Roles and regulations, strictures and schedules. I welcomed it. I could at least study the details of what they expected from me on my own time.
In fact, it was to be even more straightforward than that. The room quieted and as my gaze swept around the room in search of the cause, I caught sight of a shockingly expensive looking litter held on the shoulders of four older kids being carried around the far corner.
One of those people carriers, which are themselves carried by people, that you sometimes see royalty or nobles transported about in. A beautifully decorated gold trimmed carriage, the figure inside obscured from view by a sheet of silk draped languidly over his or her form.
The silk was itself dazzlingly detailed with a pattern resembling Henna. When the carriage passed between myself and a wall mounted light, I caught the briefest glimpse of the shadowed silhouette of the slender, frail woman under the sheet. What is all this? Everyone around me looked on in awe and solemnity.
Finally the carriage came to a stop at the head of the room. The quartet carrying it gently set it down, then withdrew. Following this, the woman beneath the sheet moved subtly, gesturing as if to focus our attention on her.
Sure enough, a moment later she addressed the room. Her voice was deep and raspy like that of an aging smoker. “Good evening, my dear little grease monkeys. I see a new face among you.” I shrunk into my seat as all eyes in the room came to rest on me.
I worried I was expected to say something. A speech? But a moment later, the concealed woman continued. “If you find yourself overwhelmed, do not fear. Life here is simpler than it first appears. It obeys a particular rhythm and structure, as well as five simple rules. Tell him children, what is my first rule?”
Everyone boldly called out “The product comes first!” in unison. It startled me. Some sort of local shibboleth? The woman explained it somewhat. “In order to make good on certain debts, to refill the pockets of the generous fellows who funded the construction of our wonderful home, it is necessary to create something to sell for a steep profit. Many of the children here are employed in that capacity.”
She next asked what we’re all meant to do, regardless of station. Everyone again chimed in, this time with “Fix problems as soon as you spot them!” She explained this too, but it seemed plainly sensible. With no new funding coming in, and every dime from sales returned to investors, there would be no way to hire a mechanic to perform repairs. It would be up to us to keep the machinery running.
“What is it you’re to do right now, as you’re gathered for supper?” the woman inquired from within her gold trimmed carrier. They all answered “Eat everything on your plate!” Another self evidently practical rule, presumably meant to minimize waste.
“For that matter, isn’t supper nearly over? That’s quite important to keep track of, isn’t it? What do I always say about that?” The children called back “Mind the schedule!” I recalled Agnes hurrying me to my room, urging me not to miss the dinner bell.
“Last, but by no means least, what are you all to remind each other of when nosy fellows pry into what your daily tasks entail?” They all simultaneously replied “Mind your station!” Aha, I’d been wondering about that. Efficiency, routine, and division of labor appeared to be top priorities. Understandable, all things considered.
That was the end of it. She concluded that, should I remember and obey those rules, I would fit neatly into her family and enjoy a fulfilling life in this place. I wasn’t remotely satisfied and had many questions I wanted to ask, so I got up and approached the front of the room.
On the way I noticed everybody staring as though appalled. Agnes got between myself and the intricately embellished people carrier. “No closer than that. Only I may approach Miss Alice.” I explained that I simply had some questions I wanted answered. I could tell from Agnes’ glare that I’d committed some sort of faux pas.
“Only I can speak directly to Miss Alice! Mind your station, won’t you? Unless I’m mistaken, your plate’s not yet empty and there’s but a few minutes of supper left. Having only just been versed in our rules, have you already forgotten the third?”
Of course. Finish everything on my plate. I backed away sheepishly, turned and headed for my seat. As instructed I gobbled down the remainder of the spartan meal, then joined the rest in the laborious process of collecting and washing the dirty dishes.
Stay Tuned for Part 5!