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rainbowfic2024-03-16 10:33 am
freevistas) wrote in rainbowfic2024-03-16 10:33 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Story: Without Homeland
Colors: Teary-eyed #14: left laundry in washer
Word Count: 732
Rating/Warnings: PG
As much as she hated doing laundry, Mairead knew the system so well she could move through each step of the process almost mechanically. She cut slices from a bar of soap and dropped them into a small basin of hot water; as the soap dissolved, she sprinkled in a lump of sal soda and a few spoonfuls of borax, then transferred the mixture to the pot of cold water slowly rising to a boil on the stovetop. She gave the clothes in the boiler a stir, took a quick look at the little fire under the stove, then left the wash-house to scurry across the yard and prepare the Fairchilds’ breakfast.
It was hard to believe that for most of her time with the Fairchilds, Mairead had done all of this work herself. Alba hadn’t been a great help, truth be told, but an extra set of hands was an extra set of hands. And when that extra set of hands was attached to someone as pretty and smart and funny as Alba–
But Mairead didn’t have time to let thoughts like those run on too long. There was coffee to be boiled and fruit to be sliced, beds to be made, and the dreaded laundry to be finished.
When she dashed back across the yard after setting the dining room table with the coffee urn, fruit bowls, and the rest of the breakfast dishes, Mairead found the inside of the wash-house already thick with steam. Mairead knew well enough that Mrs. Fairchild hated having her clothes boiled before they were rubbed and rinsed; she’d insisted that Mairead had turned one of her best linen blouses an unsightly sallow color by doing just that, though she later mistook the same garment for brand-new.
Mairead could never find a pattern to her employers’ compliments and criticisms; she knew their treatment of her had far more to do with the vicissitudes of their moods than the quality or consistency of her labor. This had struck Alba as one of the supreme injustices and indignities of work at the Fairchilds’, but Mairead knew better than to let it get to her. Unlike Alba, she did her best to avoid bringing any trouble down on herself if she could help it.
So she didn’t boil the clothes.
She scooped the heavy wads of cotton from the scalding water and transferred them to the tub of suds she’d prepared. The Fairchilds’ clothes never really got dirty, so there wasn’t much rubbing to do before she rinsed the clothes in the second tub and ran them through the wringer.
This week’s load wasn’t so bad. As much as she hated the cold weather, especially on laundry days, when she had to dash back and forth between the wash-house and the kitchen, when the freezing air burned her hands as she hung the clothes out to dry, she dreaded the thought that the end of winter was approaching, which would mean piles of wools and flannels to wash before storing those heavy garments and blankets until next year.
Mairead would have groaned and grumbled at the thought of it, if Alba had been there to hear and join in. But she wasn’t. So Mairead just grunted quietly to herself as she worked one garment after another through the mangle.
In fact, she didn’t say a word all morning.
Not as she went about stirring tiny spoonfuls of salt, lard, and bluing into the boiling water she’d dissolved a scoop of starch in, not as she worked the starch into the clean dresses and shirts with her bare hands, not as she gave the clothes a final pass through the mangle or when she the cold wind snapped at them and chafed her fingers as she hung them from the swaying clothesline. Not as she dumped what remained of the gray water in the wash-tubs, not as she cleared the breakfast table and washed down a few mouthfuls of dry cereal with the cold coffee left at the bottom of the urn, not as she made the Fairchilds’ beds.
It wasn’t until later that afternoon that Mairead actually got a chance to speak.
“Getting along alright without your little anarchist friend, dear?” Mrs. Fairchild asked, with her typical saccharine venomousness, as Mairead cleared the lunch dishes from the dining room table.
But Mairead had nothing to say to her.
Colors: Teary-eyed #14: left laundry in washer
Word Count: 732
Rating/Warnings: PG
As much as she hated doing laundry, Mairead knew the system so well she could move through each step of the process almost mechanically. She cut slices from a bar of soap and dropped them into a small basin of hot water; as the soap dissolved, she sprinkled in a lump of sal soda and a few spoonfuls of borax, then transferred the mixture to the pot of cold water slowly rising to a boil on the stovetop. She gave the clothes in the boiler a stir, took a quick look at the little fire under the stove, then left the wash-house to scurry across the yard and prepare the Fairchilds’ breakfast.
It was hard to believe that for most of her time with the Fairchilds, Mairead had done all of this work herself. Alba hadn’t been a great help, truth be told, but an extra set of hands was an extra set of hands. And when that extra set of hands was attached to someone as pretty and smart and funny as Alba–
But Mairead didn’t have time to let thoughts like those run on too long. There was coffee to be boiled and fruit to be sliced, beds to be made, and the dreaded laundry to be finished.
When she dashed back across the yard after setting the dining room table with the coffee urn, fruit bowls, and the rest of the breakfast dishes, Mairead found the inside of the wash-house already thick with steam. Mairead knew well enough that Mrs. Fairchild hated having her clothes boiled before they were rubbed and rinsed; she’d insisted that Mairead had turned one of her best linen blouses an unsightly sallow color by doing just that, though she later mistook the same garment for brand-new.
Mairead could never find a pattern to her employers’ compliments and criticisms; she knew their treatment of her had far more to do with the vicissitudes of their moods than the quality or consistency of her labor. This had struck Alba as one of the supreme injustices and indignities of work at the Fairchilds’, but Mairead knew better than to let it get to her. Unlike Alba, she did her best to avoid bringing any trouble down on herself if she could help it.
So she didn’t boil the clothes.
She scooped the heavy wads of cotton from the scalding water and transferred them to the tub of suds she’d prepared. The Fairchilds’ clothes never really got dirty, so there wasn’t much rubbing to do before she rinsed the clothes in the second tub and ran them through the wringer.
This week’s load wasn’t so bad. As much as she hated the cold weather, especially on laundry days, when she had to dash back and forth between the wash-house and the kitchen, when the freezing air burned her hands as she hung the clothes out to dry, she dreaded the thought that the end of winter was approaching, which would mean piles of wools and flannels to wash before storing those heavy garments and blankets until next year.
Mairead would have groaned and grumbled at the thought of it, if Alba had been there to hear and join in. But she wasn’t. So Mairead just grunted quietly to herself as she worked one garment after another through the mangle.
In fact, she didn’t say a word all morning.
Not as she went about stirring tiny spoonfuls of salt, lard, and bluing into the boiling water she’d dissolved a scoop of starch in, not as she worked the starch into the clean dresses and shirts with her bare hands, not as she gave the clothes a final pass through the mangle or when she the cold wind snapped at them and chafed her fingers as she hung them from the swaying clothesline. Not as she dumped what remained of the gray water in the wash-tubs, not as she cleared the breakfast table and washed down a few mouthfuls of dry cereal with the cold coffee left at the bottom of the urn, not as she made the Fairchilds’ beds.
It wasn’t until later that afternoon that Mairead actually got a chance to speak.
“Getting along alright without your little anarchist friend, dear?” Mrs. Fairchild asked, with her typical saccharine venomousness, as Mairead cleared the lunch dishes from the dining room table.
But Mairead had nothing to say to her.