#what if smee's greatest crime was actually a lack of solidarity with the working class

[apirateslifefor--smee]

Sunday, November 12 -- Background NPC: Write about a moment of your character’s life from the perspective of an NPC character. 

Time For Tea | Mary

Warnings for: xenophobia

Mr. Arnold didn’t invite street rats ‘round for tea because he wanted to impress them. Or maybe he did, but not in the same way he wanted to impress the bankers and businessmen whom I typically served. It was about putting them in their place, impressing upon them his vast power and resources to crush them if they stepped a toe out of line. He never said this, but we all knew it. 

Still, I was to treat them like any other honored guest. That much was communicated to us, quite directly, by Mrs. Arnold. 

Samuel was small and pudgy, eternally ruddy-cheeked as though he was permanently in a state of stepping in from the cold. He looked familiar, though I couldn’t initially place why. I didn’t ask, anyway— I wasn’t supposed to make idle chatter with the guests. I took his (ill-fitting) coat and disappeared to the behind-the-curtains places staff are supposed to disappear.

I always found these teatimes odd, the ones with youths not much older than I, whom I might have lived and worked alongside if certain events in our lives had gone differently. And sometimes I wondered if that was part of the point. To remind us of our own place, too.

Mrs. Barton piled my tray high with scones just as I finished making the tea, hardly giving me a second look. I knew she didn’t like me. I wondered if it had to do with the fact that I had lied about my age for this job, but I suspected it had more to do with my accent, with the fact that she probably believed my family was here to take jobs away from people who had been here longer. I’d hoped she might see something in me the way Mr. Arnold sees something in the young men he takes under his wing, but at this point I think she refuses even to look.

It was alright. Every week, I collected my carefully-printed check and took it to the bank, and there would be just a bit of money left after all the family’s expenses that I told myself I could one day use for my education. Maybe.

But it was hard not to feel jealous as I round the corner, overhearing Mr. Arnold lecturing Samuel on politics and philosophy.

Of course, it was all horribly boring. But it was a small price to pay. I could already see it— just a few years of coming ‘round for tea and Samuel would be reinvented, in jackets that actually fit him and a refined manner of speaking that made people believe he was born in this part of London and raised at a posh public school in the country. Not that he was—

Well, bloody hell. Now I knew where I had seen Samuel before. Sam, as I’d known him then. I could see it on his face, too, that he knew where he’d seen me before, too. 

I kept my expression frozen, though, as I set the tray down on the table. And Sam rearranged his expression to a neutral one just as quickly. Mr. Arnold thanked me, and I scurried away to my next task. It was all a carefully-choreographed dance: not just the things Mr. Arnold and his company did to impress one another, but my list of duties as well.

The dance continued— topping up the tea and scones, helping Mrs. Barton with the cleaning, tending to the fire, standing by in case I was needed for anything. Eventually, Mr. Arnold instructed me, as he often did, to show our guest to the washroom.

It was only when we had made it to the hallway that Sam finally spoke to me, his eyes wide with surprise. “Mary,” he breathed. “How did you- what are the chances- how are you?”

“Sam,” I replied bluntly, under my breath. “Don't do this. I know from this point forward how this is going to go. You’re going to go back in there and pretend you’ve got no idea who I am-”

“Well-”

“You don’t have to defend yourself. I wasn’t expecting otherwise.”

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

“Don’t make promises we both know you won’t keep. We’re both trying to make our own way. I don’t want your help, or your pity, or any of that.” I knew better than that, at this point. “But send Stefan my best, alright? If you still talk to him.”

I could tell from the look on his face that he didn’t.

“This is where I leave you,” I added, arriving at the washroom. “Goodbye, Sam.”

It wasn’t, and yet it was. I would continue to see Sam for years after, as his bond with Mr. Arnold grew stronger. And then he was off to Eton and I remained in London, still nursing my small pile of savings. That, nobody could take from me. 

He forgot about me, I’m sure. I forgot about him, too, for the most part. But one weekend I took my grandchildren to the magical town where a fall festival was happening and saw a ruddy-cheeked man instructing a younger person at a game of darts, and I had the oddest feeling that I’d seen a ghost. Or perhaps it was just someone else. These old men in their fine coats and polished speech tend to blend together, don’t they?

#swynwrimoemma #swynwrimo2023 #what if smee's greatest crime was actually a lack of solidarity with the working class #well i guess all the murder is pretty bad too