Back Corridor, Building 3
I’ve never seen such a mess. Day in, day out. And the dust, enough to start a storm. My rag turns black before I’ve wiped a single surface, and the bucket’s full of grey sludge before noon.
“Don’t move my papers,” that’s the master’s voice, sharp as a whip from behind doors I’m not meant to open. “Never touch my things,” him again. As if I would or really as if he’d notice.
I reckon my Blandy ancestors had it easier with their dukes and ladies—yes, Bet, I’ve looked at some of the papers when the light was good and the rooms empty—far better to live off board wages like they did with nothing to do than squander my time endlessly wiping up after academics who are worse than children: won’t be told to empty their bins into the bigger one, can’t be told to use a placemat under their cups of tea. They look through me as if I was a ghost, my presence nothing more than a disturbance in the air, a whisper of movement they’ve learned not to register. Still, I suppose they’re no better than they ought to be. All those brains and not an iota of sense among them.
And that Arthur Blandy, the boss—second cousin, twice removed, or so the family tree claims—he had the gall to say “how the mighty have fallen” while looking me in the eye, his lips curled with something that wasn’t quite a smile. I don’t know whether he meant me really though we share the name. The blood’s the same, but the lot’s been tossed wrong, that’s plain. I muttered in that way he almost never hears, “takes two to tango, ducky.”
As though he’s anything more than a servant to Lady Viola, and she’s a lovely woman, always stops for a brief chat with me when we meet: so rarely, so genteel though. She speaks to me like I’m a person, not a pair of hands with a rag. Fierce where Arthur is concerned and quite right too. Toffee-nosed is what our Arthur is, all that starch and pretension, thinking his cousin’s distance makes him noble. I’ve half a mind to ask our Agnes to have a “chat” with him when she gets out, poor girl. She’s got a sharp tongue and a memory for insults, and Arthur’s got plenty to earn.
I’ve set my cap on Fred Mallard. He’s a nice bloke, steady as a rock, and he likes to fish which is a whole lot better than digging up old bones. The archeologists in Building 4, they’re always knee-deep in dirt and fragments, talking about skulls and burial rites like it’s all proper sport. I like a nice piece of fresh fish, cooked with butter and a hint of lemon, nothing grimy about it. Fred knows the good spots along the river, and he’s been kind enough to share a bitten-upon sandwich with me when I’ve been working late. There’s something honest about a man who can wait hours for a catch, patient and quiet, not like these academics who rush and shout and leave trails of chaos behind them.
Still can’t stop here, there’s another mess over in Building 4. The dust there’s thicker, mixed with dirt and something that smells like old earth and decay. I know the back ways, so hopefully I can avoid Arthur and those editors—maybe catch a glimpse of Fred, have a bit of a chin-wag, see how the land lies. The back corridors are my kingdom, these narrow passages where the light’s thin and the air’s still. No one notices me there, and that’s the best part. I can move like shadow, clean like silence, and leave nothing but order in my wake.
The academics, they’re all the same. They’ll argue for hours over a point of history or a theory of mind, but they can’t remember to put their cups in the sink. They’ll write volumes on the manners of centuries past, but they’ve forgotten how to treat a living person. I see it in their eyes—that blank sweep when I pass, the way the conversation flows over me like water over stone. I’m part of the furniture, the background noise, the thing that makes their mess disappear without them ever having to think about it.
But I think. I remember. I’ve read enough of their papers to know that history’s full of people like me, the ones who do the work while the names get written down. My Blandy ancestors, they served dukes and ladies, but they had respect. They had a place. Arthur’s gone and twisted that, turned family into hierarchy, blood into badge. He thinks he’s risen, but he’s just changed his master. Lady Viola’s the one with the real power, and he’s still her servant, just wearing a better suit.
Fred, though, he’s different. He doesn’t pretend to be anything he’s not. He’s a fisherman, and he’s good at it. He doesn’t look through me; he sees me. There’s a nobility in that, simpler than any duke’s title, more honest than any academic’s degree. I’ve set my cap on him, and I mean it. Not because he’s rich or famous, but because he’s real. He knows the value of a day’s work, the satisfaction of a full net, the quiet joy of a clean river.
The dust here in Building 4’s worse than ever. Someone’s been working with soil again, probably one of those bone-diggers. Their bins are overflowing, cups scattered like bones themselves. I’ll get it all, though. That’s my job, and I do it well. But I won’t forget. I won’t let them make me forget that I’m a person, that I’ve a name, a history, a family. Arthur Blandy can say what he wants, but the mighty haven’t fallen—I’m still here, and I’m still Blandy.
I’ll clean this mess, then I’ll take the back way to Building 5. Maybe Fred’s there, maybe I’ll catch him. Maybe we’ll talk about the river, about the fish, about anything that isn’t dust and papers and the endlessness of being unseen. That’s what I want, that’s what I’m hoping for. A bit of chin-wag, a bit of land-lies, a bit of life that’s real.
Recorded by Bet deMallard, June 11th, 1953
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