Children are a luxury, a joy, a blessing. Children are are a reward for working hard, showing loyalty, earning some indulgences. They must be brought up properly, to be a credit to their parents, to justify the indulgence, prove that they are worthy. They are to be enjoyed as something earned. Of course, one must be strict, to insist upon clean clothes, silent mouths, still limbs. Still, what a clever child, what a well behaved child, surely every smile and well-done and how-clever-you-are is earned. It is easy to praise such a child, easy to be generous. There are moments of course, when the training breaks, but boys will be boys, you'll get it with time, we know you'll do better.
Parents are to be obeyed, mothers should be made proud, fathers are in possession of some wisdom that can only be understood when children are older. Going into Service is an honor, a reward. Of course it is deserved for being such a bright boy, for behaving so well, for being such a credit to your parents. A reward, and honor, of menial tasks. Of moving things back and forth, here and about. Replacing candles, shining shoes, lifting boxes is dull, and easy to do. Why some of the other boys have such a difficulty with it is hard to understand. Isn't it obvious? Isn't it easy? Yet it earns more hugs and proud-hand-on-shoulders than school ever did.
Don't drop anything, don't get in the way of your betters, don't talk out of turn, don't know better than the other boys. There are so many ways to err. These things do not belong to a child. These people are older than a child, know better than a child. Punishments come as easy as praise. Yet why should they? The other children err more frequently, more severely. They break things, lose things, are late and sloppy and lazy. Yet it is expected for them, the punishment rote and routine. When things are done mostly well, mostly competent, there are less allowances, greater punishment. The unfairness burns, breeds resentment. What is the point? Why bother to try when it is so easy, too easy to earn adults' praise and yet so easy, too easy to earn undeserved censure.
It chafes, uncomfortable. Such natural talent, so clever, surely he'll go far, surely he'll be a butler. It is written, guaranteed, so obvious. If only the others could be the same. If only the other boys could be as proud. If only the other boys didn't resent their obvious superior. If only the other boys didn't misbehave, break every rule their parents taught them to soothe their own wounded undeserved pride by breaking the condescension of a boy with such warranted, justified, earned pride. How dare they. How dare the adults not see through their plot. Even if a prideful boy did walk right into it, set himself up for it, make it too easy for them.
A clever boy, a bright boy, a hardworking, capable, and competent boy can surely find his own way, make his own path. There are other jobs out there. Other opportunities. Ones that must be less chafing, less unfair, less undeserving of a clever, capable boy's talents. It is clever of him to save his money, buy a train ticket. It is natural, expected that his parents should believe in him, cautious and unsure but hopeful. After all, they raised him, they taught him honor and hard work and responsibility, of course their son will succeed.
A shop is joking, coaxing, reassuring. A shop is being every customer's friend, taking their confidences, oh of course your circumstances are special, of course you deserve the special merchandise, the secret merchandise, kept behind the till just for the select few. A shop is making customers laugh, of putting them into a good mood, a buying mood. A shop is earning the right to work the till alone, earning the right to the keys and unlocking the door in the morning, earning a little bonus of a few extra coins now and again for bringing in so many sales. These are proper rewards, worthy of the work. These are the rewards that fund a young man's well-deserved leisure time, the occasional trip to the theater for a drink and a night of laughing.
Not all the actors are successful. Some of them are downright muttonheads. They draw jeers and boos, despite the crowd being easy, plied with drink and leisure and relaxation. He has made more difficult customers laugh. It is a clever idea to coax the theater owner to let him have a go on some unfilled night. He's clever and funny and it's not hard to make his audience laugh. He likes making them laugh, has a good time himself, and finds himself paid for having a good time.
It's all in the watching, the anticipating. People are not so different, not so secret. A clever young man can identify their type, play to or against their expectations, draw the desired response, making them laugh by going against type or playing to it. Pay attention, put in the effort to understand, act accordingly. Anticipate, subvert, surprise. Making a fool of one's self is a lack of control over one's actions, a lack of control over the reaction of observers - it's a mistake, an awkwardness, a drunkenness, or a desperation. That is making a fool. Entertaining is purposeful, an entertainer has control over his actions and how the audience perceives him. It's a job and a trade.
xxx
Somewhere in a far future she won't know, they may call this emotional abuse, neglect. Here though, in the here and now of a century earlier it is only sternness. Expected in a father, applauded even. It doesn't do to spoil the children, not when they must work as soon and as much as they can, not when there is no such indulgence as the unknown future's adolescence. The children must be trained, disciplined, because they have a scant decade to become adults. There are no beatings, no fists, no bruises. Not beyond a quick slap to the behind or a boxed ear when childish nature temporarily overcomes the rigorous training. There are no raised voices, no shouting, but cold eyes and disapproving frowns and do it again, and again, properly this time, you must learn, you're old enough to know better.
There's not much time to be an adult, not enough resources to waste. A farm is tenuous, a farm is uncertain. All the planning and care and tending can be wiped out by unending rain. Children are extra hands, extra labor, needed, but there is nothing to spare to be used up, wasted with their mistakes, every bit is needed. Mistakes cannot be tolerated.
There are no hugs, there are no stories. Smiles are rare and laughter even more so. There is an occasional hand cradled against tangled hair and a "well done" where the frown almost relaxes, almost, and the wooden face doesn't smile but softens enough that you can see the flesh under all the dirt and lines and sternness. The children quickly learn to read those lines, when to stay silent, when a question might be allowed. They become quick studies of those lines, learn a wariness, learn a watchfulness. Children are not meant to be heard, but they are never really seen, either, expect for when they make a mistake. The adults are always seen. They are seen around doors, between slats, across a field. Their walk, their hands, their frowns and breaths and glances and spine speak volumes to a watchful eye. That watchfulness will never go away, will become a lifetimes of side-eyes and glances from under lashes, always paying attention, always watching, always rearranging understandings and relationships and moods and when and how is safe and effective to intervene.
The watchfulness is safety and protection, but it is hunger too. Hunger for approval, for pleasure, for lines to soften and mouths to relax. Desperation for relaxation, for the moment when the adults stop frowning at the clouds, when the tension and worry relax just for a moment. These are rare moments, bright and shining, treasured and savored. So they watch and they learn and they do it again and again until they do it right, to earn those moments, to provoke them into being. Behave, keep silent, mind your manners, and do it right, don't mess up, do it well. Never enough to feed the hunger, craving, for approval.
Have you ever seen such better behaved children? Such a credit to their father, to their mother. She, the eldest one, she would do well in Service. An adult at not even quite a decade, but not adult enough to be married for several years. The wage would certainly be a help. Any housekeeper would be delighted with such a quiet, competent, obedient child.
Service is hierarchy, politics, words she didn't know but quickly learns. Watchfulness keeps her safe, keeps her wary, keeps her head down as others more reckless blunder into traps, are dismissed. Watchfulness allies her with those who are kind but do not show it instead of those who look it but are hollow underneath. Do it again, do it again, and again and again. Learn fast because needing to be shown twice is childish, you're better than that, a box on the ear. Learn more, anticipate, learn what you need to know before you need to know it. Earn those moments shining moments same as on a farm, moments where the spine relaxes, the mouth softens, the eyes warm, pleased and surprised. Don't be reckless, don't be childish, and always watch.
Such a serious little adult, such a hard worker. Maybe try her in a slightly higher position, maybe recommend her to a friend looking for a new hire. Maybe earn a little more, work a little more, earn a little more. Always keeping watch, always keeping out of the way. Be polite, mind your manners, be dutiful and diligent and clean, but be wary of friendship, wary of shining moments not earned, because those are a trap. Smile a little easier than on the farm because it is easier. The shining moments are a little easier to earn. Not easy, but easier to control, easier to do so purposefully. There are no hanging vengeful clouds, looming above everyone's head, waiting to pounce, to ruin, keeping breaths short and tight and spines rigid.
Service is control, can be controlled. The system can be learned, can be guided, can be molded and adapted and adjusted with enough work and enough control. She watches and learns, takes in others' experiences to compensate for the lack of her own, stays mostly apart but starts to gently guide her own path.
xxx
It is pleasant to find friends among the entertainers. He has never had many before. They take turns pairing up, combining sets and skits, entertaining the masses by adding a juggler to a skit, adding a singer to a band, pitting two comics against each other. Grigg is a natural partner, with a rhythm and a style that complements his own. When they're announced together they draw bigger crowds, better pay. It's natural to pair up officially. It's exciting to quit a job at a typical little shop in a typical little town and travel to bigger towns, even cities. It's exciting to meet a girl who is kind and polite and funny in a quiet way, who likes to meet up for tea.
Entertainment is control, being in control. Surely it is. Others, though, cannot seem to turn it off, cannot be serious, cannot plan, cannot save. Others are more manic, more madcap, more flamboyant under the influences of more money and bigger crowds and urban hangouts and clubs. Others like to flirt with girls, entertaining them even offstage, making them laugh and blush. Others apparently like to stick their hand in the till occasionally, getting more reckless, finally getting caught, getting them blacklisted from the bigger and fancier shows, sticking their hand in the till more to compensate for the reduced pay, telling other people's girls that some people are such a downer and too serious and not enough fun. Others are not in control, they seem to lie without thought, take advantage without compassion, go off the rails during sets to the confusion of the audience just to laugh at their partner's reaction. They set up their partner, make a fool of him, thwart his control, and then tell him that he walked right into it, he set himself up through his naive trust in friendship. Others show him that he is a fool. That he has gone too far down a path, wandered too far away from his early intentions, and has nothing but a broken heart to show for it.
He is not clever. He deserves nothing. Has earned nothing. It is fitting that he returns to a father's tombstone and a mother's pity and a house where he had thrown away a respectable job. It is right that he should come hat in hands and ask for a chance. A chance given that he will spend the rest of his life proving was not wasted or in error.
It is still a job of watching, of predicting and anticipating expectations, then acting to surprise and delight. The house is safer than the stage, more respectable. There are rules, standards of behavior that keep him from straying. He learns to live within them. Humility a shield against humiliation.
xxx
Service is a rocky hillside from Scotland. It can be climbed, but every foot must be placed properly, future moves planned in advance. She watches others. Watches their triumphs, their falls. She isn't a woman of the world but she doesn't live in a sack. She'd rather let others make the mistakes for her, learn their lessons and use them to her advantage, place her feet in the safe places with easy access to higher places. One lesson is that relationships can go either way. Giggles and blushes can turn to tears just as easily as a ring. Do not reject out of hand, but be cautious, be slow, be steady. Joe is nothing but slow and steady. He is kind, does not make her work for a smile, for a crinkle of his eyes. He is less cautious, less watchful, less guarded, but he is no fool. He makes her happy, satiates some of that hunger for approval in her.
Yet she can't quite understand how he is a farmer without the tension. He does not hunch his shoulders at the clouds, nor furrow his brow. Instead he laughs and passes her a flower. It seems natural, easy, and yet, and yet, and is power. Knowledge is ability and skill. She watches, she learns, can read, do maths, write neatly, identify a stain, know the chemicals that will lift it without damage, can take care of art and heirlooms that are generations old. She has her own pay, owns her own few belongings. She cannot remember if there is skill in a farm. She knows there must be, but she cannot feel it, does not feel called to it. She feels the tension, feels the fear, feels the lack of control. Lack of control twice over to the weather and a husband. No property of her own, no money of her own. Joe is kind, but people change, she has watched them change. She feels her neediness, her need for approval, her need to be competent and capable and trusted and she fears a farm and a husband cannot give her that. She cannot saddle Joe, kind Joe, honest Joe, patient Joe, with her restless discontent. Sometimes she dares to silently name it ambition, although it could nearly be a dirty word for a woman.
She chooses a new position, a slightly more prestigious house, but not too prestigious to provoke too much backstabbing. She chooses a slightly larger house with more artwork, more heirlooms, more precious materials, larger household accounts and budgets, more responsibility. A house to challenge her, to keep her on her toes, but not wear her down, not one that will weary her. She sets Joe free.
xxx
There is a satisfaction to competence, to knowing the answers, to heading off problems before they happen and deftly handling others. The smoothness when the Family sees nothing, flows through effortless, because they have done their jobs well is a source of pride to her and redemption to him.
They are well matched in that. Not everyone cares the same. Not everyone understands that it is so easy to do things well, smooth, natural, easy-looking with just a little bit of thought and care. It is the visceral pleasure of a perfectly working mechanical motion, where everything works together and looks good doing it. They care, they feel the pleasure in a well-run household and in that they understand each other, work well together. The standards matter. Of course, he cannot quite keep his standards adjusted for the times, for the environment, for the current expectations, is more grounded in an understanding of the past, but just because she is more fluid, more adjustable, does not mean that she does not have standards and care for them just as deeply. He understands that about her, and she understands that about him, even if it sometimes does chafe a little bit.
Running a household is control, pride in one's work, one's competence, humility in knowing it depends on others besides yourself. It is anticipating expectations, of watching, judging, learning when and how to intervene. It is a partnership and a friendship and an understanding, and letting life change you, eventually reaching the same place through different paths. It is disagreement and compromise and silent communication and trust and keeping each other steady and hopeful.
They keep each other steady.
They give each other hope.