The slave quarter's taskmaster removed the beads from the day before first thing. If only the bruises could be removed as easily. Not that Jack really felt them right then; whatever was in Mary Poppin's bottle was enough to soothe the ache that had slowly returned in the early morning, though it didn't remove it as completely as a full dose had done. Nor did it leave him noticeably 'wrong-footed' which was probably why he wasn't allowed a full dose. A slave who came off as drugged would very soon be a slave in trouble. And worse, they'd want to know where he got the drugs, because no slave clinic would hand out pain killers for an authorized correction. The half dose was enough to take the edge off, though, and it was much better than nothing.
Having his beads removed did leave Jack feeling oddly vulnerable; it wasn't a good thing to have beads on one's collar but those ten beads had served as a level of protection. It was now entirely possible for someone like Jones to take Jack aside for a second punishment of up to ten hits. Just as the same could happen the next day. If one stopped to think on it, a restriction of ten hits a day left a lot of leeway for some rather severe beatings. And Jones totally would, if he had any opening at all, layer new hits over old.
It was hard to feel real fear, though, not with the taste of Mary Poppin's medicine still on his tongue, not with a song still singing in his head and pulling at his feet. Mary Poppins was in London; the likes of Jones didn't stand a chance.
That morning went much better than the previous morning; none of the leeries ran into trouble. The apple vendor did glare as Jack went by and shake a fist, but as Jack didn't respond or otherwise do anything he could be called out on, the vendor was powerless to enact further revenge. The child was there too, oddly enough, not in the line for food, just standing and watching. After Jack passed unscathed, she turned and ran on her way, in the direction of SPRUCE.
Jane was there early, hoping the slave she had met the evening before would have a chance at some point to stop by. Not that she could stay all day; she had other things to do as well. And someone would likely be around if a slave did come to make a report; Jane just really wanted it to be herself if Jack, or Charlie for that matter, did stop by. It seemed an unsatisfying conclusion to her efforts if someone else took down a report of what they had to share.
"He didn't get stopped or beat," the young girl reported, as dutifully as if Jane had given her a military command to keep watch over the situation. Jane might have suggested the girl keep her eyes out but she wasn't about to actually recruit children to what could, if the government ever bothered to notice their efforts, become a rather dangerous operation. Still, it was a relief to know that the slave, whether it was Jack again this morning or Charlie or someone else, hadn't run into trouble.
Jack's friends thought so too, when he popped into the waiting room before reporting this time, having learned his lesson from yesterday.
"Not Jones today," Frank informed them, when he took the chance to report in first. "It's Entwistle." Sam Entwistle could not exactly be called 'nice' or even 'fair', but he lacked the sadism of Jones and had an admirable laziness about him that meant he rarely took the bother to do a physical correction. He wasn't against beatings, he just didn't care for the effort involved on his end. A tension most hadn't even noticed was there eased within the room, and they went together to report in.
Entwistle was annoyed by the sudden influx of slaves; that meant doing a lot of work at once as he figured out where to send them even if it was one of his peers actually checking them in. In fact, he didn't bother to try and match slave to task and just went down his list as they approached him, sending them on their way.
Charlie, who was one of the first, had taken the time to read down the list, an easy task with Entwistle as the man was a slow reader while Charlie had a knack for reading upside down. Charlie thought on it for a moment, did some mental maths, then dragged Jack and Angus out of the line and stuck them in three slaves back. He rearranged a couple of the others in the line too. The end result was that instead of Jack and Angus being stuck greeting people, which is how it would have fallen, the both of them were told to be on call in the tearoom. It was one of the more relaxed jobs the bank offered; most of it was sitting quietly in a room where the only people around you were other slaves who you could, if you were quiet, talk to. They would be interrupted throughout the morning whenever a free employee called for something to be brought to them, usually tea (hence why it was called the tearoom). The job also had the unspoken perk that, as long as the slaves were careful, they could easily get away with helping themselves to the tea and small snacks the room had stocked.
Thanks to Charlie's rearrangement, it also meant that at least one of the slaves assigned to the mailroom would have the ability to read, something Entwistle hadn't been going to bother to ensure. Technically, it should have been Entwistle who got into trouble when the slaves inevitably ran into trouble, but that was rarely how things played out in real life. If Charlie hadn't rearranged things, to avoid trouble the slaves would have had to quietly rearrange themselves after, a thing that was done more often than the City probably knew or would approve of and that could lead to trouble for all of them if they were caught doing it. It was better to be officially rearranged.
"So what do you think?" Jack asked Angus, once they were safely in the tearoom and it was unlikely anyone would catch them talking.
"About?" Angus asked in return as he carefully helped himself to one of the ginger biscuits. He broke it into pieces first inside a napkin and only allowed himself nibble sized pieces; if anyone did come in unexpectedly the last thing he wanted was to have a mouthful of food or any obvious evidence that he had been snacking. Jack copied him somewhat absently, his mind somewhere else entirely.
"Jones," Jack explained, and Angus made a face at that hateful name. "Think he was assigned elsewhere or…or do you think he might have been turned into a newt?" The slaves had been inventive discussing the ways Mary Poppins might be able to take care of Jones and newt was a favored daydream.
"I think if she were going to turn him into a newt, it'd be in front of us," Angus answered.
"And I suppose she's here for the Banks children, really," Jack added, sounding a bit morose now, unusual for Jack.
"If you think she isn't here for us too," said Angus, and in his head he thought 'for you', "Then you haven't been paying attention. She hates Jones's sort. She'll sort him before she leaves. Guaranteed."
"We're grown men, though; maybe she'll expect us to take care of our own problems."
And in some ways, Angus knew Jack was right. They were grown, not children, and they didn't necessarily need a nanny to mind them. In some ways, ways Angus could hardly articulate himself, Jack was wrong. If he had been able to articulate it, he might have thought something along the lines of 'slaves are vulnerable'. Children are vulnerable because they lack the experience and skills to survive and thrive in the world without guidance. Slaves are vulnerable because they are at the wrong end of a power imbalance; they have no real autonomy. Jones was a problem slaves could not solve, not in the long term, because the power was on Jones's side. It was really only a matter of time until he managed to arrange things as he wanted them, and the slaves could see it coming a mile away and the only way to avoid it would be to do things of a questionable and highly dangerous nature that might well bring worse down on all of them.
Angus couldn't articulate this, but he did understand it on some fundamental level. He also understood that to argue with Jack on the matter would be nothing more than forcing the man to face his own weaknesses. That was hardly something Angus thought helpful or kind.
"Anyway, she took you to China," he said instead. "She wouldn't pull you along on her adventures only to leave you to fend for yourself."
Then he tried to get the fuller story of the bowl from Jack, both because he was interested and because it put the smile back on Jack's face to share it. The morning was a nice calm after the day before, only occasionally interrupted by calls for service among the bankers. Angus wheeled the tea trolley out each time, winning over Jack arguing that it was his turn and that his back didn't even hurt right then simply by not arguing and just doing. Jack's back might not hurt badly (and it was an obvious lie that it didn't hurt at all, or he wouldn't be sitting so carefully) but it, and possibly the medicine, did slow him down enough that Angus had no trouble getting his way.
The only time Jack won the argument was when Angus let him, and that was because the call came from the forgery department and Jack was hopeful to see Michael, hopeful enough that Angus didn't have the heart to fight him over it.
Jack somewhat enjoyed the chance to stretch his legs, and Jack planned out as he went along all the ways he'd berate Angus for being overprotective; the trolley was an easy thing to push along even laden with all the tea things, and those things meant no one would expect Jack to race it down the corridors; quite the opposite in fact. He also got to use the lift because obviously the trolley couldn't go on the stairs, a rarity in his life. In a not-too-distant past, that might also have given him a chance to socialize with whatever slave was on lift duty, but in this modern age the lift was self-service.
Unfortunately, when he got to the forgery's office, he found both of Michael's peers and no Michael.
"Tea, sirs?" he said anyway, as polite and subservient as he could be because Angus would be very annoyed with him if he managed to incur a correction on his one, and possibly only, trip out of the tearoom.
"What…oh yes, we did call for that," said one of the men, a bit absently, and he grabbed a couple of files off the corner of a desk and dumped them on an empty chair. "You can leave the tray here; we'll serve ourselves."
Lifting the tray, heavy with the teapot and cups and saucers and biscuits, reminded Jack why Angus might have been trying to do this part for him. They were well into the morning and the dull stiffness in his back was starting to remember itself as more than just uncomfortable, and straining bruised muscles to lift a tray was not pleasant. Jack did it anyway, as quickly as he could and trying not to show exactly how uncomfortable it was to do it. He managed to not drop it at least, or do more than slightly rattle the cups and saucers. Even that, to a surly Citizen, could have been enough for a mild correction. Some people seemed to just look for trouble. But these two particular men didn't even seem to notice.
Jack wondered, a bit vaguely since most of his mind was being used to wonder if Michael would be in that afternoon and how Mary Poppins and the children were doing, if there was something about the forgery's office that attracted less brutal sorts of men. Perhaps it was simply that it was considered a lower office in the bank; in Jack's experience the higher in the bank an office was, the quicker its occupants were to apply the lash. The worst were rumored to be the ones who never lost their temper in public, who smiled and pretended not to mind when a slave made a mistake, so long as others were around to see. Just wait until the client or other bankers were gone, and no one was there to judge his actions. Other bankers and the bank's clients might be under the impression that Wilkins, for example, was a kind and generous sort. Slaves knew otherwise. He was usually kind enough to Penny; he technically was not her master, which they both knew, and he was wise enough to try and keep in her favor even if she was only a slave. But if someone like Jack were to catch his eye…Jack had yet to experience it for himself but knew through his mates that the man could be quite as brutal as Jones.
"He don't give extra," said Fred, who had been so unfortunate, "Not because he's…he's afraid…" That would be the only thing staying someone like Jones's hand; fear. "You can just tell…he's not afraid. He just don't think you're worth the effort. I think he'd beat a slave to death if he had a mind to…and he'd get away with it. He only gave me ten because…because it was beneath him to bother going further." Those ten had been brutal, too. Brutal enough Fred had actually been taken off the work rotation for a day. The nurse, who had a reputation for only allowing it if a person were really, really ill or badly injured, had not reported it like she had with Jones, or like she would with just about any other employee. Fred just got his day off early, was all. That said a lot about what the man could get away with. "He just hit again and again," said Fred, "No pause, just lashing until it was ten and then he stopped and left. Didn't even bother with beads or paperwork; the nurse added the beads and filed some papers and I don't think his name was even included."
Luckily, it was unlikely for Jack or Angus to run across the man. The tearoom was in the basement, between the slave quarters and the rooms used by overseers, and his office was all the way at the top of the building. And even if he did ask for tea or something else that fell to them to deliver, they were more likely to deliver it to Penny and she would bring it to him. All slaves avoided the upper offices unless told specifically to go to them for some task, and most tasks required, like cleaning, happened after hours when the bankers were gone. Fred had just been unlucky.
"How was Mr. Banks?" Angus asked when Jack got back, completely unscathed, with the unladen tray. They'd be expected to make rounds towards the end of their shift, or whenever specifically called, to collect old dishes. There was a small sink to clean everything in, which is how they got away with drinking tea; they could quickly place their cup in the sink if someone happened in and make it seem they were cleaning someone else's cup rather than having their own. Not that most people would really care if the slaves indulged, but it was always better safe than sorry. And there were some free Citizens who would object to learning the slaves dared to drink from the same cups as the Citizens, even if they were cleaned inbetween. Better to avoid being caught.
"Not in," Jack answered truthfully.
"Any adventures on the way?" Angus asked, eying Jack carefully while trying not to be obvious about it. Then, with a bit of a grin, "No jumping in among the saucers or taking a swim in the teapot?"
"Not this time," Jack answered, ignoring Angus's careful stare to offer a grin at what may or may not have been a joke.
The morning wore on and Mary Poppin's medicine steadily wore off. Jack had rather hoped that his back did not feel too bad because a whole day had passed and it was only five hits. Hard hits, yes, but still. He was discovering that this was very much not the case and that the pain had just been muted all morning, moment of heavy lifting aside.
It didn't hurt horribly, in a way that would leave him groaning or crying, but it was decidedly uncomfortable and made sitting or standing downright agonizing over time as a dull ache transformed into a sharp pain that had less to do with the bruises and more to do with stiff posture. Not that lying down would help much. He'd have to lie on his front, for one. And for another, there was no place to lie down in the tearoom. He could have tried the floor, but it was dangerous because if anyone caught a slave having what would appear to be a nap in the middle of their duty, his back would likely soon hurt quite a bit worse. Besides, Angus would worry if Jack allowed himself to show his discomfort to that degree. He'd stand guard and let Jack have his rest, but he'd worry.
Jack said nothing about it, in fact, and pretended not to notice the glances Angus sent his way every few moments.
"It's my turn," Jack suggested, two calls later.
"I'm already up, you can have next," Angus answered, already pushing the trolley towards the door. He was lying and they both knew he was lying, that Angus would try to take the next one too, and Jack scowled while trying not to feel secretly warmed and pleased, or to at least not show it, because he was not an invalid and was perfectly able to push a tea trolley! He hopped up to show it and got the door for Angus and then went to stand by the sink while he waited for him to come back, ready to pretend to be working on dishes if anyone who wasn't Angus should happen to stop in but really trying to allow his back a different position while no one was there to see it and sipping at a cup of hot tea.
No one stopped in or called for an order while he was out, which was just as well because the only other trolley was the bad one with the wobbly wheel. Angus was out for a good long while, which at first was fine but slowly grew worrying for Jack. He enjoyed having a bit of quiet time to himself; as much as he loved his friends there was a reason he favored lamp lighting and part of it was that it was a solo task. Being alone also was a chance to stop pretending that his back wasn't bothering him and to move in ways that helped relieve that pain. As time passed, however, his enjoyment of the quiet was slowly overtaken by worry for Angus. Extra time suggested difficulties. Difficulties could mean a lot of things, but for a slave, they most often meant corrections.
It had him anxious enough that when the door did finally crash open, probably with more force than Angus intended, so he could shove a laden trolley into the room, Jack startled hard enough to drop his teacup. He had been holding it over the sink so he could plausibly be seen to have been washing it, should a free Employee stop in. It did happen from time to time; some of the overseers didn't bother to call for service when they knew the tea things to be just next door. Entwistle was lazy, but not everyone was. It was just as well, then, that this time it was Angus, because it fell in the part of the sink not full of sudsy water and promptly broke.
"Well, that didn't sound good," Angus commented dryly as he carefully shut the door behind him and started carrying dirty dishes towards the sink.
"Not as such," Jack answered, making a face before surreptitiously glancing to note no beads on Angus's collar. Neither was particularly worried about a broken cup, though Angus just as surreptitiously hopped over to make sure Jack hadn't somehow managed to cut himself or anything of the like. He hadn't.
"Did you get lost on the way to see Mr. Lee?" Jack said next as he carefully fished pieces out of the sink and looked about for where to hide them until they could be disposed of. No one was likely to notice a missing cup or two, but they would notice one that was broken. Whenever a slave broke something, their first instinct was always to hide the evidence. It was hardly the first bit of China broken by a slave in the tearoom. The only real worry was that the sound of breaking had carried through the open door to someone who would care, but since no shouts or footsteps could be heard they assumed they were safe.
"You know what the upper floor bankers are like," said Angus, grinning to reassure that nothing actually bad had happened. Jack wrinkled his nose, because he did know what they were like, and the only thing reassuring in that statement was Angus's easy grin. "Called me up as a matter of urgency, then spent a good fifteen minutes in a closed-door meeting that was 'not to be interrupted, not even by the tea boy'. Only of course I can't just leave the tea tray, no, the look he gave me when I suggested it! Him, assistant slave so important they left him outside the room, but he sure didn't care to talk to such a lowly slave as works in the bowels of the building. So I got a lovely long look at the portraits along the wall while we waited."
"Or he didn't want to be seen shirking," Jack pointed out, "Not everyone has your…relaxed standards, Kinglet." Though teasing aside, privately he thought Angus probably had the right of it. They were all slaves, and they could all trust each other to follow the unspoken rules, like not getting a fellow slave in trouble, usually, but they still had their own hierarchies. Slaves assigned to be assistants or to technical tasks tended to see themselves as a bit above those who were put to work wherever they were needed any particular day. Not that leeries were able to talk; they definitely saw themselves as a class of their own. That said, no leerie actually thought themselves above their fellow slaves. Luckier, maybe, but not above.
"Terrible conversationalist, either way. Got better conversation out of the portraits."
He was smiling, so if he had actually spent his time upstairs talking to portraits, no one had caught him at it. Jack smiled back and bit back demands that he not take such risks as to talk to portraits on the upper floor where any of the upper bankers might have seen him. After all, Angus had been very good about not making a fuss over Jack's back, and Jack knew he wanted to. Jack could do the same and not insist Angus hold in bits of himself for Jack's peace of mind. And he probably hadn't actually done it out loud, anyway. Probably. Jack could well imagine a bored Angus studying the art on the walls while waiting to avoid doing something that would get him in trouble. Angus never did well in tasks that required making himself a part of the furniture.
"And what did they have to say?" Jack asked instead of making demands that he be careful.
"Mostly scoffed at how dare a slave talk to them like equals. I saw one that looked just like Wilkins, only with a white beard and mustache. He was all tsking and trying to pretend I didn't exist. One that looked rather like Mr. Banks too; he kept losing the thread of the conversation and telling me about clouds."
"Mr. Banks is not that bad," Jack said, still smiling. Angus raised an eyebrow.
"He once requested a tea tray and by the time I brought it to him, which could not have been more than ten minutes later, if that, he said, 'oh, kind of you, I was just thinking of calling down for some tea.' Then he went to make space, found the space already made, and moved the papers in his hands into it anyway and set about making a new space."
"Okay, he's not usually that bad," Jack amended.
"And there was a portrait that looks just like you…if you had a mustache and white hair, I mean."
"Not that again! Fred keeps using that one to direct people. 'Turn left at the potted plant and then it's three doors after old Jack's portrait'."
"Well…Fred's not wrong," Angus insisted.
"I've seen that stupid portrait and it does not look a thing like me," Jack insisted. He had half expected this, the moment Angus had brought up portraits. It was a running joke among the slaves.
"It really does," Angus insisted. "I mean…I'm sure you will be better looking when you are an old man…" and they both carefully did not think about the future. Old slaves don't exactly retire, because the entire point of their existence is to work, but there were too many rules for the City to get away with getting rid of any slave past its prime. Neither Jack nor Angus were entirely sure what would happen to them when they got old; older slaves weren't housed in their quarters. They had a vague idea that older slaves who could no longer effectively do things like ride about on a bicycle or run up and down stairs were put to work on quieter tasks, like knitting or polishing. There were urban legends, though, that suggested worse fates. Like maybe they were reassigned to do dangerous tasks, tasks that would sooner or later end in a coffin.
Of course, they had seen elderly slaves when out and about which suggested otherwise, slaves who were happy and healthy and who laughed when a young slave worked up the courage to approach them and ask. Jack had talked to some himself, and they all said they mostly spent their days quietly, and peacefully, and rarely ever faced a correction anymore; rarely even got noticed anymore. But the urban legend persisted in the way most ghost stories linger, strengthened perhaps by an element of the truth. Problem slaves were sent to do the more dangerous or gruesome tasks, after all. And what were the elderly but slaves who could not work, the very definition of a problem slave?
Before Angus could tease Jack anymore, a call was made for coffee and ginger biscuits.
"It's my…" Jack started to insist as he helped move old cups and saucers from the trolley to the sink while Angus bustled about getting the requested items ready. Clearly, another part of what made Angus late was a detour to collect old dishes from the offices because there was a lot for Jack to clear away.
"Nonsense," Angus said before Jack could finish his sentence. Jack made a face at him.
"You said I'll get the next one," Jack pointed out.
"And you will," Angus answered. "The next one." And he wheeled the trolley back out the door towards the lift.
But it turned out Angus was quite right. Because the 'next one' called while Angus was still away with the trolley. There was a reason there were always two or more assigned to the tearoom, and it wasn't to allow slaves a chance to socialize.
"Mr. Wilkins would like a full tea sent up. Set for three, with three of the good biscuits and six of the 'good enough' biscuits, and plenty of the sandwiches."
With Angus away, it was left to Jack to bring up the request.
