OnyDung

As you drag the string mop along the corner, the front door swings open and a bluster of wind and leaves blow in. Of course. With the sudden draft, comes your employer. Before you can keep him from entering, he tramps in clumps of mud and twigs onto the still wet floorboards. You sigh and grip the mopstick tightly.

"Mr. Shelby. The floor is newly cleaned," you chide.

He looks down, swaying as he does, and staggers to lean on the doorframe. He hiccups. Drunk again. It's all the confirmation you need that he didn't come home last night.

"Sorry, bobbin," he rasps. He pauses to clear his throat as his voice sticks. Your lips thin at his ridiculous pet name. Ever since you darned his socks, he's not stopped. "I'm late, eh?"

"Early," you correct him. "It's eight in the morning."

He nods and his body buckles as if he might slide down to his rear. You brace yourself. The last time he passed out, you could do nothing but put a pillow under his head and wait.

"Ah... Think it's time for some rye," he pushes away from the wall and staggers around, littering more dirt across your floor.

You march up to meet him and use the mop to block him. "Shoes off. I'll have to redo this bit as it were."

His eyes narrow as he tries to focus on you. Then his lips curve, lines deepening in his cheeks, and he hums. "S'alright, I'll take 'em off."

He teeters and suddenly, stumbles to the side. He lands against the bench with the embroidered cushion. He guffaws and drags his rear onto the seat. His head wobbles on his neck as he lifts his foot only to stomp it back down before he can reach it. A hunk of dirt scatters onto the floor.

You twist your hands around the stick of the mop, nostrils flaring. It is your job to tidy after this man but one cannot cleanse his character. He tries again but can't get his foot to stay on his knee. Instead, he bends over, hanging over his knees to untie his laces. He giggles as he plucks at them.

You wait and watch. There's little point in continuing until he's gone and out of the way. He gets one shoe off and wiggles his toes in his sock. He groans and stills.

You watch in horror as his body constricts. He seizes and gags. Then, all at once, he spews onto the floor. Well, at least he enjoyed the beef stew you cooked for him.

"Erghhhhh," he groans as he trembles. "I've been sick..."

You grab the buck and carry the mop over. You knock his feet wide apart and push the vomit out from between his feet. The smell is horrid; the alcohol sour with his bile.

You bite down on the chides dancing on your tongue. You, sir, are a lush, and you've made another mess for me to clean up. Are you not a gentleman? You act as a tramp!

You lean the mop on the wall and take his arm. He flinches and lifts his head. His face is drawn and pale.

"Come on, Mr. Shelby."

"Hi, Bobbin," he rasps.

You don't reply as you urge him up. He's much taller and despite his slender frame, the tilt in his stature threatens to pull you over. You tug on him and he stumbles, in one shoe and one sock, muttering beneath his mustache.

"...gin! It's the gin."

You stare ahead and don't humour his excuses. Oh yes, you're certain the variety of liquor makes him much more senseless. You've seen him with whiskey and you've seen him with lager. He's always the fool when he's in the bucket.

You know better than to attempt the stairs. You'll not get him past the first few steps. You take him around to the room nestled behind the staircase and steer him to the bed within. It's narrow and creaky and the mattress is worn down so you can feel the frame. It's a sort of penance for his more disastrous deeds.

He tips onto it and grunts. He sprawls on his back and giggles. It's deep and grinding like an engine sputtering.

You pull on his shoulder until he's on his side. Should Arthur Shelby choke on his vomit, you don't expect the men who keep him drunk and daft would be very happy. Those men aren't to be crossed. His brother especially.

You take a step back and your skirt snags. You look down as Mr. Shelby pinches the hem of your dress peeking out from beneath the apron. "Come on, birdie, lay down with me."

You could slap him but you have all the restraint he lacks. In his state, he has no mind to where he is or who you are. You firmly move his hand away and put it on the bed.

"Sleep, Mr. Shelby." You turn and stomp away.

You shut the door with a snap and sigh. You've had worse work than this. Mr. Shelby is typically too distracted to insist on uniform inspections or reproach your work. He doesn't have you in steaming laundries or gathering coal. So you can content yourself with minding his worse vices.

You go back to the airy foyer and resume your work. You clean up the sick first, wrinkling your nose at it. You set his shoe aside. You refresh the water and finish the floor before getting on your knees to work at the edges and corners with a brush.

After that, you go about opening the curtains and windows. You let the autumn air in to clear out the house and continue your daily tidy. You close them up as the chill begins to bite and you feed the fireplace in the main room.

The knock at the door takes you away from your tasks. You answer it. You step back as Mr. Shelby’s brother steps in without a word. Thomas marches in and booms, “Art. Get down here.”

You close the door softly behind him. You’re used to that. As the maid, you’re not supposed to define yourself from the wall. You are noticed when you are needed.

“Mr. Shelby, can I take your coat?” You offer.

“Where’s Arthur?” He commands.

“In the cupboard.” You say.

“The cupboard?” He turns to look down at you. “How’s that?”

“Sir.”

You walk ahead of him. He follows. His shoes are still on. Your floor is tainted again.

You open the cupboard door beneath the stairs. Half of your employer’s body hangs off the bed as he snores. His brother exhales deeply.

“When did he get in?”

“Bout half eight, sir.”

“Mm,” he checks the time on his pocket watch. “And yesterday?”

“He drank at home.” You shrug.

“Right. Fuck.” He mutters then glances at you. “Clear out every single bottle in this house.”

You hesitate. “Sir?”

“You heard me. I need my brother with his head dry.” He snips. 

You nod, “yes, sir.”

“Oh, and some water. As cold as you can get.”

You back sidle out past Thomas and go out to the kitchen. You take a glass from the shelf and go out to scoop rainwater from the barrel in the back. You dread the next command. Mr. Shelby is a mess when drunk, but when denied his indulgence, you don’t expect he’ll be any more even-keeled.

You return and offer the glass to Mr. Shelby. He takes it and struts across the closet. He dumps it on his brother’s head. Arthur yowls like a soaked cat and sits up.

“Ayeeeeee!” He nearly tips over the other way. “Tommy, what’d’ya mean?”