sixthiterationlogs | keeping idle hands busy

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keeping idle hands busy

WHO: Kate Kelly
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: 10th April
OPEN TO: EVERYONE
WARNINGS: TBA as needed
STATUS: Open

Spring has arrived, warming the air and seemingly to banish all that dreadful, dangerous fog. Some part of Kate thinks that it should be autumn, but she's not in any of the Australian colonies and everything is backwards here. Backwards and strange and draining. The winter was hard for many, many reasons, and spring hasn't been off to a brilliant start with disappearances and biting insects. Not just disappearances, others have moved out of the Inn. Which she'd been expecting as the weather turned more habitable, but the combination with disappearances means Kate is feeling a little lost and uncertain.

At least she's patched things up with Benedict, thank God.

But as self-destructive as she can be (and has been, over winter, with the access to drink), Kate knows there are still things to be done. Today after the daily village lunch is cleared and the volunteers are cleaning the kitchen, she takes herself to the verandah at the front of the Inn with some sewing. For all the weather is warming and based off last year (oh God, oh God, has it been so close to a year?) it'll get hot even by her standards, clothes are wearing out. There's more farming to be done, more repairs and more building, and what they have will be wearing out.

Today, she has some of the rabbit leather and is stitching together simple fingerless gloves to help protect palms from rough work. She can make clothes themselves, as is evidenced by the fact that she sits there in a long brown skirt with a petticoat underneath and an undyed long-sleeved blouse with some simple embroidery, but those she has to be asked to make. The working gloves are a project she's assigned herself.

And, as is usual, as Kate works, she sings. Nothing more recent than 1883, and usually folk songs, traditional songs. Some sad, some sweet or sly, but all sung clearly and with the air of someone who is keeping herself occupied.

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It's hard to believe he's been here as long as he has. Benedict would have thought, if asked before he somehow arrived on the Surface, that the passage of time would have been more onerous, more obvious, but there are so many tasks to do daily that he's almost constantly kept busy.

After a token effort made to help clean up after lunch — he'd rather quickly left it to the others in the kitchen who managed to settle into a rhythm that he didn't want to disrupt — he'd gone and found the hazel twig broom that had been fashioned during the winter and set to sweeping out the rooms. Menial tasks such as cleaning and general tidying up appealed to him in a way that others might find surprising, but they reminded him of his time at the monastery, and those years were filled with good memories. He doesn't mind being the one to lift the rag rugs from the floor and carry them outside to drape over the railing of the porch to beat the dust out of them, and he doesn't mind methodically sweeping the accumulated dirt and dust out of the corners of the rooms, out from under tables and chairs and out of the fireplace.

He can tell Kate is on the verandah before he even reaches the front door, hearing her voice floating in through the open window. Passing behind her with an armful of rugs, he doesn't pause to speak to her just yet, instead deciding to lean down and buss a kiss to the top of her head as he squeezes past, not wanting to disturb her and wanting to get on with his chores. He'll come back out to beat the carpets clean in a few minutes, after he's finished his sweeping.

Ten to fifteen minutes later, Benedict returns with the broom in hand, sweeping a small pile of dirt and dust across the threshold that he then carefully pushes off the edge of the porch, away from the steps so it's not immediately trekked back inside, before moving to the far edge of the porch to sweep that too.

"Lift your feet, love," he instructs absently when he gets close enough to Kate's chair to need to reach beneath it to finish the task he's set himself.

Busy helps, Kate has found. It keeps one moving, from falling into a helpless stupor. It keeps the blood moving around the body, keeps the mind from turning inwards and dark. If one cannot do ones chores, then something is wrong.

That all said and done, there's still something... domestic about watching Benedict at his chores. Even the absent way he instructs her to lift her feet (which she does, shifting in her chair to swing them up and curled around the leg of the bench out of the way). It's nicely familiar.

As is that 'love' he says.

Maybe she's being a bit foolish, but she thinks she might just be allowed to be a bit foolish here.

"Nearly done?"

"Just about," he agrees, looking up from his task and smiling at her, his eyes crinkling in a face that's rapidly gaining more and more color the more time he spends outside. "Keep singing," he adds as he sweeps under her feet and pushes the dirt and dust off the edge of the porch like the rest of it. "I like hearing you."

He didn't know any of Kate's songs when he first arrived, but they've grown familiar to him over time, and he finds it easy to work to the rhythm of her voice lilting away quietly in the background.

The carpets get shook out and given a cursory beating before he takes them back inside, and when he returns after that is all said and done, he doesn't hesitate to head straight towards her to loop his arms over her shoulders and lean down so their faces are more or less at the same level and he can peer over her shoulder at what she's doing. "Making gloves?" he asks, turning his head to kiss her cheek. "You're so clever."

Kate, who has always wished that whatever man she chose to spend her time with would appreciate her singing, smiles and does as he requests. She keeps singing, starting a new song from the musical theatre-world. It's bright, fast, cheeky, and she tosses in a theatrical wink at Benedict as he goes back inside, just because that's what it calls for.

When he returns, she turns her head so she can gently bump her nose with his and smiles.

"Somethin' like gloves, to be more accurate," she says. "We have the material to spare, and we're goin' have to be workin' hard over the new few months with the farmin'. These might help people protect their hands a bit."

Wanda didn’t live at the Inn but she spent some time there. She’d offered to cook, having few other skills that might be of use to the village. Her powers were an asset but with their weakness she searched for other ways to make herself useful. There were some days when she’d sit in front of the fire and lose herself to her thoughts but most days she tried to keep herself busy.

Today she’d finished her self-assigned tasks, finding herself in the main area of the inn. She didn’t want to return home because she knew that her thoughts would run rampant, preventing any semblance of sleep.

Instead she sat at a table and listed to the soft mumbles of conversations around her. Kate’s song touched her ears and she turned to see the woman sewing up the leathered gloves. She knew how to sew enough to keep things together but she didn’t know how to make it look pretty. Wanda was wearing a pair of jeans and a tank top, neither of which she’d made herself.

She pushed herself up from the table and moved over towards Kate. "That’s a beautiful song." She commented softly. "You’re making gloves?" That was a very good idea and it caused for Wanda to look down at her thin pale fingers.

There is still, still, a flicker of dismay in Kate at the other woman's state of undress. That thin slip of a thing would serve as a corset-cover, not as a, as outerwear. But she hides it. She is getting used to it, in a way. Certainly Miss Jo's style of dress was very similar. It doesn't mean anything that Kate is used to it meaning.

Besides, Miss Wanda - she thinks that's her name - pitches in and helps alongside the rest of them, and that's the main thing here.

"I suppose they might be closer to fingerless mittens," Kate admits, holding one up and peering at it. "But, yes, I am. Mostly to help protect hands when we start workin' out in the fields. Clearin' land is that dreadful without anythin' to protect yourself with."

Wanda nodded her head. "That's smart." She wasn't any good at making clothing but she knew a bit about sewing. She could at least make most clothes last longer than they should.

"Let me know if I can help with anything." She'd have to learn anything she did anyway. She might as well start learning useful tasks that might be able to help others.

"You could help now, if you were inclined," Kate says, hoping she isn't scaring the woman off by pouncing on her offer too soon. Or accepting it as genuine. Then again, she's found most here are willing to pitch in.

"If you can thread a needle and stitch relatively straight, I'd welcome the assistance."

These do not have to be perfect, although Kate's definition of 'acceptable' comes from sewing most of her life. There are, she knows, just to help, and if they get worn out, they can be used for other things.

Wanda nodded her head. "I can do that much." It wasn't like she had a time sensitive schedule here and Wanda was beginning to think that 'now' was the best time to do most things.

She took a seat at the woman's side and reached for a needle and thread. It took Wanda a second to thread the needle before she was ready to sew.

"What part am I sewing together?" So she really didn't know where she was stitching but one Kate pointed along the line she'd begin following the path in a relatively straight line.

Many of the others seemed fortunate to have found clothing different than the ones he had arrived in. It was with a measure of envy that he regarded them, uncomfortable and not at all impressed with the scrubs. Yet he wasn't certain who he could approach for assistance or who the tailors of the village might be.

He joined the others in the inn, coming to the lunches and assisting with the clean up as required and requested. He was no great cook, but knew how to roast meat properly. The rest were better experienced and he left such matters to them.

It was only as he finished that he stepped outside and spied Kate at work with her sewing. He felt a rush of relief. "You are a seamstress?" And one skilled with leather as well!

Well, isn't he a pretty man. Kate can appreciate the scenery, even as she keeps her smile polite. As she does with everyone else here, she sizes him up in terms of what she can gather about personality, usefulness, and how much he'll require in the way of sustenance.

A fair amount, she's guessing from his athletic build.

"Not a professional seamstress," she clarifies, "though my stitches are neat and I can do a number of basic garments. Are you in need, sir?"

She would be wrong, given the little he had been forced to survive on before, but he was careful to conceal the hard living he had endured in France. This place was no different than his life before.

He was fair with lovely dark hair. He found himself smiling more naturally at her.

"If you would be so kind? I should like something other than what we were given."

She fusses, as he might come to know. Fusses and looks at bodies, and wonders how much will go into keeping them not just alive but healthy. Fusses and worries. It has been her one constant here, this fussing and worrying.

"I might barter with you, something for the time it'll take. But are you just after trousers, sir, or a shirt? Or both?"

Sonny will find anything and everything to do to keep himself occupied. At home, he's always had a whole slew of things to keep him busy — church, work, his family, volunteering at shelters, law school, babysitting, drinks and breakfasts with friends. Sonny's life in New York was a lot like New York itself, always fast paced and busy, with no room to slow or take a break. That's how he's always preferred it. He's never enjoyed staying idle.

Here, in the village, there's less to do. He prays at the church in the mornings, helps out at the inn where he can. These days, he spends time with the baby bunny he was gifted by Cougar, playing with it outside in the grass. He has friends he visits, and strangers he'll reach out to to befriend. But the days are slow, and he can never seem to stay busy enough.

Today, he'd come in early to make pancakes, the ingredients bestowed upon him by whoever's keeping them here. But that's long finished, and he's since spent time with Rory, then Queenie, then his bunny, and now he's back because he's ran out of things to do.

Unfortunately, all the chores there are to be done seem to be taken care of, or are in the process of being taken care of. But he's held in the doorway briefly, soft singing filling filling his ears, turning to locate it behind him on the porch. It's a woman doing some sewing, and that strikes Sonny as an incredibly useful skill to have here, one he wishes his mother had taught him like she tried to teach his sisters.

"Wow," he says, face lifting into a smile. "You have a great voice."

She's long since perfected the art of seeming absorbed in her work yet aware of her surroundings. The eighth of twelve children, with three years spent as the oldest person in the house. Person, not child, not with her ma in prison. She'd had to look after the babies and that involved a lot of springing to her feet to pull tiny hands away from danger. Not to mention listening out for trouble. So she doesn't jump as the man approaches, just looks up.

The compliment is genuine enough, genuinely given enough, that she smiles back broader than she means to, cheeks pinking slightly.

"Thank you, sir. It's a terrible habit of mine, so I'm glad I'm not scarin' people away when I sing."

"Sonny," he says, not so much a correction as an offer to call him by his name rather than sir. Not that he won't answer it, but it seems far too formal for a community like this one, so small that they always end up cooking and cleaning for each other, and tending to one another's needs.

In this place, they tend to recognize each other by sight even if they don't know each other's names. So different from New York City, but not something Sonny dislikes, by any means.

"I don't think I realized how lacking this place is in music until now," he admits. "So I think your singing is more of a blessing than a terrible habit. It's nice to listen to."

"Mr Sonny," she says with a bob of her head. "I'm Miss Kate Kelly." She's had to do this now, introduce herself with 'Miss' there. It's the only way she can think of to get across how she should be addressed - or rather, how she prefers. It is should in her own time, and it's one of the things she refuses to let go. It runs too deep, the weight first names alone have to her.

"I've heard somethin' of that from some of the others," she continues. "The people of the future have ways of recording actual sounds, and playin' it back. The world must sound very quiet if that's what you're used to."

"Miss Kelly," Sonny greets, choosing her last name only because it's polite, and what he's used to in his line of work. If she'd rather be Miss Kate, he's sure she'll correct him, but unless that happens, he'll stick with the nice option, what he finds himself more used to. "It's nice to meet you."

He leans back against one of the railings of the inn's porch, settling back against it comfortably. "It's really quiet here," he agrees. "And I'm from the city, so I'm used to all sorts of noise at night. Traffic and music and people yelling. It's hard to fall asleep in the silence." There's a pause, then he asks, "What time period are you from?"

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