4. The Coffee Morning
1135 Words
Chapter Four
The Coffee Morning
“It was voting, but not as we know it.”—Voted In (formerly known as a cleaner of public places)
Bette talked of Earth’s democracy—a word not many knew of, let alone how to spell.
It was something she had heard of in the institute, and using it made her sound like she knew what she was doing.
“What would a human know?” said a blonde bigwig cleaner. “From what I see, half of them are starving and the other half are singing in movies, calling the world a “grand place.”
No one listened.
Bette was talking, and she had a way of “holding a room” with a look you didn’t cross, despite a footman’s wig perched on her head like a tea cozy.
“They have coffee mornings,” said Bette. “And voting.”
“Yes, I have heard of that too,” said the posh bigwig.
“Didn’t Fanny have that sort of tea thing?” said the blond bigwig.
Bette threw her a glare. “We need to include all cleaners.”
“Even the outland cleaners?”
“Democracy is not something you do half-arsed, it’s an all-or-nothing thing,” said Bette.
“Yes, but the scrubbers?”
“There was a time when you were called that,” snapped Bette. She strode about the room with a militant march.
“How about a tea party?” said a voice from the back.
“For the scrubbers?” said the blond bigwig.
“Will you stop calling them that?” said Bette.
“Or a caffeine morning,” said the posh bigwig. “I could make some biscuits.”
“They will run riot. One whiff of that stuff and they’ll go crazy.”
“Like you lot?” said Bette.
❖
Within a week, a caffeine morning under the “pick a cleaner with a biscuit” campaign was organized.
“Let’s meet, discuss, and delegate,” she said.
The outback cleaners had no idea what she was on about. The only thing they knew was that Bette’s glare was best avoided at all costs.
The meeting was held in the canteen of the Building of Opulence: a building designed to intimidate the ordinary. It was an exclusive place that only a certain class of cleaner cleaned—way above the scrubbers of marketplaces and public toilets.
The cleaners of the outback, unsure of what to do, stopped at the Building of Opulence.
“Come in, Come in” boomed a voice from a speaker.
They trailed through the lobby, stopping at the canteen entrance. They had heard rumors of huge rooms in coordinated colors, plush floors that took all day to polish, and statues so large you could climb to the top and see the outlands, but nothing prepared them for what they saw.
They gasped at the graphic phallic graffiti plastered across the wall and the statue of “hubby” covered in knickers and bras with a threadbare duster suspended from his appendage—left there as a reminder of the great takeover of men.
“Well, really,” muttered one.
“And they’re the bigwigs,” muttered the market cleaner.
“Shhhh, they’ll hear,” hissed another.
“Move along,” the voice boomed again.
They entered the sleek canteen of the “bigwig” cleaners.
They stared at the shiny tiled floor and silver benches, inhaled the smell of crisp biscuits and luxury caffeine, and looked at each other—some with an “I never realized how s**t my life was” glare.
“So this is how the other half clean,” muttered the market cleaner.
She looked at her hands.
She had more calluses than the feet of a barefoot trapeze artist. They were as rough as a cat’s tongue, so rough she could sandpaper with them. In fact, sometimes she did.
“Bet you these cleaners have hands as smooth as hemp butter,” she muttered and was about to say more when Bette appeared by the tea urn, silencing the room.
They stopped, their cups poised at their lips.
They had heard she had the face of a charging solder, the prowl of a hungry lion, and the caustic wit of an Earth comedian, taking no prisoners when it came to heckling, but no one told them she had taken to wearing a footman’s outfit.
They stared at her tight silk trousers, ruffled sleeves, and powdered wig and wondered, What is she thinking?
“Dunk all you like, comrades,” she yelled with a stride.
She made “comrades” sound like an insult and dunking like an illegal act, even though she genuinely wanted the women to dip and dunk.
Bette talked of revolution, equality, and better cleaning equipment.
She eyed her brood, their biscuits untouched.
“Tuck in, there’s way more biscuits and pots of caffeine.”
“Yeah, but what’s the catch?” snapped the market cleaner.
The room was silent. Every eye was on the mouthy market cleaner; keeping her tongue still was like trying to stop a shaken champagne bottle from spraying.
“There is no catch,” said Bette.
“Pfff,” huffed the market cleaner. She turned a pale biscuit in her hand.
“Except, well . . .”
“I knew it.” She tossed her biscuit back on the plate. “Let’s go, girls.”
“Let’s not be hasty,” said another; the waft of a warm biscuit was getting to her. “I mean at least hear what she has to say.”
A few nodded, some with a tentative lift of a biscuit.
They dunked . . .
“Hmmm,” said one.
“Arrrgh,” said another.
“There’s plenty more,” said Bette.
“Ohhhh, yes please.”
“Don’t be bought with biscuits,” said the market cleaner.
“Just try one,” said her pal with a crisp bite.
“I want representation,” said Bette. “A chosen one.”
The cleaners, their biscuits poised, stopped.
Chosen? For what?
“One from each sector.”
They gulped. No number of gingersnaps could make working with that woman bearable.
“Told you,” said the market cleaner.
Bette swiveled to face the market cleaner. “How about you for starters?”
The market cleaner eyed the fine spray of white wig powder on her shoulders. “If it means wearing that, then no thank you.”
The women gasped . . .
Bette, taken aback, stuttered, “This? What’s wrong with it? Don’t you like it?”
“You look like a t**t,” she said.
Bette’s face went blank. She had no idea what a t**t was, but she knew enough not to admit it.
“It’s the wig,” said one.
“Yes, way too . . . you know . . .”
“What?” snapped Bette.
“Well . . . silly.”
“Does nothing for you, and as for the trousers . . .”
The cleaners tutted.
“You’d be better with a more flared approach, something that breathed, had a bit of give.”
“Yes, well, it’s not like we had a lot of choice,” said Bette.
“I mean honestly, that silk . . . so yesterday,” said a voice from the back.
“We have just taken over the city,” snapped Bette.
Silence . . .
“Overpowered the men.”
A few shuffled in their chairs.
“Hardly time for a fashion consultation.”
Bette threw her famous glare.
“But if you think flared trousers are more important.”
The cleaners said nothing.
❖
It was the posh bigwig who broke the silence, poised behind the scenes with a refill of biscuits. She entered.
“Who wants to try my shortcake?” she said in a silky voice.
Not many had heard the smooth accent of the educated. It was as unknown to them as her shortcake and just as delicious.
She slid the biscuits under their nose; they dove in, lulled by the sugary hemp.
“Now,” she said, “who’s for some delegating?”
- Writer
