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Labour (1,537 words)
AxisXYZ
Registered User regular
Registered User regular
I rarely write things with a lot of dialogue and as a result I'm increasingly uncomfortable writing long conversations. I decided this would be the perfect time to write something kind of different with lots of talking (yay). It's just below this line and if you read it you should tell me what you think.
Mr. Costello was lifting his teacup from its saucer as his friend, Mr. Linton, entered his spacious office. It was early morning: Costello still had his little traditional lamp set on the desk in front of him and disordered piles of yesterday’s work scattered about the room. The uncomfortable heat of this little light melded with the general disorder of the office to create an atmosphere which was pretty thoroughly unwelcoming. When Costello finally set down his cup he made sure to position it so the picture on its front faced out, towards Linton and the world outside his office. Printed on the front was a neat little imitation of a Chinese painting which depicted a woman kneeling down to pick rice in a few thick brushstrokes.
Linton didn’t quite wait for his friend to put down his tea before he began to speak, navigating past piles of paper and ink. ‘George, dear heart, hello. How are you? How’s the tea? You must be nearly employing someone to brew it these days, with business so good.’ Linton smiled at his little joke and made his way past Costello’s desk to the three curtained windows arrayed behind it. As he surveyed the desk he added, as an afterthought, ‘That’s not even a gas light, is it? You’re still here in this old office using matches and creating all this… smoke and heat,’ he paused, momentarily, waved a hand in front of his face and continued, ‘while they’re installing electricity in the upmarket hotels around Dublin. This is nineteen eleven. It is a new century. You really must get some new décor.’
Costello grumbled a general condemnation of gaslights in offices before he began to speak more coherently. ‘Well actually,’ he stated, matter-of-factly, ‘I do have someone to make my tea. It’s not quite his only job around here for the time being but, you know, as long as news stays profitable…’ He followed Linton with his eyes, watched him smile at the reply, and began to speak again. ‘You might know him, when I think about it. Do you remember the fellow that used to live in my cousin’s room at Chapelizod?’Linton was pulling the curtains back while he listened, letting light seep into the ink stains of the carpet, the cabinets lining the walls of the rooms and the stacks of books within. Costello watched the light bounce off his friend’s finely combed hair, his impeccable dress and his deep blue eyes. He felt his friend looked distinctly handsome that day.
Eventually Linton paused to wheel around completely and look at Costello. ‘You know, I think I do. Wasn’t his name Connor? You two used to work together at the harbour, didn’t you?’
‘O’Connor,’ Costello corrected, ‘was his last name, anyway. And you’re right; we did casual work about the dock before I started working here and he found it hard to get a day’s wage. By the bye, you know you’re early?’
‘Am I? My driver must’ve been quick, then. There was some kind of demonstration on and I thought we’d never get through. I’ll remember to give that driver a few shillings come Christmas.’
Costello took another sip his tea, ‘That ‘union’ crowd, I suppose. I only say it because you’ll have to hang around for a bit now; I’ve a meeting with one of the workers. He’s – Oh.’
Both men heard the sound of heavy work boots scraping the mat at the office’s door and craned their necks to see a comparatively shabbily dressed man standing just on the threshold. He stepped forward without being asked and sniffed loudly through his nose. He spoke in a voice a little higher than a whisper and avoided eye contact with Mr. Costello. ‘Sirs.’
Costello looked grave and turned his chair back to face his disorganised desk and the man who stood before it. Linton, meanwhile, smiled a little and navigated back past the paper piles to greet this man who stood so still in suspenders and a ragged little cap. When he arrived before this worker he extended his hand expectantly and grinned broadly. The worker looked a bit startled, then confused, then apologetic. He kept his hands by his sides, tightly curled into fists. ‘Sorry, sir, but I don’t feel I should…’
George Costello was quite clearly distressed by this situation. He half rose, then sunk back down and spoke to his friend in something like a hiss, ‘Robert, stand aside if you please and allow me to have a word with this fellow.’ Linton must’ve detected something amiss, because he stood to the side of the room and his smile faded a bit. Costello, meanwhile, took an unusually long drink from his teacup and only hesitantly set it back down on the saucer. ‘Mr… Hm…’ He began to push aside papers and open drawers in search of something.
‘It’s Patrick McBride, sir. I’m here because of the incident yesterday evening,’ and here his voice became virtually inaudible, ‘if you – didn’t know.’ He sniffed again except this time he went to rub his hand against his nose. The hand was spotted with ink and grime, though, and he only succeeded in stamping part of the mixture on his right nostril.
Costello nodded, shut the drawers and drew himself in closer to his desk. ‘Well, and correct me if I’m wrong, but my reports say that you were whipping up trouble and disorder yesterday,’ His tone changed and Linton, at least, felt Costello was reciting a quotation, ‘Standing on a box at the back, refusing to leave after your shift was over and asking for – demanding, actually, more money. That’s right so far as it goes?’ Costello pointed a pen accusingly across the room at Patrick, who simply nodded, ‘Well, then. At least you’re honest about it. Nonetheless, we don’t need agitators here: do you know how many decent men would fall over for a job at a good press like this? It pains me to say it but I think we’ll have to terminate your contract. Good luck, Mr. McBride.’
Patrick must’ve been overcome by emotion, because his hand shot up to wipe his eyes and he forgot about the ink and dirt they were caked in. His eyelids were coloured a faint black but when he managed to compose himself he issued a reply. ‘Sir, sir. It’s not as you’re making it out to be, or maybe you heard it wrongly. I have a third child nearly on the way. I need more hours, we can’t even make do with so few when we’ve only two.’ His voice stabilised, he breathed deeply and took an instant to gaze around at the man who had tried to shake his hand earlier. He stood uncomfortably between two cabinets and obscured the bottom of a painting of two fishermen hauling a catch aboard their boat. ‘I suppose, then, you work here too… Are you a director, sir? I thought I recognised you. You sirs understand, I don’t doubt, the lengths a man has got to go to for a family.’
Linton shook his head anxiously, furrowed his brows and addressed Patrick. ‘No, I’m afraid you’re wrong. I’m merely a friend of Mr. Costello.’ He seemed to take this as a cue to turn to his friend’s desk. ‘George, would you not just give the poor man a few more hours? He’s doing no one any harm… If you can find work for a man making tea then surely…’
‘Quiet, now, the both of you.’ Costello cut him short with a barely controlled shout. ‘You,’ he pointed his pen once more at Patrick, ‘will get out now or there’ll be no reference and then good luck getting work anywhere.’ His face burned red as he turned to his friend and shouted, ‘And you: lecturing me on employment practices? When you’re charged with – no, better yet, when you do an honest day’s work in your life – then perhaps, perhaps, we can discuss my management. Until that point-’
Costello was distracted; he heard the dull thud of boots on carpet and turned his head to see his worker retreating back down the corridor. He was hunched forward so Costello couldn’t see even the back of his head but he felt a flush of embarrassment and his cheeks lit up. After he finished apologising to his friend he wrote a note on a scrap of paper to send something to the worker, if only to make up for his agitation. The two men left together and watched the races but the day was terribly awkward for Costello. He felt like he was the one being smothered by the heat of those lamps he kept using and every confined space with Linton felt like torment. More than anything else he thought about that worker and he thought about labour. He was quite right when he said people would gladly starve for a stable job at a printing press like his but he kept replaying Linton’s words. If he could hire a man to make tea why should he fire a man who wants to work a few more hours? The thought disturbed him and wasn’t sure how well he would work anymore.
Linton didn’t quite wait for his friend to put down his tea before he began to speak, navigating past piles of paper and ink. ‘George, dear heart, hello. How are you? How’s the tea? You must be nearly employing someone to brew it these days, with business so good.’ Linton smiled at his little joke and made his way past Costello’s desk to the three curtained windows arrayed behind it. As he surveyed the desk he added, as an afterthought, ‘That’s not even a gas light, is it? You’re still here in this old office using matches and creating all this… smoke and heat,’ he paused, momentarily, waved a hand in front of his face and continued, ‘while they’re installing electricity in the upmarket hotels around Dublin. This is nineteen eleven. It is a new century. You really must get some new décor.’
Costello grumbled a general condemnation of gaslights in offices before he began to speak more coherently. ‘Well actually,’ he stated, matter-of-factly, ‘I do have someone to make my tea. It’s not quite his only job around here for the time being but, you know, as long as news stays profitable…’ He followed Linton with his eyes, watched him smile at the reply, and began to speak again. ‘You might know him, when I think about it. Do you remember the fellow that used to live in my cousin’s room at Chapelizod?’Linton was pulling the curtains back while he listened, letting light seep into the ink stains of the carpet, the cabinets lining the walls of the rooms and the stacks of books within. Costello watched the light bounce off his friend’s finely combed hair, his impeccable dress and his deep blue eyes. He felt his friend looked distinctly handsome that day.
Eventually Linton paused to wheel around completely and look at Costello. ‘You know, I think I do. Wasn’t his name Connor? You two used to work together at the harbour, didn’t you?’
‘O’Connor,’ Costello corrected, ‘was his last name, anyway. And you’re right; we did casual work about the dock before I started working here and he found it hard to get a day’s wage. By the bye, you know you’re early?’
‘Am I? My driver must’ve been quick, then. There was some kind of demonstration on and I thought we’d never get through. I’ll remember to give that driver a few shillings come Christmas.’
Costello took another sip his tea, ‘That ‘union’ crowd, I suppose. I only say it because you’ll have to hang around for a bit now; I’ve a meeting with one of the workers. He’s – Oh.’
Both men heard the sound of heavy work boots scraping the mat at the office’s door and craned their necks to see a comparatively shabbily dressed man standing just on the threshold. He stepped forward without being asked and sniffed loudly through his nose. He spoke in a voice a little higher than a whisper and avoided eye contact with Mr. Costello. ‘Sirs.’
Costello looked grave and turned his chair back to face his disorganised desk and the man who stood before it. Linton, meanwhile, smiled a little and navigated back past the paper piles to greet this man who stood so still in suspenders and a ragged little cap. When he arrived before this worker he extended his hand expectantly and grinned broadly. The worker looked a bit startled, then confused, then apologetic. He kept his hands by his sides, tightly curled into fists. ‘Sorry, sir, but I don’t feel I should…’
George Costello was quite clearly distressed by this situation. He half rose, then sunk back down and spoke to his friend in something like a hiss, ‘Robert, stand aside if you please and allow me to have a word with this fellow.’ Linton must’ve detected something amiss, because he stood to the side of the room and his smile faded a bit. Costello, meanwhile, took an unusually long drink from his teacup and only hesitantly set it back down on the saucer. ‘Mr… Hm…’ He began to push aside papers and open drawers in search of something.
‘It’s Patrick McBride, sir. I’m here because of the incident yesterday evening,’ and here his voice became virtually inaudible, ‘if you – didn’t know.’ He sniffed again except this time he went to rub his hand against his nose. The hand was spotted with ink and grime, though, and he only succeeded in stamping part of the mixture on his right nostril.
Costello nodded, shut the drawers and drew himself in closer to his desk. ‘Well, and correct me if I’m wrong, but my reports say that you were whipping up trouble and disorder yesterday,’ His tone changed and Linton, at least, felt Costello was reciting a quotation, ‘Standing on a box at the back, refusing to leave after your shift was over and asking for – demanding, actually, more money. That’s right so far as it goes?’ Costello pointed a pen accusingly across the room at Patrick, who simply nodded, ‘Well, then. At least you’re honest about it. Nonetheless, we don’t need agitators here: do you know how many decent men would fall over for a job at a good press like this? It pains me to say it but I think we’ll have to terminate your contract. Good luck, Mr. McBride.’
Patrick must’ve been overcome by emotion, because his hand shot up to wipe his eyes and he forgot about the ink and dirt they were caked in. His eyelids were coloured a faint black but when he managed to compose himself he issued a reply. ‘Sir, sir. It’s not as you’re making it out to be, or maybe you heard it wrongly. I have a third child nearly on the way. I need more hours, we can’t even make do with so few when we’ve only two.’ His voice stabilised, he breathed deeply and took an instant to gaze around at the man who had tried to shake his hand earlier. He stood uncomfortably between two cabinets and obscured the bottom of a painting of two fishermen hauling a catch aboard their boat. ‘I suppose, then, you work here too… Are you a director, sir? I thought I recognised you. You sirs understand, I don’t doubt, the lengths a man has got to go to for a family.’
Linton shook his head anxiously, furrowed his brows and addressed Patrick. ‘No, I’m afraid you’re wrong. I’m merely a friend of Mr. Costello.’ He seemed to take this as a cue to turn to his friend’s desk. ‘George, would you not just give the poor man a few more hours? He’s doing no one any harm… If you can find work for a man making tea then surely…’
‘Quiet, now, the both of you.’ Costello cut him short with a barely controlled shout. ‘You,’ he pointed his pen once more at Patrick, ‘will get out now or there’ll be no reference and then good luck getting work anywhere.’ His face burned red as he turned to his friend and shouted, ‘And you: lecturing me on employment practices? When you’re charged with – no, better yet, when you do an honest day’s work in your life – then perhaps, perhaps, we can discuss my management. Until that point-’
Costello was distracted; he heard the dull thud of boots on carpet and turned his head to see his worker retreating back down the corridor. He was hunched forward so Costello couldn’t see even the back of his head but he felt a flush of embarrassment and his cheeks lit up. After he finished apologising to his friend he wrote a note on a scrap of paper to send something to the worker, if only to make up for his agitation. The two men left together and watched the races but the day was terribly awkward for Costello. He felt like he was the one being smothered by the heat of those lamps he kept using and every confined space with Linton felt like torment. More than anything else he thought about that worker and he thought about labour. He was quite right when he said people would gladly starve for a stable job at a printing press like his but he kept replaying Linton’s words. If he could hire a man to make tea why should he fire a man who wants to work a few more hours? The thought disturbed him and wasn’t sure how well he would work anymore.
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it's these protracted and meaningless adjectival modifiers that hold your writing up more than anything. this is great news - they're extremely easy to take out, and the benefit to your writing will be immediate and immense. go through and look out for your 'littles,' and 'quites' and 'a bits.' there are a lot, but it's your job to find them and if you're able to do it the ability will serve you for all time. you can leave a little bit of this if you want to channel a specific voice 'of the era,' but it doesn't come through enough to justify it (until your last paragraph, which is one of your best.)
your dialogue is very good. use it. i know 'new speaker, new line' is a standard protocol but i have a personal stylistic guide of extending that to actions taken, with a maximum of one descriptive statement. so:
becomes:
it just makes it a lot easier to process in my mind; to evoke the speaker's voice you really can't be too careful to provide a lot of physical cues on the page about where narration stops and speech begins.
i think you're a great writer and would love to read more.
The action here is all passive. I'd change it to be more along the lines of "Mr. Costello lifted the teacup from the saucer when his friend, Mr. Linton entered his spacious office." In the first paragraph you also describe the light as being 'little' twice in two sentences which I would think about dropping completely and just keep the reference to it not being very brightly lit.
I agree with what Jezz said in his last block where the writing can be more clearly formatted. For a dialogue heavy piece it has a lot of big paragraphs.
The last paragraph sums up too much time and is the point of the story. I think you should show the two men trying to be friendly and not succeeding at it instead of just delivering an exposition ending.
{Twitter, Everybody's doing it. }{My Rambling Blog}
Linton didn’t quite wait for his friend to put down his tea before he began to speak, navigating past piles of paper and ink. ‘George, dear heart, hello. How are you? How’s the tea? You must be nearly employing someone to brew it these days, with business so good.’
Linton smiled at his little joke and made his way past Costello’s desk to the three curtained windows arrayed behind it.
As he surveyed the desk he added, as an afterthought, ‘That’s not even a gas light, is it? You’re still here in this old office using matches and creating all this… smoke and heat,’ he paused, momentarily, waved a hand in front of his face and continued, ‘while they’re installing electricity in the upmarket hotels around Dublin. This is nineteen eleven. It is a new century. You really must get some new décor.’
Costello grumbled a general condemnation of gaslights in offices before he began to speak more coherently. ‘Well actually,’ he stated, matter-of-factly, ‘I do have someone to make my tea. It’s not quite his only job around here for the time being but, you know, as long as news stays profitable…’
He followed Linton with his eyes, watched him smile at the reply, and began to speak again. ‘You might know him, when I think about it. Do you remember the fellow that used to live in my cousin’s room at Chapelizod?’
Linton was pulling the curtains back while he listened, letting light seep into the ink stains of the carpet, the cabinets lining the walls of the rooms and the stacks of books within.
Costello watched the light bounce off his friend’s finely combed hair, his impeccable dress and his deep blue eyes. He felt his friend looked distinctly handsome that day.
Eventually Linton paused to wheel around completely and look at Costello. ‘You know, I think I do. Wasn’t his name Connor? You two used to work together at the harbour, didn’t you?’
‘O’Connor,’ Costello corrected, ‘was his last name, anyway. And you’re right; we did casual work about the dock before I started working here and he found it hard to get a day’s wage. By the bye, you know you’re early?’
‘Am I? My driver must’ve been quick, then. There was some kind of demonstration on and I thought we’d never get through. I’ll remember to give that driver a few shillings come Christmas.’
Costello took another sip of his tea, ‘That ‘union’ crowd, I suppose. I only say it because you’ll have to hang around for a bit now; I’ve a meeting with one of the workers. He’s – Oh.’
Both men heard the sound of heavy work boots scraping the mat at the office’s door and craned their necks to see a shabbily dressed man standing just on the threshold. He stepped forward without being asked and sniffed loudly through his nose. He spoke in a voice a little higher than a whisper and avoided eye contact with Mr. Costello. ‘Sirs.’
Costello looked grave and turned his chair back to face his disorganised desk and the man who stood before it.
Linton, meanwhile, smiled a little and navigated back past the paper piles to greet this man who stood so still in suspenders and a ragged little cap. When he arrived before this worker he extended his hand expectantly and grinned broadly. The worker looked startled, then confused, then apologetic. He kept his hands by his sides, tightly curled into fists. ‘Sorry, sir, but I don’t feel I should…’
George Costello was quite clearly distressed by this situation. He half rose, then sunk back down and spoke to his friend with a hiss, ‘Robert, stand aside if you please and allow me to have a word with this fellow.’
Linton must’ve detected something amiss, because he stood to the side of the room and his smile faded a bit. Costello, meanwhile, took an unusually long drink from his teacup and only hesitantly set it back down on the saucer.
‘Mr… Hm…’ He began to push aside papers and open drawers in search of something.
‘It’s Patrick McBride, sir. I’m here because of the incident yesterday evening,’ and here his voice became virtually inaudible, ‘if you – didn’t know.’
He sniffed again except this time he went to rub his hand against his nose. The hand was spotted with ink and grime, though, and he only succeeded in stamping part of the mixture on his right nostril.
Costello nodded, shut the drawers and drew himself in closer to his desk. ‘Well, and correct me if I’m wrong, but my reports say that you were whipping up trouble and disorder yesterday,’
His tone changed and Linton, at least, felt Costello was reciting a quotation, ‘Standing on a box at the back, refusing to leave after your shift was over and asking for – demanding, actually, more money. That’s right so far as it goes?’
Costello pointed a pen accusingly across the room at Patrick, who simply nodded, ‘Well, then. At least you’re honest about it. Nonetheless, we don’t need agitators here: do you know how many decent men would fall over for a job at a good press like this? It pains me to say it but I think we’ll have to terminate your contract. Good luck, Mr. McBride.’
Patrick must’ve been overcome by emotion, because his hand shot up to wipe his eyes and he forgot about the ink and dirt they were caked in. His eyelids were coloured a faint black but when he managed to compose himself he issued a reply.
‘Sir, sir. It’s not as you’re making it out to be, or maybe you heard it wrongly. I have a third child nearly on the way. I need more hours, we can’t even make do with so few when we’ve only two.’
His voice stabilised, he breathed deeply and took an instant to gaze around at the man who had tried to shake his hand earlier.
He stood uncomfortably between two cabinets and obscured the bottom of a painting of two fishermen hauling a catch aboard their boat.
‘I suppose, then, you work here too… Are you a director, sir? I thought I recognised you. You sirs understand, I don’t doubt, the lengths a man has got to go to for a family.’
Linton shook his head anxiously, furrowed his brows and addressed Patrick. ‘No, I’m afraid you’re wrong. I’m merely a friend of Mr. Costello.’
He seemed to take this as a cue to turn to his friend’s desk. ‘George, would you not just give the poor man a few more hours? He’s doing no one any harm… If you can find work for a man making tea then surely…’
‘Quiet, now, the both of you.’ Costello cut him short with a barely controlled shout. ‘You,’ he pointed his pen once more at Patrick, ‘will get out now or there’ll be no reference and then good luck getting work anywhere.’
His face burned red as he turned to his friend and shouted, ‘And you: lecturing me on employment practices? When you’re charged with – no, better yet, when you do an honest day’s work in your life – then perhaps, perhaps, we can discuss my management. Until that point-’
Costello was distracted; he heard the dull thud of boots on carpet and turned his head to see his worker retreating back down the corridor. He was hunched forward so Costello couldn’t see even the back of his head but he felt a flush of embarrassment and his cheeks lit up. The next word caught in his throat and he noticed he was half standing and leaning over his desk. He avoided Linton’s gaze and attempted to scrape together a few of the papers scattered about the desk.
It was thirty seconds of painful silence before Linton stepped out from between the cabinets and turned back to the picture he had been standing under. He looked up and mused without his usual confidence, ‘Is this new? I hardly saw it in the dark.’
Costello finished his coffee in one movement and smiled sadly. ‘I’m sorry about that. I don’t shout usually, you know…’
Linton simply nodded and led Costello down to his motorcar which waited out behind the building.
Costello felt uncomfortable in motorcars generally; they rattled and bounced so terribly that when he got out walking was always difficult. It was even worse that day because they were going as far as Leopardstown Racecourse where the roads were still kept with carriages in mind.
A few times he tried to start a conversation or simply remark on the quality of the roads but he felt he was being drowned out by the whirr of the engine and the sound of wheels crushing cobbles.
He felt sick, he said, when they arrived. He stayed for the first three races because Linton owned two horses and he was optimistic they’d do well that year. Neither won anything and only then Costello felt he could excuse himself without looking like a fool. Being driven back into town - in a carriage this time - he still felt sickly and couldn’t stop thinking about his workers and labour.