Candlelight: Chapter 3
The mournful wail of a siren woke Ciaran from a black, empty sleep. He rubbed his eyes and groaned, forcing himself to sit up on his bed and bumping his head on the ceiling. “Every f—ing time!” he swore to himself under his morning breath. He squinted down at the candle that had been lit on the windowsill.
“Everyone up! Roll call and weigh in commences in 3 minutes!” Ordered a shadowy figure by the candle.
“Yes, Manager,” he grumbled, his voice joined by two others from bunk beds on the opposite side of the room. His eyes followed the shadow as it marched out of the bedroom in the flickering light.
“I’m never going to get used to this ‘rise at sparrow’s fart’ thing,” he mumbled at the bunk beds across the room.
“Help nie om te kla nie. Niemand luister nie,” came the response from the bottom bunk bed. No use complaining. No one’s listening.
“Good morning to you too, Ishmael,” quipped Ciaran.
A heavy shadow from the top bed dropped onto the old wooden floorboards with a thud that shook the banisters. It left with a grunt.
“Lekker geslaap, Mo?” said Ishmael in sarcastic cheeriness. Slept well, Mo?
Ciaran chuckled and hastily got dressed so as not to be late for roll call.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Ciaran and Ishmael were the last two to file into the dining room. The room was large and smelled like old varnish and the wood polish used on the floorboards. A beautiful, long yellowwood dining table stood in the center of the room with twelve wooden seats, ten of them occupied by men in the same kind of blue overalls Ishmael and Ciaran were wearing. A tall, sturdy man in black combat boots, black cargo pants, and a black golf shirt tucked tightly under his belt stood at the doorway to the adjoining kitchen. He looked up from his watch with a glare as they walked in.
“Last again, Mr Adams and Mr Murphy. Ten seconds to spare,” he said icily. “Sit.”
A man standing at his side in similar black uniform holding a clipboard scratched two marks with his pen.
“Sunday schedule today. Breakfast and weigh in now. 05h30 hygiene. 06h30 general chores. 08h00 church. 10h00 repair the vegetable garden fence. 12h00 lunch. 13h00 continue repairs. 17h30 personal hygiene. 18:00 dinner. And I don’t want to hear of any trouble at all. Am I heard?”
“We hear you, Executive Leeway,” chorused the room.
“May your day be productive.”
“May we be efficient.”
And with that, Executive Leeway nodded at the man standing by his side in the same black uniform and exited swiftly.
“Adams!” called the man and Ishmael rose from the table and went through to the kitchen. He returned soon after with a bowl of oats and a cup of tea.
“Du Plessis!”
Another man rose and repeated the action. The roll call continued until it was Ciaran’s turn.
“Murphy!”
Ciaran rose and made his way toward the kitchen. As he was passing the uniformed man, he raised the clipboard to stop Ciaran and fixed him with an angry glare.
“No problems today at church, okay Murphy?”
Ciaran kept his eyes ahead of him and said nothing.
“Am I heard, Murphy?” he said, raising his voice to match the anger in his eyes.
“I hear you, Manager.” said Ciaran, still keeping his gaze fixed stubbornly ahead of him.
The clipboard was lowered and Ciaran proceeded into the kitchen. He hated the linoleum floors and pastel-green steel kitchen cabinets. It felt to him as if the kitchen had been built as an afterthought. The rest of the house, as old and imperfect as it was, had an endearing character to it. The kitchen was cold and uninviting. The linoleum flooring was peeling away at the walls. The plywood countertops were chipped and crumbling at the edges. The taps were old and rusted. A large, old-fashioned mechanical weighing scale stood in the corner by the pantry door. Another man in black uniform ordered him onto the scale, slid the measure markers into place, wrote down his weight, and punched some figures into a calculator.
“BMI slightly sub-optimal. One extra scoop of oats.” said the man gruffly.
A cook in blue overalls stood by a large pot of oats and plopped two scoops of steaming, milky slop into a bowl. Ciaran got off the scale fetched his breakfast and a cup tea off the kitchen counter. He winked at the cook as he took his bowl and the cook winked back.
“No coffee, Manager Fourie?” he chirped, a hint of mischief in his voice.
“Don’t start your nonsense, Murphy. You don’t have enough efficiencies to be a smart ass,” Manager Fourie spat back.
Ciaran raised his eyebrows in mock terror and swaggered back to the dining room to eat his breakfast. Before the manager with the clipboard called the next name, Ciaran heard the scratching of his pen making a note. Worth it, he thought to himself.
“Mabane!” came the call and the roll call continued.
Nobody spoke. The only sounds were spoons clinking on bowls and a noisy slurp of tea every now and again.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
As soon as anyone finished breakfast, he wasted no time in taking his cutlery and crockery to kitchen sink and then fetching his wash basin and wash cloth from his room. For optimal efficiency with so many housemates, the two bathrooms were only used for defecation, not washing. A manager positioned outside the door with a stopwatch would give a maximum of five minutes to finish one’s business. Efficiency points, or efficiencies, were given according to how quickly said business could be completed. Washing happened outside by the tap in the back yard. Because the water was always cold and the mornings either chilly or freezing, time efficiency was never compromised. But resource wastage had to be prevented. Each man was allowed only one washbowl of water every morning and evening, and one bar of soap per month. Efficiencies were given for tapping less water into one’s bowl or making one’s soap last longer than a month. Efficiencies could also be earned for making any personal items last longer than their NA-determined lifespan. Toothbrushes, toothpaste, razors, shaving cream, toilet paper, clothing, shoes. Of course, personal appearance and bodily odours were also reviewed so personal resource management was a tricky balancing act of necessity and ambition. When he first arrived at Springfield, Ciarian thought the enforced frugality would be impossible. But soon he surprised himself at how long he could make a bar of soap last; how much toothpaste he could squeeze out of a tube he once would have just discarded; how little toilet paper he required when he employed the right folding and wiping techniques. The household ran like a well-oiled machine. Breakfast was consumed, bodies were cleaned, chores were completed, efficiencies were noted, wastages were recorded. And, right on time, the men of House 16 made their way in their Sunday best to church.