7. Afternoon

Seventh chapter of Book 1. Not a traditional fantasy story. Any suggestions for a title?

Cleaning
*
Visitors
*
TV

Sylvia drags her feet up the stairs to the first floor, having finally finished mopping the wooden floor downstairs. Being a communal area, the ground floor tends to get more than its fair share of dirty shoes, so the flooring has always been smooth and easy to clean down there. It doesn’t half make your arms ache cleaning the whole of it though. The first floor on the other hand, is entirely carpet, far as the eye can see. There are rumours that Lindel has even tried to install carpet on the walls for soundproofing, because the really young children can make a jumbo jet taking off sound like someone playing a piano in comparison. So long as this someone isn’t Zack in a moment of “inspirational genius” as he likes to call it.

The vacuum cleaner thumps against the stair as she slowly makes her way to the top, dragging it like a stubborn child. Once she reaches the landing, she scours around for the nearest socket, always slightly too far apart for the power cable to allow a thorough cleaning of the entire corridor. Lindel doesn’t like having more power sockets than necessary around the younger children’s rooms; it is far too tempting to poke a fork or something in there. Sylvia flicks the on switch. Instantly the cleaner roars into life. Sylvia kicks the pedal at the base down and adjusts the angle, before beginning to move the machine back and forth across the carpet.

To be honest, there isn’t really much point in cleaning the carpet anyway; most of the mess on it will take a lot more than a vacuum to remove. No, this is just another one of Lindel’s punishments, another way for her to exert and confirm her authority over Sylvia. Sylvia is well accustomed to these schemes, her life seems to be a regular cycle of punishment and retaliation these days, she hasn’t really considered anything beyond, even though in a year, she’ll be evicted from the premises like Jenny with an apprenticeship, and start her own life as an adult. God knows what life will be like then.

The vacuum lets out a screech as she passes over the rug tassels. Lindel is forever covering the worst stains on the carpet with rugs. Cheap ones from antique shops, which, in Sylvia’s opinion, are far more distressed than the carpet underneath. Elliot thinks they give the place character. He is probably just saying that to excuse the fact that he’s caused most of the mess underneath.

Most of the mess underneath is indeed paint that Elliot has spilled in his formative years, before Lindel gave in and designated a small room in the house as the arts and crafts room. Sylvia doesn’t know much about Elliot before he came to Samjays, what the last orphanage he was in was like, but she knows he was taught art by someone. When he first came he was very withdrawn, not one to cause a fuss. He didn’t talk much. Then one of the older kids, supervising an activity, brought in some paint and brushes. Elliot had sat in the room for 6 hours solid working, demolishing blank canvases like no tomorrow. Unfortunately that room was the general all-purpose activity room, and all the art materials had to be cleared away at the end of the day. Having noticed Elliot’s enthusiasm for the discipline, the staff allowed him access to the materials cupboard to paint when he wanted. They weren’t quite been prepared for the effects.

One of the older boys walked into the room where Elliot slept a few days later, having followed a trail of clothes on the carpet. Elliot apparently hadn’t left the room for two days. It was only later when the staff had removed the clothes that they realised they were covering up where Elliot had spilled paint on them whilst carrying it up to his room.

Lindel immediately banned Elliot from painting upstairs. The paint on the carpets however was stuck for good, and being unable to afford new carpets, Lindel simply took an afternoon off and bought some old rugs from the flea market in the centre of town. Elliot however, wasn’t deterred. The next morning, he was found in the dining room, painting away. He continued to migrate around the bottom floor with each time Lindel came within earshot, consequently his observational drawings of the house took on a very cubist-inspired nature. Eventually Lindel gave in, and converted one of the smaller rooms on the ground floor for arts and crafts. If Elliot had to paint, he could paint in there.

At least that was the theory, however around that period in time, Elliot declared that he had finished his intensive painting phase, and was now into a research and development phase. “It goes in cycles” he explained to a despairing Lindel. Elliot no longer spent long stretches of time in the room, he is more likely to be found, or not found, going for long walks on campus, daydreaming, and contemplating philosophical arguments. He does still regularly paint though, which is lucky for Zack and Sylvia, it gives them a steady supply of paint for their own devices.

*

Sylvia switches off the vacuum, unplugs it and begins to drag it further up the hallway. She places the plug into the next socket and kicks it into position. She is on the brink of switching it on again and drowning the hallways in the cacophonous drone, when she hears Lindel downstairs. She is talking enthusiastically to what – from the rhythm of the footsteps – sounds like two people, one of whom is wearing heels that make a clacking sound across the wooden floor. A couple, obviously with the intention of adopting. This doesn’t concern Sylvia, she knows she’s far too old to be likely to be considered, and that’s not even considering her track record. Prospective parents will hardly be pleased with her string of offences.

Lindel begins to climb the staircase with the couple in tow; they reach the landing and stop about half way down the corridor adjacent to where Sylvia is cleaning. Sylvia smirks – this isn’t the wing for the younger children, the walls are thin as paper here. She listens out for Lindel’s recitation of the orphanage brochure, which Lindel must have learnt of by heart the amount of times she’s told prospective couples it. There are more couples recently trying to adopt, Sylvia has no idea why, and quite a few who look like they could barely afford it too. There’s a rumour going round that the children adopted by these kinds of people are sold off on the black market organ by organ. Sylvia shudders. It’s just a rumour though, Zack probably made it up.

Sylvia listens out for the crucial points in the speech, the ones that Lindel likes to emphasise. She always sounds like she’s trying to promote a product or something when she talks to the couples.
“The children at Samjays all receive excellent education and usually go perform well at local school, have little or no pro-“ Sylvia flicks the switch, the entire corridor is instantly flooded with the grating mechanical drone. Sylvia works the carpet with the vacuum, which has little or no effect on the state of it thanks to Elliot’s’ painting trips, however Sylvia doesn’t want to make it overly easy for Lindel to blame her, especially if Lindel is with parents. Satisfied that she has caused enough of a disturbance, Sylvia switches off the vacuum again. Lindel’s voice continues.

“As I was saying, they have little or no pr-" Sylvia switches the vacuum on again, and smirks. Lindel knows full well that it’s Sylvia cleaning up here, and she knows full well it’s her own fault. Sylvia moves the vacuum over a particularly impressive stain repeatedly. Lindel knows full well that Sylvia knows this is entirely pointless, but the couple she’s with don’t know it, they don’t know anything, and Lindel won’t talk down to Sylvia in front of them. First impressions are everything. Sylvia switches off the vacuum a third time. There is a pause whilst Lindel listens out to make sure the vacuum isn’t about to start again, and begins to repeat the sentence.

“They have little or-" Sylvia starts up the vacuum again and laughs. The laughter is masked by the noise of the vacuum, but Lindel probably knows it’s there. The couple don’t though, they know nothing. Sylvia can almost see Lindel’s face at this point, gritting her teeth as she forces out a fake smile to the couple. First impressions are everything. The noise continues to drone throughout the corridor, Sylvia doesn’t even bother moving the vacuum, Lindel will be here any minute, but she won’t be able to unleash her anger at Sylvia, because of the couple. Sylvia flicks the switch for one last time, she hears Lindel again.

“Excuse me for a moment.” Lindel starts to make her way down the corridor. Sylvia stands there, arms crossed, resting on the top of the vacuum. She smirks.

“Ah, Sylvia, it’s you.” Says Lindel through gritted teeth “how nice of you to volunteer to clean the floor for us. I think you can leave that to Doris in the morning when she comes round, you go and have fun outside.” Sylvia climbs down from the vacuum, still smirking.

“Thank you Lindel, how very kind of you.” She remarks, and makes her way down the corridor, past the couple, who look a little bemused, flashes a superficial smile at them and makes her way down the stairs. First impressions are everything.

Sylvia pictures Lindel’s seething face in her mind. She wants to retain that image forever.

Lindel - 1, Sylvia - 2.

*

Sylvia crosses the entrance hall and turns down a corridor. She opens the door at the end and enters the common room. The room is large, full of old sofas, beaten up and sagging by the countless feet that have sat on, stood on and climbed over them and the covering fabric is ripped. There is a rumour going round that one day a younger kid sat on one of them, the biggest one, and sank so far into it he completely disappeared beneath the cushions. They call it the man-eater now, and only the oldest kids are allowed to sit on it. They say it’s to prevent the younger ones from being devoured, Sylvia knows better. With 50 children at Samjays and only 4 sofas, anything goes to make sure you’re not sitting on the floor.

Like most Saturday mornings, the room is full. The lack of motivation to do anything else after a long week inexplicably draws the majority of the house towards the vapid, soul-sucking box. Around thirty of them sit there at the moment, crammed onto sofas like sardines, lounging round the base, resting against the backs of them, hoping not to get accidentally kicked or trodden on when one of the older children gathers up enough willpower to leave the room.

At the moment, Jenny is sitting on the man-eater, with the rest of the 16 year olds. They’re back from their apprenticeships; in limbo. Once the summer ends, they have to leave Samjays forever. Samjay’s only duty is to provide them with somewhere to go, and a form of employment or training, which usually involves an apprenticeship somewhere local. Jenny is the youngest of the group, having only just turned 16, and the law states that before that age, children must be in full time education. It’s a stupid law. In Jenny’s situation, it means she has to find herself an apprenticeship within the space of two months or else… Well, Sylvia doesn’t know what else. She assumes Lindel will be forced to employ Jenny temporarily in that case, until she can find one. Jenny barely sees the children her age nowadays; they’re always away during the week, while she’s forced to carry out menial tasks for Lindel to ameliorate her CV.

Sylvia cautiously enters the room; the thirty pairs of eyes do not recognise her presence. She slinks over to the middle of the room, pillow in tow, and positions herself between two ten-year-olds, who continue to stare transfixed at the screen. Sylvia leans back, and allows herself to be taken in.

The landscape is compromised of tall buildings, far taller than anything she’s ever seen in reality, and the characters speak in a strange accent, wear strange fashions, everything is strange, alien. She always has trouble believing that these people exist and aren’t just some elaborate work of fiction created to deceive them all. The news bulletin voiceover describes the situation as the footage in the background plays out. There are people, walking about, so many people, Sylvia has never seen so many gathered in one place, no-one in the room has, except maybe the oldest ones who’ve actually left the grounds before, and Lukas, who had appendicitis a year ago and had to be taken to a hospital in the town. He said he’d never seen so many before, all rushing around like they had something to do, like they had a purpose, like they were needed somewhere. Sylvia can remember how she used to sit on the roof of the building, and look out across town, counting how many people she could see. Her record was 23 simultaneously.

The Camera shifts back to a room where two people sit facing their audience of children. They screen behind them warps to display various diagrams, images, visual cues. When she was younger, Sylvia used to believe that the people in the room, the people in the box, were only speaking to the people in the room. It wasn’t until she asked one of the older children, old enough to have left now, why they used such difficult words when talking to a room of children. Interest rates, deflation, economy, these words meant nothing, and still mean nothing to Sylvia. Of course she knows what they refer to, what they describe, but she can’t see their importance.

The people at the desk continue to talk between themselves, to people on screens, and then at the audience. Sylvia has always found this bizarre, and quite frankly, absurd, but perhaps that’s why it’s so mesmerising. Currently, they are talking to a smartly dressed woman in her thirties. Sylvia assumes that’s her age, but she’s terrible at judging these things, she can only compare the person to the couples who visit Samjays for adoption, usually in their thirties. The wording underneath tells her that the woman’s name is Dr. Rhiannon Jackson. There are a lot of letters after her name, but Jenny told her these aren’t actually part of it, they just show she’s clever.

The smartly dressed woman continues to talk, various words stick in Sylvia’s mind, “interface”, “paralysed”, “cyber”; they all have a lyrical quality, rolling off the tongue with a certain elegance, exotic. Sylvia knows what they mean, and yet they mean nothing to her. The lyrical quality lullabies her eyelids into submission until the room fades into nothing.