GreyZone
Senior Member
Margaret Doyle brushed a dark red curl behind her ear, forcing a bright smile as she sat an overflowing glass of ale down in front of a costumer. The man had a paunchy middle and a course beard that reached halfway down his chest, grizzly bits of food lodged in the hair. The bald spot on the top of his head glinted in the weak overhead light as his meaty hand wrapped around the glass. "Thank you, darlin'," he told her in a thick Cockney accent, and she forced another smile.
Her light blue eyes fell to the thick fingers, the sweat from the glass dripping down over them. She had not slept in over a day, and she blinked a few times to refocus her attention. "Thank you," she responded. Margaret was constantly attempting to stifle her Irish accent, to diminish the remnants of her family history. It was sort of impossible with her telltale scarlet locks, but nonetheless, she would lie awake in bed at night attempting to feign the London accent that would keep her from getting mocked by drunken men.
Damn it. Margaret quickly buried her reddened hands in her apron when a wealthy costumer stepped inside--she could spot the type instantaneously, the young noblemen filled with dread. They often hated their wives, hated their bratty children who they had simply for the formality of it. They would come to her alehouse dressed in poor men's clothes, in an attempt to get away from it all. It wasn't acceptable to get bloody wasted in a brewery appropriate for men of stature, so they came to her. She offered them ale and beer that was brewed in their very basement, a slice of something that was so out of their reach.
Even though they came in dressed as poor men, she could always spot them immediately. Poor men always waltzed in with a sense of entitlement; this was their home. They had friends here, they could be boisterous and loud, they could try to catch a glimpse of Margaret's ankle and their wives would not yell at them. But the noblemen--oh, they carried their guilt and compete misery like blocked writing on their foreheads. Noblemen were so painfully easy to spot because they were never, ever happy.
She knew that no poor man would think twice about her reddened hands, but rich ones expected a woman's to be as soft and white as cream, to feel like a pat of butter between theirs, all small and delicate. Margaret spent hours in the bleak morning scrubbing glasses in boiling water so hot that she couldn't lean over it, and her palms showed the wear. "What can I get you, Sir?" She asked the man skeptically, her eyes rolling over his frame. He hadn't even removed his shiny black top hat as he eased his long and slender body into the chair. It was obvious that he did not frequent bars because he allowed Margaret to choose what to serve him.
"Try this." She slid a strong lager toward him, a slight smile playing on her lips. She noticed the rich man's eyes slide toward the slice of decolletage she was displaying; it was scandalous for the time, yes, but she would never cover it if there was a change of her earning fewer tips. Her younger sister Jane clomped down the stairs, her skirt that fell below her knees swishing all around her. It needed patched again.
"He wants you," she told Margaret in a thick Irish accent, holding out a screaming red-faced infant like he was a head of cabbage to be chopped up for a stew.
Margaret reluctantly took the baby on her hip, hoisting his diaper further up on his fat body. She didn't think she despised anything more than the shrieking infant that was bouncing against her as she collected some money from the first man. He had taken her dear mother; Missus Doyle had managed to survive giving birth six times before the seventh finally taken her. Margaret's father had once been a large man, who carried himself with pride and took no joy in anything without his wife. After this colicky and despicable demon had been born, the bar suddenly became her responsibility and hers alone. She wasn't complaining.
Her light blue eyes fell to the thick fingers, the sweat from the glass dripping down over them. She had not slept in over a day, and she blinked a few times to refocus her attention. "Thank you," she responded. Margaret was constantly attempting to stifle her Irish accent, to diminish the remnants of her family history. It was sort of impossible with her telltale scarlet locks, but nonetheless, she would lie awake in bed at night attempting to feign the London accent that would keep her from getting mocked by drunken men.
Damn it. Margaret quickly buried her reddened hands in her apron when a wealthy costumer stepped inside--she could spot the type instantaneously, the young noblemen filled with dread. They often hated their wives, hated their bratty children who they had simply for the formality of it. They would come to her alehouse dressed in poor men's clothes, in an attempt to get away from it all. It wasn't acceptable to get bloody wasted in a brewery appropriate for men of stature, so they came to her. She offered them ale and beer that was brewed in their very basement, a slice of something that was so out of their reach.
Even though they came in dressed as poor men, she could always spot them immediately. Poor men always waltzed in with a sense of entitlement; this was their home. They had friends here, they could be boisterous and loud, they could try to catch a glimpse of Margaret's ankle and their wives would not yell at them. But the noblemen--oh, they carried their guilt and compete misery like blocked writing on their foreheads. Noblemen were so painfully easy to spot because they were never, ever happy.
She knew that no poor man would think twice about her reddened hands, but rich ones expected a woman's to be as soft and white as cream, to feel like a pat of butter between theirs, all small and delicate. Margaret spent hours in the bleak morning scrubbing glasses in boiling water so hot that she couldn't lean over it, and her palms showed the wear. "What can I get you, Sir?" She asked the man skeptically, her eyes rolling over his frame. He hadn't even removed his shiny black top hat as he eased his long and slender body into the chair. It was obvious that he did not frequent bars because he allowed Margaret to choose what to serve him.
"Try this." She slid a strong lager toward him, a slight smile playing on her lips. She noticed the rich man's eyes slide toward the slice of decolletage she was displaying; it was scandalous for the time, yes, but she would never cover it if there was a change of her earning fewer tips. Her younger sister Jane clomped down the stairs, her skirt that fell below her knees swishing all around her. It needed patched again.
"He wants you," she told Margaret in a thick Irish accent, holding out a screaming red-faced infant like he was a head of cabbage to be chopped up for a stew.
Margaret reluctantly took the baby on her hip, hoisting his diaper further up on his fat body. She didn't think she despised anything more than the shrieking infant that was bouncing against her as she collected some money from the first man. He had taken her dear mother; Missus Doyle had managed to survive giving birth six times before the seventh finally taken her. Margaret's father had once been a large man, who carried himself with pride and took no joy in anything without his wife. After this colicky and despicable demon had been born, the bar suddenly became her responsibility and hers alone. She wasn't complaining.
