The Sanders.
The mud was worse than he'd ever known it. The rain had filled the guttering and roared down the leaden pipes to wash at the feet of the unwary. Then it had spread with the soil and detritus of the passageways to fill the road, mixing with the horse-soil and the throwings of the household cooks.
He had to turn up the bottoms of his britches. His only pair of britches. amending the thought. At five of the morning it was difficult to see where he was treading and when his ankle turned, slipping on something turbid and bloated, he cursed himself for being in this place crashing against the stone wall. He rubbed his bruising shoulder as he hurried on in the dark lane. No good to be late, his blade would be given to another and he'd not be working in the dry under the roof of that mansion. He was glad of the last several weeks' sanding there in the company of three others, and the chance of a feed from the Cook who was still in residence. Her quarters were not to be renovated, cleaned and painted. She was just a servant and would remain in her corner, whether clean or dirty as she made it.
His work was temporary, not fixed as was Cook's. He moved from place to place, house to mansion to palace to hovel, depending on the colour or smoothness of a floor. He'd spent the last months sleeping in the hovel that had no floor to speak of being just mud that he swept when it was dry. Now at least he could kneel for fourteen dry hours a day on the pale gold of the pine floor, smelling the resin as he pulled and scraped, pulled and scraped, pulled and pulled. His knees would ache as the hard wood bit into the bonyness of his kneecaps despite the pads they all wore. Even the pads themselves became hard and sometimes filled with the splinters from the planking edges which would bite suddenly, vicious.
Brendan Behan was a Sander. He had taken to this work at the age of ten when his other employer had died, leaving the desolate house empty.
Then when the new owner came, he had decided to clean the filth of over seventy years from the walls, the floors and the ornate plaster ceilings.
So in had come a bustle of voices, feet and hands, orders flying and errands to be run, from which could be gleaned the odd penny. At ten years old Brendan was thin, gold and agile. He also was very good at watching, assessing and making sure he was in the right place at the right time.
Brendan Behan had been an opportunist then, and he was still the same now. When the plasterers had finished pouring white soup over the dark brown floors, finishing with a dusting of plasterpowder to be trodden into the cracks between the boards, there had been an outpouring of anger. Brendan had hidden in the shrubbery outside the big room window, listening to the roaring from the Owner. The overseer had been grovellingly apologetic and had assured the Owner that the floors would be made good, but that it should be the last of the works to be carried out as paint from the walls would also cause distress to the woodwork beneath their feet. The Owner had been mollified after a deal of assurances, but the realisation had come to Brendan that floors needed to be polished, coloured, cleaned.
He had tugged at the coat of the Overseer as he left the mansion that once belonged to his master. He had pleaded to be allowed to join the floor-cleaners as he was such a strong lad and he could polish and sweep with the best. The Overseer had rubbed his hand through the straggly blonde locks of the green-eyed waif and, suddenly feeling in a good mood, had promised that Brendan could come and help.
So Brendan had learnt the art of bringing battered floor plankings to incandescant goldness. He learnt to rub the thick-smelling beeswax in a circular motion, hard enough to raise a good heat so that the wax diffused into the new-scraped soft wood, and it would then set in the thinnest of glassy films. It was before that that the Sanders would have come into their own. They would form a line at a wall, usually the furthest from the windows, tie the pads to their knees, and bend. Their shirts or tunics had been removed to prevent soiling by the copious sweating the work entailed, and the room would become odorous with the scents of torn beeswax and healthy men-sweat.
Young Brendan would watch fascinated, as the Sanders knelt back to one arm's length from the wall, take the razor-edged steel blade in both hands, lay the blade toe foward. They would begin to hum as they leant in, a quiet deep flowing of sound, as they pulled the blade back, back, as deeply, softly as they were humming. Then they would lean forward again, from the bent back to the straight stretched arms, and again, hummmmm and pull the blade towards themselves. So gently, yet so firmly, it seemed as light a stroke as Vicar's hand upon his head after Mass. Thus they would proceed.
Day after day, hour after hour, the deep resonance of humming from strong mens' throats would tumble through the windows and doors of the empty mansion.
Brendan was the sweeper. He had to brush away every single particle of the scraped dirt, old polish and wood shavings that the Sanders left. It was a particular job, as to leave a single nobble of the scrapings would allow it to be trodden back into the now screamingly pale wood, and stain it indelibly.
In his curiosity he had heard himself asking how they learnt to make this long, soft pull that lifted the filth of years so easily and simply from the planking. He'd wondered if he could be as limber and as beautifully-moving as these men, who worked together as in a dance.
The skinny child that was Brendan Behan had dared. Leaning his birch broom against the door and taking a blade from a soft pouch that lay in the wicker basket of the biggest Sander, Ewffyn, he'd knelt in a corner of the room that was still dirty and untouched. He had shuffled back the required distance, stretching out his fine-boned arms till his fingers rested flat upon the wall. Then taking up the blade which was uncommon heavy for two childish hands, he had laid the blade to the floor. His voice piped high, a swallow's song, but he had pulled, heavily, slow and long, back towards his knees. The black curls of polish, of wood, of filth, rolled themselves to submission under his knees.
Brendan Behan became a Sander at that very moment. He'd felt the power of the blade, the strength and gentleness needed to prevent scuddings, the intensity of concentration. He'd known then that he wanted to be a master of this world. He would become a Sander.
That had been twenty years before. Brendan now was a seasoned worker. His back muscles had grown, smoothed and filled out his frame. His flat belly was taut with muscles like iron from the pulling. His buttocks were hard, neat and round from clenching. His hands had suffered, bearing the scars of slipped blades, of splinters that leapt and penetrated deep, taking dirt into the flesh. He had callouses on his knuckles, the heels of his hands were harder than the heels on his feet. His knees were white with scars from the pressures of the years of kneeling, and his toes bore blister-patterns.
His body had grown to a height of nearly six feet, and his strong neck held a face of big bones, a hard jaw, a big nose and eyes of golden-green under fair straight brows. Brendan Behan was by many standards a handsome man. He had been in fights, he had ducked as many in his wisdom in caring for his arms and hands. He had fumbled and tumbled many a wench but none for long; his work was, perhaps conveniently, sufficiently temporary to allow him to escape the more clinging of clutches. Brendan Behan was satisfied with his life, but there lingered another vague wish. He knew not what it was, but it was sometimes visible in the dreams he occasionally remembered and which disturbed him during the day. He dismissed these as fancies and turned to a woman to give him the heavy sleep that denied any dreams.
He turned into the driveway that pushed him into the driving rain, as the wind swept across the small parkland before the house. His feet squelching in their sodden boots with the wire laces, he had to bear aside from the great drive to the front of the House and take the small path that crept submissively beside the house to the rear entrance. The wind howled him round the corner of the house, almost tumbling him towards the steps down to the cellars. Brendan grabbed the railings of the servants' door and swung himself round to cower in its shadow, his hand hammering on the panel. He fell over his feet as the door swung wide making obscene squishing noises with his boots. Cook looked at him and laughed, throwing a large cloth right into his face.
"Clean up your mess, young Behan. I'll not be running after you, however much you charm me!"
"Aye Cook, lass, I'd best be tekking off me boots first then, hadn't I? Can I ask yer hand to hold whilst I heave on they?" And his greengold eyes twinkled a blushing smile from the round body of Cook, who was sixty if she was a day, but she's good with her tatty spoonfuls.
Boots off, bare toes feeling for the floor, he still left damp footmarks as he reached into the hall cupboard and heaved out his bag.
"The others here yet, Cook? Bet they're tardy today, 'tis wild out there. Heard of the floods, have ye? Some bad ones down by the river, heard o' folk being tek by the waters. Tha's bad. Bad for them as has to find 'em." He lifted out his pads and two pouches. "I'll be up to the ballroom then, and keep me a big spud today, I had na fast-bite this mornin." Blowing her his open smile, he loped down the hall.
The light shone in the great ballroom, the windows grey with fingers of rain running scratches on the uneven glass. This room was nearly finished and he was glad. It had taken two months to fine this floor to the shining smoothness and almost silver finish. Two months of four of them, day in and day out, fourteen hours a day, six days a week. Their only respite was to sit in the cold church on hard pews and listen to a sermon about how wicked the world was and how they should all give it up.
Give what up? Brendan asked himself. He hadn't had so much as a sup of beer in this last week, let alone a woman in his poor bed. If the Bish wants me to confess, he'll fall asleep waiting for me to find sommat to say. I've barely swore either. The odd one when the blade hung on the knot and sprang awry to bite his handheel. That's the trouble with pine floors, they have they knots, bastard knots they are.
But he'd been to church twice since that had happened, so give what up? Brendan wished he had something; something like the dream he'd had again last night. That had woke him up, his hand working a frenzy on his cock until he shouted out, Yes, that had been a swearword. Best I'd offer that as a confession. But then Bish would ask why he shouted, and he'd have to own up to cocking himself with his fist. Then that would lead to the other things he did with his fingers. Nah, best not mention that cussword.
The servant's door at the back of the room swung open and in walked Roman and Carew, two of his three Sanders. They called greetings and obscenities to Brendan, shedding their coats and tunics. Carrying his blades toward the wall, Roman was standing slim and dark with his large slate-blue eyes sliding expertly over the floor they had almost finished.
"Looks good now, we done a good job there, mon."
"Hey fellas, you aren't waiting for me, are you? "
A slightly furry voice called down the echoing room. Evan, Mad Ev. they'd taken to calling him. He was always up for a lark, careless where it would take him, and his mad highpitched cackle would have them ready to laugh with him, whatever the happenstance. He was a good Sander though. Brendan enjoyed watching Mad Ev. work, he had a fluidity about him that melded his form into something musical. Something more tuneful than the hmmmmm they sang in their throats each pull. Everett slipped behind Brendan and ran a very cold hand down his back.
"Oi, beg off that, it'll cost yer a spud at dinner if ye do't again!"
"But you've a warm back and my hand's cold - tis only right to balance it up a bit!"
"Git down and work, that'll warm ye. Come on, we've just another half day here. Then Cook said tis Carew's rabbit, stewed, with the house carrots!"
Soon the house resounded to the nearly silent vibrations of four deep voices, kneeling in harmony, throats agreeing in sound.
Summary: Men 'sanding' the floors of an old house
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: AUChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 8 Completed: Yes
Word count: 17028 Read: 5958
Published: 31 May 2012 Updated: 31 May 2012
Story Notes:
Brendan Behan(Sean Bean) and Evan Hitcherson(Viggo Mortensen) . Roman(Jake Gyllenhaal) and Carew(Karl Urban). The Brendan Behan here is a purely fictional name, it has no relation with Brendan Behan the poet, now deceased.