25. Friday
In which the monotony continues...
By Wednesday the gerbils had stopped arriving early, which Halcyon acknowledged by no longer commenting on the time.
The week arranged itself. Graphic was given a tray of green glass on Tuesday, sorted it palest to deepest by the middle of the morning, and was told to do it again by warmth, which took until four. Wednesday was red, which was worse, because red glass is difficult to classify in flat light and has to be caught near the window. Thursday was yellow, twice, and by then she was checking most placements once instead of twice, and Fenella, passing the bench, adjusted nothing. Friday was purple in the morning, twice and then orange in the afternoon, also twice, because there were fewer pieces. Graphic still only needed to check them once.
Gimbal cleaned in the mornings. The glass continued not to need it. She had settled into a rate of about 30 pieces an hour and had stopped reporting the numbers at lunch because Griffin had asked her to.
In the afternoons she swept. The floors continued not to need that either, but the broom had been pointed out on the first day with emphasis, and Gimbal was not the sort of gerbil to ignore emphasis. She swept the workshop, the break room and the front step, in that order, every afternoon, and by Thursday she knew the floor of the workshop the way Griffin knew the map of the Bluestocking, including the flagstone by the kiln that rocked, and the corner where the light from the north windows gave out entirely.
Sweeping is a licence to observe. The broom goes everywhere, at ankle height, at its own pace, and on Thursday afternoon its own pace took Gimbal along the far end of the workshop, past Fenella’s bench, where a panel lay almost whole, old lead gone grey-black, except for two strips along the left and bottom edges, cut free and folded back, two sections of glass removed from the panel and propped loose against a block.
Gimbal looked at it. A woman stood in glass the colour of deep water, and from her raised hand hung a ring of keys, three of them, each of them different, and at her belt was a purse, painted heavy with its contents. She had an expression Gimbal could not put a name to.
Fenella did not look up. Gimbal swept on to the end of the room, brushed out the corner where the light gave out, and took the broom back to its place.
Griffin’s week was the spreadsheet, which had become hers the more she watched it. Parcels came in, some with barcodes and some without, Halcyon signed for all of them, and the tabs were filled.
On Wednesday, working through the kiln bookings tab to log a firing, Griffin found there was nowhere to log it. The tab was full. Every slot, every day, for the next three weeks, and then nothing, as though the calendar fell off a cliff.
“There’s no room in the kiln tab,” she said.
“There’s room Thursday week,” said Halcyon, without looking. “No. Friday week.”
“What’s it all for?”
“Firing and cooling,” said Halcyon. “A firing’s quick. It’s the cooling that takes the time. You can’t hurry cooling or the glass cracks. The kiln is booked to fire, and then booked to cool, and then it’s booked to fire again the moment it’s cold.” She said this the way she said everything, as a fact about logistics, and then she added, “I’ve never known the kiln to be used back-to-back like that. Not in four years. There’s usually a gap.”
Then she stopped. She looked down the workshop, to where Fenella was bent over the far bench, and she straightened a parcel in front of her that did not need straightening.
“Stock to check,” she said, and left to check it.
Griffin logged the firing for Friday week and moved on to the paint tab.
At 4.45pm on Friday afternoon, Halcyon set three small, labelled envelopes on the end of the bench and entered each one in the spreadsheet before handing it over: Graphic, Gimbal, Griffin, twenty sunflower seeds apiece, counted, weighed, and Halcyon’s own name typed at the bottom of the form to show she had checked. The gerbils had to sign for their envelopes.
“That’s the week,” said Halcyon. “Nine o’clock Monday.”
Nobody said anything on the journey home.
Gasket had the mugs down in front of them before the coats were off. Gimbal put her envelope on the bar next to her tea and did not open it.
“How has the week been?” said Girdle.
“I sorted blue, green, red, yellow, purple and orange glass,” said Graphic. “Twice each.”
“I watched a spreadsheet,” said Griffin, some time after that. “The kiln’s booked solid for three weeks. Firing, then cooling, then immediately back in use. Halcyon says you can’t hurry the cooling or the glass cracks, and she’s never known it be fired continually like that. There’s usually a gap.”
@hedgehogforshort turned her mug a quarter turn on the bar, which those who knew her recognised as the sound of her coming to a conclusion. “Somebody has calculated the shortest amount of time a kiln can be cycled without cracking the glass, and built a schedule around it,” said Hedgehog. “Three weeks is probably the quickest the kiln can fire whatever it is they need firing. They want it finished as soon as it’s physically possible.”
“I cleaned glass and swept,” said Gimbal. “The floor by the kiln has a stone that rocks.” A moment later she added, “There’s a window on Fenella’s bench. A lady holding keys, three of them, all different, and a heavy purse on her belt. Blue behind her, like deep water.”
Gosie put her drink down.
“Keys and a purse,” she said. “That’s what’s in the photograph on Gemma Glasswing’s easel. The one for Winchester Cathedral.”
“Then it must be the same window,” said Hedgehog. “Gemma is making the copy in her workshop, and the original is being restored by Fenella in hers. The two panels are being restored and copied at exactly the same time.”
https://myrtlelion.substack.com/p/25-friday