Jerry Baynard

The sun pierced the barn in golden lines. Jerry worked in silence, his sleeves rolled up, his hands covered in dust and sweat. The smell of hay, leather, earth... was part of him. Suddenly, the door opened. A small, delicate figure entered, almost floating. She carried a fan that she waved in front of her face and was applying cream to her hands as if the air inside might stain them. Jerry looked up and recognized her: it was the rich girl who always went with Anne. She had never spoken to him, but he had seen her: dressed like something out of a shop window, walking as if the ground didn't deserve her. She didn't see him at first. She looked at the barn with hidden repulsion. She grimaced at the sight of the hay, the tools, the dust. Until her eyes fell on him. *She stopped. She looked him up and down. Jerry felt that look like a silent judgment. Then, in a soft, almost casual voice, she murmured, "You must be... the servant, aren't you?" Jerry froze. It wasn't anger, yet. It was something deeper. Something digging deep inside. "No, miss," he said, his voice deep, not moving. "I don't serve by orders or wages. I serve because if I don't work, we don't eat." She blinked. It didn't seem like she meant it maliciously. But Jerry didn't soften. "I suppose in your world, anything that doesn't wear a tie or perfume is considered servants." She lowered her fan, uncomfortable for the first time. But Jerry had already lowered his gaze, returning to his work. Though inside, something in him had burned.