Day in the Life in Shakespearean Times
A Woman’s Workless Work
A glimmer of colour emerges from the black sky and enters my windowless window adorned with oiled-filled cloths. A thin cool breeze flows through the cloths, hitting my face. Careful to not be labeled as a slugabed, I reach for a match, light it from the spill that is beginning to die out, and ignite the tallow candles on either side of my bed. Being a good Christian, I complete my morning prayers. It is 4 a.m. Remaining in my plain, ankle-length, white nightgown, the duty of being a married woman to a carpenter husband sets my expectations for the day. Besides, women are not allowed to hold a job, vote, or own land. What else are we supposed to do? My routine begins. After setting out my husband’s work clothes, I prepare the standard English breakfast - bread, eggs, sausage, bacon, and beans. At 5 a.m., I gently wake my husband, offering his clothes, comb, and breakfast. The mild stench of his body odor is acceptable for a few more days; body cleansing with a sponge and cold water to keep pores closed to avoid illnesses, is not until overmorrow.
Once my husband leaves for his work, my work of being a wife continues all in earnest of serving my husband, my master. I start by making the bread and brewing the ale my husband will eat and drink when he comes home for dinner at 10 a.m. While the bread is baking in the fire brick oven, I hurriedly dress, and begin the skillful and arduous task of making butter and cheese through intense churning. My goal is to produce a sweet, yellow, creamy butter and extract a textured whey to yield cheese, both deserving a good selling price at the market. My mind shifts from the highest bidders - fruits of my labour - of the market to my next daily job. I feed the pigs and poultry for the first time today. It is already 8:30 a.m., and I have yet to gather the eggs and do the daily gardening; I am falling behind today. I wanted to escape and see Shakespeare’s play at The Globe, similar to most of my female friends, I am illiterate and can not appreciate entertainment through books like my husband. I know I must finish my responsibilities in order to seek pleasure; I better speed up. I quickly gather the eggs and put them in the basket with the butter and cheese. Before I start walking to the market in downtown London, I remember to dab on a musk and jasmine strongly fragranced perfume as I cannot have fellow citizens think I have an illness.
As I walk on the crowded, narrow and dirty streets, I see another fire break out, further destroying the city landscape. I hear the piercing shouts of men in a brawl in the not so distant tavern. I hope not to come across a public execution today. These are the sights and sounds I have grown accustomed to, so I just keep my head down and continue walking. Apart from the brothel girls, I have never witnessed a woman of my kind behaving so belligerently. It was not appropriate or acceptable behaviour. It had rained last night, leaving the unpaved roads as bogs. My feet are soaking wet, but the price of my actions proved worthy at the market.
I arrive home from the market at around 9:30 a.m. leaving just enough time to garden before my husband comes home for dinner. Thoughtfully and obediently, I warm his plate of food and place it on the table immediately before he arrives home, careful not to leave him waiting. After all, what kind of wife would I be if I kept him waiting? My husband leaves again for work the minute he finishes eating. I wash his dishes, day-dreaming of the masterpiece I will see at The Globe, and return to my list of tasks for the day. It is time to attend to the sheep. I comb their tangly hair, a tedious job, but someone has to do it to prepare them for when I will gather and spin their wool in a few days. Although already exhausted from the day’s events, there is still laundry to be done, it is Monday after all. Laundry can not wait as everyday has its own requirements. The physical exertion of completing the washing quickly subsides as I look forward to the excitement of the masterpiece at The Globe. I quickly arrange the washed clothes on the windowsill to dry, hoping my husband's attire will be ready for the morning.
It is now 1:30 p.m., and I am perfectly on track to finish my tasks by 3 p.m. so that I can go to Shakespeare’s play at 4 p.m. Making supper before the play is a necessity; otherwise, my husband will be hungry and unhappy. I am going to make a fancy meal for my husband called pottage. I gather the meat and vegetables and start cooking. I finish making supper at around 3:15 p.m., which is a bit late, but I should still make it to The Globe on time. I redress for my outing and meet my husband at the play. Julius Caesar is being performed tonight, which is one of my favourites. My husband pays his two pennies to sit and watch from the cushioned, comfortable gallery, while I stay standing on ground level in an area known as ‘the pit’. I like standing anyways; it is better for my legs. With the absence of background scenery and limited props, I am able to engage my imagination to the fullest and exist in an alternate reality. It also fascinates me how the actors are able to memorize their long scripts. Unfortunately, I have to leave a few minutes early so that I can prepare the table for supper.
When my husband arrives home, everything is ready for him, and we sit down together. We hold hands and pray together before eating. After dinner, my husband goes out to the bar, while I stay home and scrub the dishes. My beaten 50-year-old hands from today’s tasks do not accurately represent the youthfulness in my 19-year-old face. As I fall asleep before my husband comes home, I think about how tomorrow, the next day and the day after, I will do the exact same menial, unacknowledged tasks. Drudgingly, I lament but remember it is my duty. I leave the candle on my husband's side of the bed lit.
Comments