CHAPTER EIGHT

 

‘What’s going on?’ Oona glanced over at the ladder leaning up against the office window.

‘Yer man doesn’t waste much time,’ Brenda said. ‘The winders have been cleaned, and a workman’s trying to get them to open.’

‘Really?’ Oona looked out at the sky now visible through sparkling windowpanes. ‘How extraordinary!’

‘Oh, isn’t it grand?’ Brenda smiled.

‘Is Mr. Walsh in the office?’

‘Yes, and so is Mrs. Kovac.’

‘How’s her husband?’

‘Don’t know, but she must be worried, ‘cause she’s forgotten to put on her red stockings,’ Brenda giggled. ‘You should see ’er legs!’

‘Brenda Byrne! One of these days.’

The workman returned. He was wearing white dungarees, stained with green and red paint, and carrying a kerosene blowlamp. ‘Sure, I’ll have this window open in a jiffy, ladies,’ he said, climbing the ladder. ‘How ye ever stuck the heat these past few days, is beyond me.’

‘We didn’t have a choice.’

‘Aye, I can see that.’

The heat, along with the smell of burning oil, made Oona feel faint. Then, just as Jack Walsh walked in, the window opened and fresh air filled the room.

‘Good man,’ he said. ‘That’s grand. Will it close easy enough?’

‘Aye, it will indeed. You might need the stepladder. I found this one out the back.’

‘Well done. There’s another window in there,’ he gestured.

As the man picked up his ladder, Mrs. Kovac bustled out carrying a bulging brown folder. ‘My husband von’t be happy about this.’

‘Not my problem, Missus. I’m only doing me job.’ He went inside followed by Jack, who closed the door behind them.

There was no mistaking the disapproval etched on Mrs. Kovac’s face as she unlocked the filing cabinet and replaced the fat folder. She was wearing the same dress and canary-yellow cardigan; her varicose veins snaked around her legs like thick pieces of wool. The two girls, their heads bent over their work, glanced towards each other. Oona was in no mood to get into a dispute about the office windows. After all, she only worked there. Besides, it was a rare treat to see the blue sky on such a warm day.

‘How’s your husband, Mrs. Kovac?’

She glared at Oona as if she had no right to ask, then her face softened. ‘Well . . . erm . . . the doctors are optimistic he’ll make a full recovery,’ she said pointedly.

‘Oh, that’s good news.’

‘He vorries about this place all the time, and all these changes won’t do his health much good,’ she sighed. ‘Have you been keeping things up to date, Mrs. Quinn?’

Her sweet sickly perfume caught the back of Oona’s throat. ‘I’m doing my . . . ’ she coughed to clear her throat, ‘ . . .best, Mrs. Kovac.’

‘And you, Miss Byrne!’ she said. ‘You’re hardly run off your feet, are you?’

‘I . . . I . . . got in early to catch up with the filing,’ Brenda stammered.

‘Yes, well, don’t expect to be paid extra. You, Mrs. Quinn, see that she keeps busy.’ Before Oona could reply, she continued, ‘Mr. Valsh will have enough to do without vorrying about the staff.’

Oona stiffened. ‘There’s no reason for Mr. Walsh to worry about us.’

‘Good! It was kind of him to step in at such short notice. But even so, I shall be calling in from time to time and on Friday to do the wages.’ She leaned across Oona’s desk to examine an invoice and, if it had not been for the light breeze coming in through the open window, Oona felt she would be sick. ‘I vant you, Mrs. Quinn, to see that there are no major changes made to the running of this office vhile my husband’s recuperating.’

‘But… but Mrs. Kovac, surely . . . well, that’s up to Mr. Walsh, isn’t it?’

‘My husband trusts you to follow his instructions, Mrs. Quinn.’ And as Oona caught her breath, the woman walked out of the building.

‘Can you believe that? Well, of all the . . . if she thinks . . .’ Oona pounded the keys of her typewriter so hard it hurt her fingertips.

‘She’s a fecking bitch that one,’ Brenda said. ‘I reckon she’ll be worse than him. No wonder she covers those legs of hers.’

‘I’ve told you about your language before, Brenda,’ Oona said. ‘If you’re overheard, it’ll be instant dismissal.’

‘Sorry.’

Oona rolled her eyes.While inwardly she agreed that the woman would make a goose swear, she had things more pressing on her mind than Olga Kovac’s ropey legs. She strongly objected to the woman’s suggestion. The very idea of her interfering in the way Jack Walsh chose to run the shipping office made her heart race and her anxieties return. The more she thought about it, the more irritated she became.

‘Have you found that missing document yet, Brenda?’ she stressed.

Just then Jack came out of the office, followed by the worker. He looked just about as fed up as she did. ‘I’ve paid Mr. McGuire. Can you get a receipt, Mrs. Quinn?’ he said, before returning to his office.

Towards the end of the day, when the phones were ringing non-stop and Oona’s fingers were sore from typing, Jack Walsh casually threw his trench coat over his shoulder and walked out into the street.

 

***

 

He was starting to regret agreeing to cover for Mr. Kovac. Nevertheless, he did not like to refuse his boss, who ran Universal Shipping in Liverpool, where Jack had worked for five years before coming to live in Ireland. After two years assisting Mr. Mountjoy at the fast-growing subsidiary in Dun Laoghaire, the picturesque seaport where fresh breezes blew in across the bay, Jack was finding it hard to adjust to working in the stuffy confines of an old tenement block.

To have that old dragon breathing down his neck was more than he could stand. She was an eccentric, stuck – he was sure – in the last century. The woman did her best to undermine everything he did. Well, he was in charge now and she could either agree or disagree, but he would stand his ground.

His train to Dun Laoghaire was not due for another half hour, so he called into a pub close to the railway station. He paid for a pint of Guinness and took it to an empty table, then ran his hands over his face, rubbing his tired eyes. He had no idea how long he would have to work at Worldwide Shipping. From what he had heard of stroke victims, the amount of time taken to recover varied enormously from one person to another. He found the place claustrophobic already. If McGuire had not arrived when he did to unleash the window catch, Jack would have had to make an excuse to get away earlier.

As the drink relaxed him, he thought about the dizzy junior who was always making tea and painting her nails, and it made him smile. This was obviously her first job, and ideas of encouraging her to improve her skills came to mind. The pretty older girl, Oona, puzzled him. Why would someone as bright as that want to work for the Kovacs? She was married, so why did she need to work? She looked like she had the world’s worries on her shoulders. He had liked her instantly. There was something about her that made him want to know more about her; find out what went on in that pretty head of hers.