by Robert Thier
‘Much the more sensible option,’ Mr Ambrose pointed out, his dark gaze sweeping over the hesitant crowd. His fingers flexed around the cudgel. ‘You don’t want me to have to do more than talk.’
‘There! There, now ’e’s threatening you! Are you gonna put up with that?’
Mr Ambrose’s dark eyes returned to the man again, who had one trembling hand raised, pointing at him accusingly.
‘That,’ he said, his voice as cool as the winter night before a blizzard, ‘was no threat. Trust me, when I threaten you, you’ll know for certain.’
‘We ain’t gonna put up with your threats, you bloody bugger! We’re free men, and we ’ave rights.’
‘True. You have the right to work, and the right to get fired if you don’t.’
‘There!’ The pointing hand jabbed at Mr Ambrose, as if pointing out the devil. ‘There! That’s what we’re fighting against! Capitalism! Exploitation! We ’ave a right to fair wages! We have a right to shorter work hours! We have a right to protection from…’
It went on a while, like that. The list of rights workers had was long, apparently. Most of these rights I found very interesting, particularly because Mr Ambrose had shown no signs of extending these rights to me, or any of the other staff in his office. I wondered whether it might not be a good idea to join the strikers.
Then I looked at Mr Ambrose’s face.
Hm.
Probably not.
‘…we have a right to grngg-’
The man’s long list cut off in a garbled choke when Mr Ambrose’s hand shot forward and grabbed him by the collar. The other workers, instead of coming to their companion’s aid, retreated a step or two.
‘Listen to me very carefully,’ Mr Ambrose said. His voice was low, but perfectly audible in the entire hall. ‘I wish for you to go back to work. If you don’t, well…’
Bending forward, he whispered something into the man’s ear. The man’s face paled, and his knees nearly buckled under him.
Pulling the fellow a little closer towards him, Mr Ambrose pierced him with lances of ice shooting out of those dark eyes of his. ‘That was a threat.’
The man nodded jerkily. ‘Yes, Sir! I understand, Sir.’
‘I want you to consider my next question very carefully, man. Think about what I just told you before you answer, and take a good look at me.’ The lances of ice bored deeper. ‘Now, the question is this: do you really expect to get more money out of me by stopping your work than by going on?’
‘Err… no, Sir.’
‘Ah. You’re reasonably intelligent, after all.’
‘Um… thank you, Sir.’
Letting go of the man’s collar, Mr Ambrose wiped his hands on his trousers. He didn’t take his eyes off the man. ‘And since you are reasonably intelligent, can you tell me what you should do now?’
‘Um… get back to work, Sir?’
‘How perceptive. I’ll leave you to it, then.’ Swivelling around, he marched back towards the exit, parting the crowd of workers before him like Moses had parted the Red Sea - only that the fish in the Red Sea probably hadn’t been so terrified of Moses.
I was just as flattened as the workers. He was past me before I realized.
‘Come, Mr Linton!’ came his cool command from outside, and I hurried after him.
‘How…’ I paused, fighting to catch my breath. He was marching fast, blast him! Why did he have to have such long legs? ‘How the hell did you do that?’
He shrugged. ‘It was my warm and winning personality, Mr Linton. Couldn’t you tell?’
*~*~**~*~*
Over the following weeks, my dear employer, master and general tyrant took me with him on trips to a coal mine, a bank and several other business where he busied himself bullying and browbeating people. It didn’t take long for me to realize what his strategy was: apparently, he reasoned that if I saw him being nasty to enough people, I would get so disgusted with him that I’d leave my job of my own free will.
However, in that, he had considerably underestimated both my tenacity and my own capacity for nastiness. The end of the month was approaching, and I was still his secretary. And do you know what that meant?
Well, I knew what it bloody meant, because I had been counting down to the end of the month by crossing out the days on my calendar at home. One after the other, the days passed, until finally, at last, the day of days had arrived! The day more important than a king’s coronation! The day more important than Judgement Day itself!
Pay day!
That morning, I arrived at Mr Ambrose’s inner sanctum ten minutes early. The broad grin on my face was probably not very wise, but I just couldn’t wipe it off. Marching right past Mr Stone with a cheerful ‘Good Morning’, I knocked at Mr Ambrose’s door.
‘Good Morning, Sir,’ I chirped. ‘May I come in?’
‘No!’
My hand froze on the way to the doorknob. When next I spoke, my voice wasn’t quite so chirpy. ‘I may not come in?’
‘You’re ten minutes early. Go away!’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘I am not going anywhere! Today is the last day of the month, and you have to pay me, Sir!’
‘Not yet, Mr Linton.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘As far as working hours are concerned, the last day of the month does not begin for another nine minutes and thirty-four seconds. Go, and return only when this time has elapsed.’
‘You… you can’t be serious!’
‘Do I sound like I am joking?’
‘You never sound like you’re joking, you son of a bachelor!’
‘How observant of you, Mr Linton.’
‘Let me in!’
‘Respect, Mr Linton. Remember to show respect.’
‘Please, let me in, Sir!’
‘No. Go.’
‘I won’t go!’
‘Then remain standing outside my door. I don’t much care, provided you cease to disturb me.’
‘Do you honestly mean I have to stand here for another nine and a half minutes to suit your perverted sense of punctuality?’
‘Nine minutes and three seconds now, actually.’
The truth hit me like a freight train. ‘You just don’t want to let me in there because you don’t want to give wages to a woma- to me!’
‘Still quite observant, I see.’
‘This is ridiculous!’
‘No, Mr Linton, it is not. Eight minutes and twenty-seven seconds…’
‘You’re right - it’s not just ridiculous! It’s unbelievably, bloody ridiculous! If I arrived early on any other day, you’d jump at the chance to drag me in there and make me slave for you!’
‘You’re not a slave,’ the cool voice from beyond the door told me.
‘You’re damn right I’m not!’
‘Slaves don’t complain as much as you do. Besides, their fortunate owners are allowed to use whips on them.’
‘You bloody bas…!’ My voice failed me. This was too much! I should go and chuck everything… No! No, that was what he wanted. He wanted to make me angry, to make me quit. I would not!
‘There’s another reason why I’m not your slave,’ I said, sweetly. ‘Do you want to hear it?’ Silence. A triumphant smile spread across my face. ‘Unlike a slave,’ I cooed, ‘you have to pay me for my work.’
More silence. Ha! That had shown him!
I started to pace up and down in the hallway. From time to time, Mr Stone threw me a half-anxious, half-curious look. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a cheque for two pounds and four shillings sticking out from under his paperweight. Apparently, Mr Ambrose didn’t make quite as much trouble before paying him. Ha!
Finally, I returned to the door, and knocked. Or maybe ‘hammered’ would be a better word.
‘Let me in!’
‘Four minutes and fifty-five seconds.’
‘Let me in, blast you!’
‘Four minutes and fifty-three seconds.’
‘Gah!’
I resumed my march, my footsteps thudding a bit louder than before. Now and again, I muttered a few curses. If I only had a watch!
Well, that’s something for you to buy once you have your money, isn’t it?
Yes - once I had it! Which didn’t help me much now, did it?
When I at last returned to the door, I tried to not use it as a punching bag. Be calm, I told myself. Be calm. He wants to make you angry. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
‘Sir? May I come in now, Mr Ambrose, Sir?’
‘One minute forty-seven seconds.’
Be calm. Be calm. Be c-
Oh, to hell with it!
‘Let me in, blast you! Let me in, or I’ll beat this bloody door down!’
‘One minute and forty-three seconds.’
I went back to my pacing. The rest of my waiting time I alternated between fantasizing about the things I would buy, and fantasizing about strangling Mr Ambrose with a piece of washing line. In spite of these two very appealing scenarios, never had one minute and forty-three seconds felt so long. When finally I heard the bell of St Paul’s Cathedral strike the hour, I was quicker at the door than a thirsting lion at a Sahara waterhole.
‘Mr Ambrose, Sir, I demand that you-’
I was interrupted by the sound of the lock clicking. Slowly, the door swung open. In the doorframe stood Mr Rikkard Ambrose, his eyes as deep, cool and dark as I had ever seen them.
‘Come in, Mr Linton.’
‘Why, thank you, Sir.’
If he noticed the sarcasm dripping from my voice, he did not comment on it. He let me into his office and closed the door. Then he turned to face me.
‘Are you sure about this, Mr Linton?’
‘About finally getting money out of you? Hell, yes!’
‘I mean,’ he said, the shards of ice in his voice clinking threateningly, ‘about being my secretary.’
‘Ha! Did you think your antics would scare me off?’ I snorted. ‘Your scare tactics won’t work!’
‘I noticed.’
‘You’ll have to think of something better than that to get rid of me!’
‘Will I, now?’
He regarded me for a moment. I resisted the urge to blink. Blast him! His stare could make a dead marmot uncomfortable!
I held out my hand. ‘The money!’
He hesitated.
‘You owe it to me! I’ve worked for it, and I want my money!’
His facial expression didn’t change. Still, somehow he managed to look as if a tooth were being pulled from his brain while he forced himself to turn and walk over to his desk. Withdrawing a chequebook from one of the drawers, he sat down. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but I thought I could hear the sound of teeth grinding.
‘The pen is there, right in front of you, Sir. Go on.’
Throwing me an icy glare, he picked up the pen. The movement of his arm towards the cheque looked as if he had to pull against a ten-ton weight of reluctance.
‘From Rikkard Ambrose…’ he growled. ‘To… Mr Victor Linton…’
‘Why not Lillian Linton?’
The next glare he threw me was dangerous.
‘Be content I’m doing this, Mister Linton. Don’t argue with me.’
On the whole, I decided it was better to keep quiet. At least I was getting my money. Mr Ambrose dragged the pen across the paper. It seemed to take an eternity, but finally he was finished and ripped the offending cheque out of his chequebook. Sliding his hand across the table, he shoved it towards me.
‘Here!’
Snatching the cheque from his hand, I held it up to my face and studied it closely. It was well I did. My eyes fell on the amount, and widened in outrage.
‘This cheque says one pound and two shillings!’
‘Yes. And?’
‘That’s half of what you gave Mr Stone!’
‘Certainly. After all, you are only half of what he is. He is real. You are only a pretender - or should I say prentendress?’
My mouth dropped open. He couldn’t possibly be trying to…! Yes, of course he could. This was Rikkard Ambrose we were talking about.
‘You’re paying me less because I haven’t got balls?’
‘Language, Mr Linton.’
‘I’ll use any language I bloody well want, thank you very much! And I’ve got just as much balls as any man in this office!’
His left little finger twitched again. ‘You are mixing anatomy and metaphor, Mr Linton.’
‘I don’t bloody care!’ Marching forward, I placed both my hands, clenched into fists, on top of his desk and leaned forward until I was nose to nose with him. Being suddenly so close, I couldn’t help notice the perfection of his chiselled features. And his eyes… they were so dark, so deep… deep enough to drown myself in…
Stop this! Get a grip! You’re here to bang his head against the wall, not swoon over him, you blasted foolish female!
His eyes were angry. But was wrath the only thing that burned in their dark depths? Or was there hunger, too…?
Stop it!
‘Tell me right out,’ I hissed. ‘Tell me that I haven’t shown as much courage as any man in this building. Tell me that I deserve less, not because of what I am, but because of something you think I did wrong. Tell me that, and I’ll accept half. Tell me!’
Silence. And more silence. Mr Ambrose’s jaw worked as if he were chewing gravel soused in castor oil. His little finger drummed a staccato presto on the desktop.
‘You can’t, can you?’
More silence. The finger-tapping changed to a staccato prestissimo furioso.
‘Write me another cheque! One for the full amount!’
Sluggishly, crawlingly, abominably slowly, as if he had to pull mountains with his elbows, Mr Ambrose moved his arms forward and once more dipped the pen into the inkwell. A salamander in the middle of winter moved more quickly than the pen did over the cheque in front of him.[10] I watched him with burning intensity. Finally, crunching a little more gravel with his teeth, he severed the cheque from the chequebook, and slid it across the table towards me.
I pounced! But before my hand could grab the check, Mr Ambrose’s fist came down on one corner with a thud, holding the slip of paper in place.
‘If you take this money,’ he told me, his dark eyes capturing mine, ‘If you really wish to be my employee, fully and completely, you’ll have to accept the consequences. You’ll have to do whatever I say, go wherever I command. Do you understand?’
I didn’t hesitate, but snatched the slip of paper from his under hand.
‘Yes!’
Travel Plans
Ding-dong…
The department store assistant looked up at the sound of the doorbell. Her usual bright I-have-things-to-sell smile wilted a little when she saw the shabby looking young man who had entered the premises.
‘Sir? May I help you?’ The unspoken words ‘with leaving this place right away’ were clearly attached to the sentence.
The shabby young man, i.e. me, didn’t let herself be put off by that.
‘Yes! I have some money with me, and I would like to spend it!’
The smile returned to the assistant’s face in a flash. ‘Really? Well, if that’s the case, please follow me, Sir. What would you like me to show you?’
‘Watches! I need a pocket watch. Nothing special, but it has to be reliable, and with a… oh, what do you call this fancy new invention when a watch makes “ding-dong” at a certain time?’
‘Alarm?’
‘That’s it! A pocket watch with an alarm! I need to be at work every day at eight o’clock, punctually.’ My lips twitched. ‘Very, very, very punctually.’
‘I see, Sir. Please come with me. I think I have just what you need.’
Following the assistant, I could hardly believe what was happening. I was buying something! Not just buying something, but buying it with my own money! I couldn’t help a self-satisfied grin from forming on my face.
‘Here, Sir… what do
you think of this model?’
‘Too flashy.’
‘And that one?’
‘That looks a bit too delicate. It has to withstand a lot of strain.’
‘Like what, for example, Sir?’
I thought for a moment, memories flashing in front of my inner eye. ‘Like a jump for a high wall, a fistfight, or a ride in a mine cart.’
The shop assistant blinked at me, taken aback. ‘Um… what profession did you say again you worked in, Sir?’
‘I’m a secretary,’ I told her proudly. ‘To one of the city’s leading financiers.’
‘Err… I see. The financial world must be an interesting workplace.’
‘Indeed it is.’
‘How about this watch, Sir? Sturdy, simple, and elegant.’
‘Yes! That’s exactly what I’m looking for!’
Snatching the item from the assistant, I let it snap open and shut. Walking to the nearest mirror, I put on a stony face, drew myself up to my full height, and let the watch snap open again.
‘Knowledge is power is time is money, Mr Linton! Hurry up, Mr Linton! Bring me file XX322YZ4, Mr Linton! Right away, Mr Linton!’
Seeing the shopkeeper stare at me, I cleared my throat and closed the watch again. ‘I’ll take it.’
‘Y-yes, Sir.’
‘And there’s another thing,’ I added abruptly, glancing down at my clothes. ‘I don’t look particularly fashionable, do I?’
This time it was the assistant who cleared her throat - very diplomatically. ‘Not as such, Sir.’
‘Well, can you show me something better than what I’m wearing? Something appropriate for the city, but tough?’
‘Certainly. Please follow me, Sir.’
Part of me was wondering why I was doing this, wondering why I didn’t leave the shop but followed the assistant into the men’s clothing department. I had never cared about how I looked. Not one bit.
Ah, said a tiny voice in my head, but that was when you were dressed as a lady. A prim and proper lady only dresses well to impress men.
But wasn’t that still what I was doing? I remembered the contemptuous look on the faces of some passers-by and a few higher-ranking employees at Empire House. I wanted to wipe the sneers off their faces! I wanted to impress them!