High Potential

by Ber Carroll

  The wind picked up and Katie lifted her face to catch its rip. It brought a taste of salt and the smell of the sea. She felt happy. Very happy. She didn’t know if she was being fanciful or not, but there was something about this place that felt like home.

  ‘What did you do for the rest of the weekend?’ asked Mags on Monday morning. She perched herself on Katie’s desk and swung her bare legs. More than ever, she reminded Katie of a schoolgirl.

  ‘I went to the beach,’ Katie replied but should have known that she wouldn’t get away with being so vague.

  ‘What beach?’

  ‘Portmarnock.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go to Malahide?’

  ‘It’s too busy.’

  Mags seemed to accept this explanation and proceeded to give a blow-by-blow account of her own weekend. ‘Was comatose for most of Saturday – just watched a movie that night – went to see Seamus’s parents yesterday – had different kind of headache from that – still, all the same, his mother made a lovely apple tart – my mother can’t bake for crap and neither can I – have you looked up your relatives yet?’

  Katie still wasn’t used to Mags’s peculiar way of asking questions. Invariably they came at the end of a monologue, were related to a completely different topic and were not even distinguishable by a change in her tone. Often the ensuing silence was the only clue that an answer was expected.

  ‘No,’ Katie lied. She regretted telling Mags that she had relatives living around Dublin.

  I don’t want to talk about them, she thought. Not yet, anyway. God – maybe I’ll turn out to be as secretive as my mother.

  She changed the subject. ‘So, Jim keeps in touch with you from Australia?’

  ‘He sends the odd message.’

  Something changed in Mags at the mention of Jim’s name. Her energy dimmed.

  ‘When he asked you to take care of me, what –’

  ‘Good morning, young ladies!’

  The badly timed interruption came from Ted. He ambled into Katie’s office, caught hold of a chair and dragged it on its two hind legs towards her desk.

  ‘How convenient to find you together.’ He smiled as he sat down. ‘I have the perfect job for both of you.’

  Katie sat up straighter when she heard him refer to a ‘job’. The Dublin office was a busy little firm and she had more than enough work to keep her going. But she was starting to miss certain aspects of her old job, particularly the client contact.

  ‘I’m very excited to say that MFJ are partnering with the Simon Community to provide a new legal advice clinic for the city’s underprivileged,’ he said. ‘The initiative will be called Just Ask. In order to get the programme off the ground, I’m going to dedicate you both full-time over the next few months.’

  ‘Who are the Simon Community?’ asked Katie.

  ‘It’s a charity for the homeless, and those who are at risk of becoming homeless.’

  ‘Where will the clinic be?’ Mags was still perched on Katie’s desk.

  ‘In Cope Street, Temple Bar.’

  She nodded. ‘Very central.’

  Katie was doubtful that she could be of any help. ‘I’m not exactly an expert on Irish law. It’s okay when I have the time to look something up here in the office, but face to face . . .’

  ‘You’ll find that a lot of questions you’ll be asked aren’t matters of the law,’ Ted replied. ‘The poor sods just want somebody to talk to them, to listen. The questions that are law-related are mostly black and white: letters of offer, termination, discrimination. More often than not, you’ll be able to respond without referring to the specific legislation.’

  Katie had one other concern, and she felt embarrassed to even voice it. ‘I don’t mean to be calculating, but I won’t meet my annual billability target if I work full-time on pro bono . . . You see, my billability is being tracked while I’m on this assignment.’

  Ted’s amiable voice took on an edge. ‘This is my practice and we follow my rules. All pro bono work is recorded as billable – we just don’t bill it.’

  ‘Well, if you think I’m capable, I’m very happy to be involved,’ said Katie, thinking that her work in Dublin was going to be worlds apart from Sydney. She recalled the last contract of employment she had worked on: the Citibank executive.

  The next contract I’ll see is likely to be that of an ex-con on a minimum wage.

  Rather suddenly, she felt relieved that she wouldn’t have to deal with any overpaid nit-picking executives while she was in Dublin.

  The new clinic consisted of a basement room with freshly painted magnolia walls and shiny green linoleum. A metal grille encased the only window, giving the place a dungeon-like feel. Centred in front of the window was an old table that had seen better days. Multicoloured plastic chairs provided seating.

  Thirty or so people squeezed into the room to celebrate the clinic’s opening. The heavens opened shortly before the 7 pm start and the guests left their dripping umbrellas inside the door. Several posters were pinned around the room with the words Just Ask scribed in red on a plain white background. The catering budget, as meagre as the printing budget, had stretched to a case of sparkling wine and two Simon volunteers manned a makeshift bar. They poured the wine generously and it wasn’t long before the conversation amongst the guests soared above the background music.

  ‘I’m Mary.’ A slight woman in her fifties with laughing eyes proffered her hand to Mags and then Katie. ‘I’m the receptionist at the Simon desk upstairs. If you need anything, just holler.’

  ‘Is there anywhere our clients can wait until they’re seen?’ Mags asked her.

  Mary shook her head. ‘Sorry, love, the premises are fully used up, and the reception area is often overcrowded as it is.’

  ‘They’ll have to wait in the hall,’ Katie concluded.

  The dark narrow hallway would make a rather depressing waiting area but it seemed that there was no alternative.

  Mary started to chat to an elderly man about the sudden change in the weather and Mags pointed out the more distinguished guests to Katie.

  ‘That’s Dick Roche, the Minister for the Environment . . . and there’s Mary Murphy – she’s the chairperson of the Housing, Social and Community Affairs Committee – a very busy woman. No points for guessing the Lord Mayor – nice necklace, isn’t it?’

  ‘What’s her name?’ asked Katie, looking across at the grey-haired woman with the kind face.

  ‘Catherine Byrne,’ replied Mags. She threw back the last of her wine and grabbed Katie’s arm. ‘Come on. Let’s get our picture taken with Dublin’s first lady.’

  The next day Katie and Mags returned to the basement room with their supplies: reference books, journals and some basic stationery. Katie noticed a new piece of furniture: a bookcase. Exactly what they needed.

  ‘Do you think anyone will turn up?’ she asked as she unpacked the textbooks. She was having trouble visualising what the clinic would be like when it was up and running. The plan for the initial few weeks was to open the office from nine to five. Then, depending on demand, they would consider extending the hours.

  ‘Who knows, we may even need to open shop on Saturdays,’ Ted had said to one of the politicians at the opening.

  Katie might have been doubtful about that, but Mags wasn’t. ‘Wait till the word gets out on the street. Some of them will be trying to see if they can sue someone, anyone really, just to make a few easy euros. Others, the genuine cases, will break your heart.’

  They unpacked in no time and sat on either end of the old desk. Outside, rain streaked the window and it seemed that Dublin’s heatwave had died a very sudden death.

  Mary stuck her head around the door.

  ‘All settled in?’ she asked. ‘Here, I brought you down the Herald. You’re on page four.’

  A phone started to ring in the distance and Mary tutted before darting back upstairs.

  ‘We didn’t make the front page,’ complained Mags as she looked at the grainy photo
graph on page four.

  ‘We’re obviously not good-looking enough,’ Katie joked. ‘Still, I’m going to cut it out and send it home.’

  ‘Ugly or not, you can always rely on your mammy to be proud,’ retorted Mags.

  She resumed reading the paper while Katie doodled on her notepad. She wished she had her laptop. Neil and the rest of the team were still emailing queries on a regular basis and she could have cleared a few of the messages. However, the new clinic was to be technology free.

  ‘For two reasons,’ Mags had explained. ‘Firstly, computers alienate our clients – remember, some of them can’t even read. Secondly, they might try to rob the place if they see any high-tech stuff lying around.’

  Lunchtime crawled around without a single client, and they braved the deluge to get lunch in Temple Bar.

  ‘Welcome to the real Dublin,’ said Mags sardonically as she took off her sodden jacket.

  Katie looked around the dark pub with its roaring midsummer fire.

  ‘I like the real Dublin,’ she replied.

  Mags’s good humour was soon restored with a tasty home-made burger, and Katie asked a question that she’d wanted to ask for some time.

  ‘How did you get into full-time pro bono work?’

  When Mags answered there was no sign of her usual mischievous smile. ‘A few years ago we had a tragedy in the office. One of our lawyers died – a car accident – bang into a tree – life over. It hit us all hard – we’re a small office – we all knew her – loved her . . .’ Her voice trailed off: she was obviously still very cut up about it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Katie.

  Tears glittered in Mags’s eyes. ‘It was a horrible time at work. We all reacted in different ways. Jim had to get away – two months later he went to Australia and he hasn’t been back since. The partners were shook up too – they saw that life was short and stopped working themselves to the bone. And me, well, I felt compelled to do something more meaningful with my life. I resigned but they talked me into staying as full-time pro bono.’

  Katie was dying to ask more. Who was the girl? What age had she been when she died? Who was she to Jim, to say he had to ‘get away’? But Mags discarded her half-eaten burger and reached for her coat. It was very clear that she didn’t want to talk about it any more.

  Chapter 15

  ‘Mum, we’re doing family trees at school.’

  Rose’s hands slowed as they scrubbed the dishes in the sink.

  ‘That’s nice, love.’

  Katie took her heavy schoolbag from her back and rested it on the linoleum floor. ‘I need to know everybody’s name,’ she stated importantly. ‘In Dad’s family too.’

  She shot a look in Frankie’s direction. He sat at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He was only ever home at this time of the day when it was raining and the house he was building didn’t yet have a roof.

  ‘My parents have passed away, remember?’ said Rose in a strangled voice.

  ‘But it doesn’t matter whether they are alive or dead.’ Katie turned to Frankie for support. ‘Tell her, Dad. It doesn’t matter.’

  Frankie looked towards Rose but he said nothing.

  ‘And it’s not just about grandparents,’ said Katie. ‘I need the names of aunts, uncles, cousins . . .’

  She became aware that Rose had removed her hands from the sink and was drying the suds with a tea towel.

  ‘I’ll give you the names, love,’ said Frankie.

  ‘Why not Mum?’

  ‘Sure, she’s too busy.’

  Rose left the room and a few moments later Katie heard the bedroom door click shut.

  ‘I need to go back at least three generations, Dad. My teacher rolled up this big sheet of paper for me so I could fit everyone in.’

  Katie removed the elastic band and placed the A3 sheet over her father’s newspaper.

  ‘No such thing as waiting until your dad is finished reading, is there?’ Frankie sighed.

  ‘You’re the one who’s always saying that homework should be done before everything else.’

  He had no comeback to that and they commenced the project straightaway.

  Chapter 16

  The A3 sheet of paper was in front of Katie now, its curling sides held down with paperweights. Her childish handwriting, in pencil, was faded but legible. Just looking at it reminded Katie of that rainy afternoon with her dad.

  Rose Carey was the eldest of three children and Frankie Horgan the eldest of five. The names of their siblings spaced across the bottom of the sheet: Rose, Carmel and Elizabeth; Frank, Peter, Johnny, Hannah and Molly.

  I have four aunts and two uncles. None of whom I have ever met.

  On the screen of her laptop, the Eircom online phonebook waited for her search details. It was obvious that she should start with her dad’s brothers, as a marriage would not have resulted in a change to their surname.

  Horgan, Peter, she typed into the search tool. Dublin.

  The search came back with no hits.

  Horgan, P, she tried the second time.

  It returned three possible phone numbers.

  Katie dialled the first.

  ‘Hello,’ said the brusque voice at the other end.

  ‘Hello. I’m looking for Peter Horgan –’

  ‘It’s Paddy here – no Peter in this house.’

  The phone was hung up before she had even the chance to thank him for his time.

  She tried the second number.

  ‘Hello, I’m looking for Peter Horgan,’ she began, fully expecting to be cut off again.

  But the woman who had answered seemed to be waiting for her to continue.

  ‘He would be fifty-eight years old and have a brother Frank who went to Australia –’

  She was just starting to get her hopes up when the woman dashed them.

  ‘My husband is Peter – but he’s ten years younger than the Peter you’re looking for. And there’s no Frank in his family. Sorry, love. Good luck to you with it.’

  Katie thanked her and dialled the last number. The phone rang unanswered and eventually diverted to a message bank.

  ‘You’ve reached Patricia Horgan –’

  Another dead end. She put the phone back in its cradle and chided herself for feeling disappointed.

  I can’t expect to find him in five minutes – it’s been forty years without contact. Peter may not live in Dublin. For that matter, he may not even live in Ireland.

  ‘Do most people here have silent numbers?’ she asked Mags the following Monday.

  Mags looked up from her crossword puzzle. ‘Silent numbers?’

  ‘Not in the book.’

  ‘Oh, at least half, I would say.’

  It was not the response that Katie wanted to hear, but it certainly explained why she had failed to find her uncles in the phone directory. She had searched the entire country for Peter and Johnny Horgan. After sixty-odd phone calls, she had reluctantly called it quits. It was time for Plan B: her aunts. Maybe one of them hadn’t got married. And maybe, if she was lucky, that same one had her phone number listed.

  ‘Are you trying to contact your relatives?’ asked Mags.

  Katie nodded cautiously. She preferred not to discuss it with Mags. It didn’t feel right. Not when Rose was totally unaware of what she was doing.

  ‘Why don’t you just ask your parents for the phone number?’

  Katie should have known that Mags was incapable of stopping at one question. But she was saved by the bell. Or rather, by a tentative knock on the door.

  ‘Welcome,’ Mags beamed at the gangly youth. ‘Take a seat, please.’

  He did as he was told, the chair much too low for his long legs.

  ‘I’m Mark,’ he said awkwardly, his denim-clad knees jutting forward.

  ‘I’m Mags. This here is Katie. How can we help you today?’

  The dull red acne on his face brightened with colour. ‘I’ve got this new job, see. They’ve sent me a letter. Don’t g
et me wrong, I can read it. But I just wanted to check it out, you know, the small print.’

  Katie smiled at him. ‘That sounds right up my alley. Have you got a copy with you?’

  He unzipped his denim jacket and took a brown envelope from the inside pocket. Katie extracted the letter of offer. It was a simple document, only three pages long. The position it was offering was that of a store hand.

  ‘It looks okay, Mark,’ said Katie when she got to the end. ‘They’ll pay you weekly – directly into your bank account. You start at nine and finish at five-thirty. Overtime will be paid at time and a half. You’ll need a doctor’s note if you’re sick for more than three days.’

  ‘Does that mean they’ll pay me?’

  ‘Yes, once you have the doctor’s note and don’t use up more than ten sick days in the year.’

  He looked happy with her answer.

  ‘How about if it gets quiet there?’ he asked next. ‘Can they just lay me off?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘if it’s within the first thirteen weeks. After that they have to give you a week’s notice.’

  He looked less happy with that answer. Something told Katie that he’d been laid off many times in his young life.

  ‘Thanks,’ he mumbled as he stuffed the letter back into his pocket.

  Mags waited until he was well gone before she remarked, ‘Illiterate. Sad how these kids fall through the cracks, isn’t it?’

  Katie raised her hands behind her head and yawned. She had spent the last hour searching for Carmel and Elizabeth Carey. Before that she had tried for Hannah and Molly Horgan. One of her phone calls had been promising to start off with.

  ‘Hello. Is that Elizabeth Carey?’

  ‘Yes, this is Liz,’ the woman had confirmed.

  ‘My name is Katie Horgan. I’m from Sydney. Liz, do you have a sister called Rose?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  Katie was so excited that she didn’t pick up that the woman had used the past tense. ‘She went to Australia –’

  ‘No, Rose died when we were young.’

  ‘Oh.’ Katie was embarrassed and disappointed all at once. ‘I’m sorry.’