Storm and Silence

by Robert Thier

  Hesitantly, I reached out. I had never shaken a man’s hand before, only curtsied. Would he be able to tell that I was a woman by a handshake? Determined not to give him any clues, I resolved to make my grip convincingly strong and masculine.

  ‘Ouch!’ Mr Stone grimaced. All right, maybe I had overdone it with the masculinity… ‘Err… yes. Welcome, as I said. Now, where was I…?’ Cautiously, he removed his hand from my grip and flexed his fingers.

  ‘Ah, yes. Mr Ambrose regrets to inform you that he does not have time to receive you right now, since urgent business detains him. He wishes you to go directly into the secretary’s office and wait for instructions there.’

  I frowned. Urgent business that detains him? What business could be so urgent that he couldn’t receive his private secretary? It should be my job to help him with his urgent business, shouldn’t it? But orders were orders. And though I usually wasn’t very good at obeying orders, these were different: unlike my aunt, Mr Ambrose would have to pay me for bossing me around. So I simply asked: ‘The secretary’s office?’

  With his thumb, Mr Stone indicated a door to the right of his desk. ‘That door over there. I hope you find everything to your satisfaction, Mr Linton. If there is anything I can help you with, please don't hesitate to ask.’

  Wow. If all my new colleagues were like this, working for a living would actually be a piece of cake. Maybe even a chocolate cake with extra sugar.

  Then I remembered my new employer, and reconsidered.

  No. Not a piece of cake. Definitely not. A piece of granite might be an appropriate description.

  I walked over to the door Mr Stone had indicated. I reached for the doorknob. I grasped and turned it, holding my breath. With a low 'click', the door swung open. Nervously, I peered into my new domain.

  The room was just as I might have expected: bare stone walls, heavy curtains, a large desk. It looked like a smaller version of Mr Ambrose’s office except that here, the desk stood against the wall and much of the space was taken up by enormous shelves holding large, differently coloured boxes. They all had numbers and letters written on them.

  Good God, what was this? Seeing these vast mountains of paper, it occurred to me for the first time to wonder what the duties of a private secretary would actually be. Ever since my discovery of his wealth, I had expected Mr Rikkard Ambrose to be a rich landowner and that, as his secretary, I would maybe have to write a few letters for him when he was too lazy to do it himself. But apparently he wrote and received a hell of a lot more than just ‘a few letters’. I was in for more than I had bargained for.

  Tip-toeing over to one of the boxes, I could see under the cryptic message '29V118' the explanation 'Georg. G. R.' Spiffing.[14] Who was Georg G. R.? Sounded foreign. He had to be a most dedicated letter-writer, though. I reached out to open the box, then hesitated.

  But why not? After all, I was his secretary now. I would have to look through most of these sooner or later. Yes, that was an excellent excuse. Much better than ‘I’m just nosy’.

  I opened the box and took a few papers out.

  What I found made me feel even more puzzled. They weren’t letters. They were maps, drawings of mountains with short annotations about such things as rockers, nuggets and a whole lot of other things I had never heard of in my life.

  Mystified, I put the papers back into the box and put it back on the shelf.

  Then it occurred to me: why was I still waiting? Why had Mr Rich-and-Mysterious not called me yet to assist him in his oh-so-urgent business? I wanted to step out from between the shelves, but before I could do so I noticed a door behind them. From the layout of the room I supposed it to be a connecting door to Mr Ambrose’s office. I approached it and carefully tried the knob.

  Locked.

  Blimey, this was getting on my nerves!

  But it was up to him to give me work, not the other way around. Having nothing better to do, I strolled over to the window and looked out over the city. As had been evident already from the outside, Empire House was a lot taller than any of the surrounding buildings and provided a stunning view. My office - I felt a thrill go through me at the words - my office faced west, and in the distance I could see the white dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral rising over the houses. I waited. And waited.

  Great Paul struck eleven, and still I waited.

  I was just about to leave the room and ask Mr Stone if anything was wrong when I heard a strange sizzling noise from the direction of my desk. Eyebrows raised, I went over to investigate.

  The noise seemed to be coming from within the wall beside my desk. Whoever had put the stones there had done a shoddy job of it, because in the wall directly over my desktop was a hole, about an inch in diameter. The sizzling noise seemed to originate from there.

  Curious, I bent forward and put my eye to the hole. I couldn’t see anything inside; it was pitch-black. But I could hear the sizzling noise getting louder and louder, until…

  ‘Ouch!’

  Something poked me in the eye, hard, and I staggered back. I almost fell onto my rear end but managed to grab the edge of my desk and stay upright. Bright lights flashed across my field of vision. I blinked furiously. When I could finally see again, I discovered a tiny metal cylinder lying on my desk. Apparently, it had shot out of the hole in the wall and right into my eye. The hole in the wall that was separating my office from that of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. I knew where that cylinder came from.

  Furious, I grabbed the thing and marched towards the door separating my office from his.

  ‘Hey!’

  No answer.

  ‘Hey, I want to know why you tried to poke my eye out!’

  Still no answer. I banged on the door with the hand holding the metal cylinder, and as I did, it fell out of my hand and onto the floor, breaking apart in the process. It was hollow!

  Curious, I leaned forward and saw that there was a tiny piece of paper rolled up in the cylinder. Taking it out, I unrolled it, revealing a few hand-written words in a clear, precise, no-nonsense hand.

  Mr Linton,

  Bring me file 227B

  Rikkard Ambrose.

  Bring me file 227B? Just ‘Bring me file 227B’? That was all? No please, no thank you. God, why did he even feel the need to sign it? No one else I know would write a message that cold, curt and discourteous. Well, maybe my uncle. But discourtesy from family didn’t count.

  And… ‘Mr Linton’? He couldn’t even acknowledge the fact that I was a female when there was nobody else around? I had been afraid he was a chauvinist. I had been wrong. He was the king of chauvinists.

  But he was also the man who wrote my pay cheques. So I swallowed the adjectives I would have liked to throw at him and instead demanded of the closed door: ‘Why are we communicating via tiny paper rolls? And what is file 227B?’

  No answer - though he must have heard me through the door. The man didn’t say a single word. But shortly after, a plink noise came from behind me, and I turned around only to see another missive from my master shooting out of the hole in the wall.

  Stomping over to the desk, I grabbed it and read:

  Mr Linton,

  We are communicating via tiny paper rolls because this is the most efficient system of communication. And you should be able to find a file on your own if you want to keep your position.

  Rikkard Ambrose

  Most efficient form of communication my foot! The cash-carrying bit-faker[15] just didn’t want to talk to me and be reminded that he suffered from the shame of having a girl as his secretary! Well, two could play at that game.

  I started to rummage through my desk, opening and shutting drawers at a prodigious rate. Finally, I found what I was looking for: in the bottom drawer was a bowl full of metal cylinders and another one full of little bits of paper. I took both out, grabbed the fountain pen that was lying on the desk and began to scribble.

  Dear Mr Ambrose,

  May I ask with all due politeness what kind of devilish invention this is y
ou are forcing me to use?

  Thoughtfully, I tapped my lower lip with the pen. Then I closed the message with:

  I remain

  Sincerely Yours

  Miss Lilly Linton

  Yes! Show him that a proper girl can be courteous even if a stinking rich man cannot!

  Very pleased with myself I put the cylinder into the hole in the wall. It didn’t move. Frowning, I examined the hole more closely - and then discovered a little lever right beside it. Well, it couldn’t hurt to try. Probably.

  Cautiously, my fingers curled around the lever. Hoping fervently it wouldn’t make the building explode or something like that, I pulled. There was a sucking noise, and the little metal container vanished into the hole. Phew! I hated mechanical stuff. You never knew what would happen when you pushed a button.

  For a minute or two, I sat at my desk, twiddling my thumbs. But I didn’t have to wait long for a reply. With another plink, the metal missive-container shot out of the hole and landed on my desk. I grabbed it eagerly and unrolled the message. Ha! At least this time he would have to be more courteous. He would have to accept me as a girl. Wouldn’t he?

  I read:

  Mr Linton,

  This ‘devilish invention’ as you deem it is the latest technical innovation for high-speed communication, called 'pneumatic tubes'. It allows me to communicate with all my employees in the entire building without leaving my office. This system has served me admirably ever since its installation. I would be required to change my modus operandi in order to communicate with you vocally. That will not happen. I do not change a working system.

  Bring me file 227B.

  And incidentally, I do not want you as mine, sincerely or otherwise.

  Rikkard Ambrose

  My eyes went wide as I read the last line before his name. The abominable, villainous… That had just been a courteous closing line! Nothing more! I hadn’t meant that… well, I hadn’t meant anything like the thing he obviously meant!

  Seething with rage, I grabbed another piece of paper and scribbled:

  Dear Mr Ambrose

  I am a female, in case you still have not noticed.

  How am I to give you file whateveritscalled if you do not open your bloody door?

  Yours infuriatedly

  Miss Lilly Linton

  The reply came soon:

  Mr Linton,

  You are no female while you are in my employ. As, by the way, you have amply proven by your language.

  Slide the file under the door.

  Rikkard Ambrose

  What? Now he complained about me not expressing myself in a ladylike manner, after he had forced me to come to work dressed up in a pair of striped trousers? I itched to send back another snarky remark.

  But…

  But…

  But this man was my master now. He was the one who would hopefully one day sign my first pay cheque. He was my ticket to freedom. My only chance. Blast him!

  I hurried over to the shelves that held the boxes. Two minutes of searching were enough for me to discover that whatever system my predecessor had used to sort his files, it most certainly was not an alphabetical one. Twenty minutes of searching went by, and I still hadn’t discovered what I was looking for. As I was taking an extraordinarily large and heavy box from one of the upper shelves, I heard a familiar plink from my desk. Balancing the monument of a file container on my shoulder I tottered over to my desk, picked up the metal cylinder with one hand, opened it with my teeth and spat the removed half into the bowl on my desk.

  The message fell onto my desk. Still using only my one free hand, I picked it up and unrolled it laboriously. On the paper were written two neat, concise words.

  Hurry up.

  ‘Oh thank you!’ I shouted at the closed door to Mr Ambrose’s office. ‘Thank you so very much!’

  With a grunt I deposited the gigantic box on my desk and began to look through it.

  After ten more minutes of ceaseless searching, I raised my head from the dusty intestines of box 37XV227, holding my trophy aloft.

  ‘Yes!’

  Now that I had invested so much trouble into finding it, I couldn’t help wondering what file 227B actually was. I took a quick peep - only to be confronted by endless columns of meaningless numbers. This was what I had spent half an hour of my precious life on? Ah, who cared what was in it! What mattered was that I had found it, finally!

  Triumphantly I marched to Mr Ambrose’s door, knocked, and shoved the thin file under the door. On the other side, I could hear the scrape of a chair being moved, and then footsteps. And oh, what footsteps they were - only Mr Ambrose could manage to make his step sound cool and disinterested.

  I didn’t wait to listen for more, though. Right now, I was so exhausted that I didn’t care what he did with the bloody file. I just went to my desk, collapsed into my chair, closed my eyes and breathed a deep sigh of relief.

  A plink from the wall made me open my eyes again. Frowning, I picked up the metal cylinder and opened it. What now?

  Be quicker next time.

  Rikkard Ambrose.

  For a moment, I could hardly believe the words in front of my eyes. But only for a moment. Then, I saw red. Fuming, I grabbed my fountain pen and composed the following message in my best chicken scratch:

  Dear Mr Ambrose,

  If you want me to be quicker at finding your files, maybe you should explain the sorting system to me.

  Yours (as your secretary, whether you like it or not)

  Lilly Linton

  I stuffed it into the tube and pulled the lever. The reply came only a minute later:

  Mr Linton,

  If you are not able to comprehend a perfectly logical system of sorting files, then what makes you think you are suitable for the position of private secretary? Maybe you should resign.

  Rikkard Ambrose

  Ha! You would just love that, wouldn’t you? And what… perfectly logical? So far nothing I had seen of the supposed ‘system’ was perfectly logical, rather perfectly chaotic. How could anyone figure it out by themselves?

  Fear suddenly lanced through my heart. What if he sacked me? The possibility hadn’t occurred to me until now, because he had promised to give me the job and could not break his word. But knowing the kind of man he was, I doubted very much he would still feel honour-bound to keep me if I didn’t come up to scratch. On the contrary, he would probably be delighted to throw me out at the first opportunity.

  Resolving then and there not to give him that satisfaction, I got up and plunged myself into the jungle that was Mr Simmons' filing system.

  *~*~**~*~*

  When the next message landed with a plink on my desk, I sat there, awaiting it with a serene smile.

  With a flourish, I opened the message container and studied the message inside.

  Mr Linton,

  Bring me file 146K. Be quicker this time.

  Rikkard Ambrose

  I got up, walked over to one of the shelves, took out a box, opened it, took out file 146K, closed the box again, put it back on the shelf, walked to the door with the file in hand and slid it through the slit between door and floor. Then I knocked at the door and purred:

  ‘Your file, Sir.’

  I heard him getting up and without a word taking it from the floor. All the while I stood leaning against the door, my ear pressed to the wood, grinning like an idiot and feeling like a genius.

  This time, nothing came out of the hole in the wall. No message. No complaint. No scolding note. I did a little happy dance in the middle of the room. Yay! He had nothing to complain about. And I bet the fact was riling him up good and proper.

  Not long after, both files were returned in the same manner I had forwarded them. Attached to the top was a note.

  Mr Linton,

  Bring me file 188Q.

  Not a word about being quicker. If that was at all possible, my grin widened a little bit more. Quickly I scurried over to the shelves and, after depositing the return
ed files in their correct place, went to the next box and got him the wished-for documents.

  The following hours passed in a whirl of fetched and returned files, and curt little notes exchanged via the pneumatic tubes. If he actually read half of the files I fetched for him, I’d eat my uncle’s big top hat. He seemed determined to make me mess up, to pressure me so that he would be able to find some fault with me and have an excuse to sack me.

  And in every single note he sent he kept calling me Mister Linton.

  But I didn’t let him get to me. I ran between the door and the shelves like a prize race horse, fetching each file in record time. The filing system had taken me some time to figure out, but it wasn’t that difficult, really, once you had taken a moment to think about it: the first two numbers on the boxes stood for years (37, for example, stood, or so I assumed, for 1837). The letters behind that were really Roman numerals, numbering the boxes relating to that particular year. And the number behind that signified the place of the box in the overall order of boxes within the room. It was really simple to find a file once you noticed that the file numbers related to that last number. You simply had to run along the shelves until you reached the right one.

  Wasn't I a smart girl?

  With a self-satisfied grin on my face, I pushed the fifty-second file under the door and returned to my desk to wait for the inevitable note.

  In spite of my success, I couldn’t really say I was looking forward to the next note. Every time I read the greeting line ‘Mr Linton,’ I could almost feel the sparks flying out of my eyes. The arrogant son of a bachelor was completely trying to ignore the fact that I was a girl! The fact that he was the best-looking man I had ever seen in my life didn’t do much to sweeten that fact.

  Why was he so determined to ignore me? Was it that he could not stand the idea of a girl in his employ, or was it me?

  So what if it is you? I asked myself. That’s no problem, is it? It’s not like you want to be noticed by him.

  Right. I had to remember that. It really didn’t matter as who or what he thought of me, just that he gave me my salary and independence.

  But… but I wanted independence as a female! Not independence as some cheap imitation of a man. I crossed my arms. That was it. I didn’t want to be noticed by him in the way a girl wants to be normally noticed by a man, all that romantic crap and so forth. No, definitely not that, I told myself fervently. What I wanted was far harder: I wanted recognition. I wanted respect.