A Real Somebody: A Novel by Deryn Collier

Author:Deryn Collier [Collier, Deryn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lake Union Publishing
Published: 2023-07-10T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

“Miss Pomeroy wonders if you have time to help with the Dictaphones this afternoon, Miss Grant?”

“Helen! How nice to see you,” I say, closing the file next to my typewriter. “Of course I will help.”

I’m happy for any distraction. I have been pretending to work for much of the afternoon, and even the Scientific Advertising can only hold my attention for so long. Mr. Lewin is working on some new sketches for the Eaton’s presentation next week. Mr. McAulay and Mr. Sands went for lunch hours ago to discuss the presentation, and I’ve had far too much time to fret about my date with Mr. Hearn tonight. I’m dressed in Aunt Lucie’s tea dress again, the one I wore the night Mr. Ritchie asked me to dinner. It is too tight across my ribs and too light for a winter’s day such as this one. I am convinced that Mr. Hearn will hate the dress and everything else about me, and it’s a relief to have something else to do.

Helen seems even more wan and pale since the last time I saw her.

“How are you feeling, Helen?” I ask. I don’t want to pry, but she’s seemed unwell for so long now.

She starts to lift a hand to wave away my question, but then drops her hand down to her side as though even that small movement is too much for her. “Miss Pomeroy says it should be quiet since Mr. McAulay will not be back this afternoon,” she says, ignoring my question completely.

I stand. “Of course. Would you like me to collect the cartridges?”

“I’ll get them,” she says. “I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”

In the supply room I don’t let myself be drawn to the view for a daydream, as tempting as that is. Instead, I set up the Dictaphone shavers and then wait by the door so I can hold it open for Helen. When she appears, I help her steer the cart into the room. Her complexion is pale and her arms seem weak, as though pushing the cart over the threshold is too much effort.

Together we pull the cart inside and next to the counter. Helen releases it and leans against the counter as though she might collapse.

“Helen? Are you okay? Is there anything I can do to help?”

A shadow crosses her plain features. She is tidy as usual, but shrunken, as though weighted down. She shakes her head and stares out at me from the dark hollows of her eyes. She stands up again and reaches for a canister. She slides it into the shaver, and I follow suit and slide my own canister in. For several moments the whirring of the machines is the only sound. Once done, Helen hands me her clean canister and I give her another from the cart. In the quiet, she starts to speak, her voice haunted.

“You saw my husband’s brother when the taxi drove me home.”

I nod. “Yes, I did.”

“He takes everything from my husband. Always has.

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