Ease by Patrick Gale

Author:Patrick Gale [Patrick Gale]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780007381517
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 1986-08-28T04:00:00+00:00

15

The propeller was a roaring blur, a hail of sugared almonds was pelting over her skin, her legs were about his neck and truly this is the meaning of bliss, she thought.

But the bi-plane couldn’t move away. It would start forward, then be tugged back, start forward, then be tugged back. The lurching sickened Domina and she turned to see the black woman clinging to the tail-end, her face contorted with glistening rage.

‘What? What time?’ Domina murmured.

‘Phone. Mrs Tey? Here, there’s a phone call for you!’

Eight o’clock. Domina threw back the sheets and ran, half-awake, out to the landing.

‘Here. Phone call,’ gargled Mrs Moorhouse and launched into a very wet cough.

Bridget Croak, remembered Domina. Bridget Croak, the fat frog housekeeper in that Racey Helps book.

‘Hello?’

‘Domina. Hello there. It’s Jo.’

‘Oh. Hi.’ Who was Jo?

‘You said you’d be free today, yes?’

‘Oh. Yes.’

‘Great. We’ve got a job for you. Copy typist stroke clerk, bank in Holborn, nine to five-thirty, three-fifty an hour, starting today and carrying on until at least next Friday. Sound OK?’

‘Perfect.’

‘Fantastic. Have you got a pencil there?’

‘Yup,’ she lied.

‘Well, it’s the Hagushiri Banking Corporation, Shanghai House, Holborn. Just report at Reception and they’ll send someone down to find you. Can’t miss it. It’s a big tower up in the two hundreds on the left. How are you on tubes?’

‘Fine.’

‘Great. Look forward to hearing how you get on. Call in here on your way home and we’ll give you a time sheet. Pay’s a week in arrears.’

‘’Bye.’

‘Ciao.’

‘Hagushiri, Shanghai House, Holborn. Hagushiri, Shanghai House, Holborn. Hagushiri, shit shit shit, Shanghai House,’ Domina muttered under her breath as she raced back into her room and scrabbled for a pencil and paper.

Mr Punjabi was in the bath singing selections from the Andrews Sisters’ repertoire, so by the time she descended the basement steps, fragrant, impeccably turned out, in need of strong black coffee to still a churning stomach, it was five to nine.

‘Comment, Domina? Est-ce que tu dois te confesser déjà?’

‘Hello, Thierry. No, I’ve got to go to work and I’m late and it’s my first day and I don’t want to go.’

‘Have my coffee. I haven’t touched it and it’ll be cooler.’

‘Bless you.’ She accepted the mug and took a deep gulp. Thierry spooned some more grounds into the percolator and let out a heavy sigh. ‘Mais qu’est-ce que tu as?’ she asked.

‘Mon ange est parti.’

‘Billy? Oh dear.’

‘His name was Dwight.’

‘Yes. Dwight. He had such a sweet smile.’

‘That’s the way. I think you English call it “Sod’s Law”; ça veut dire, perfection, if and when you find it, is always accounted for or about to board a plane for Newark, New Jersey.’

‘Which was he?’

‘Tons les deux. You’re late for work. You must go.’

She took the Central Line. The carriage was full. A baby was yelling close by. She wanted to slap it. She had to stand with one arm in the air. The man with the greasy forehead, who shared her metal pole, seemed to have chewed a head of garlic for breakfast.

At Tottenham Court Road almost all the girls left the carriage.

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