exactly why. Just knowing she was supposed to. Always catching a bus or train or missing the fuckin' bus or train – she's never worked anywhere she could walk to. She often went to the wrong house on the wrong day. She let herself into one house and she knew when she was pushing the door; she'd done the exact same thing the day before. She wasn't due for another six days. And the houses were miles apart. The wrong direction was a day-long mistake.
Another time, she got sick into a toilet while she was cleaning it. She remembers thinking: God. She remembers thinking: that's handy.
The good old days.
She's nearly done. She usen't to like this open-plan layout. She wanted walls between her and the supervisor, and Charlo and the rest of the world. Now she doesn't care. She isn't interested in hiding. These days she's the supervisor.
Paula's the boss. For two weeks now she's been the boss. It's nothing really. She still has to clean. And that's grand. She'd be bored if she didn't. The money's a bit better. Thirty euro more a week. It's no big deal.
But it's great.
Still though, she'd love a change. It would mean a lot. A start or something.
She's not complaining. She's still delighted.
The boss, Paula's supervisor, came in one day with new bottles of bleach and fresh cloths and mop-heads and the rest. She stopped and had her couple of words with Paula.
—The kids okay, Paula?
—They're grand. Your own?
—Can't keep up with them. I'll tell you though, Paula. Liam's college fees are a killer.
—Yeah, said Paula.
—And the grandkiddies? said the supervisor.
—Lovely, said Paula.
—'Course they are, said the supervisor.
Give the woman her name. It's Lillian.
—I'll leave you to it so, Paula, said Lillian.
—Okay, said Paula. —Thanks.
—What do you make of the new fella?
—Hristo?
—Yeah.
—He seems grand, said Paula.
She didn't say more; she never would. But Hristo was useless.
—Okay, said Lillian. —See you so, Paula.
She walked away towards the lifts.
—Oh, she said. —I nearly forgot.
She told Paula they needed a supervisor for the fourth and fifth floors because Eileen upstairs was calling it a day. She was waiting for an answer before Paula realised she'd been offered the job.
—God, she said.
—That's a yes, is it, Paula?
—Eh – yes, said Paula. —Yes. Yeah.
Are you sure? she wanted to say. Are you fuckin' serious?
But here she is. Hristo's still useless and she's the boss. She'll sort him out. In her own good time. I insisto, Hristo.
That's another big change, maybe the biggest. The men doing the cleaning work. Nigerians and Romanians. She's not sure if they're legal. She doesn't have to know. She's not paying them. They come and go. They're grand. They're polite. She feels sorry for them. It's not work for a man; she'll never think different. The African lads come in dressed to kill, like businessmen and doctors. They change into their work clothes and back into their suits before they go home. Ashamed. God love them. Handsome lads. They deserve better. But everyone starts at the bottom, she supposes. But that's not true either. She knows it. There's nothing fair about the way things work. She didn't start at the bottom. It was hard work getting there.
But that was then. She's one of the tigers now. She's in charge of two floors.
She's nearly finished. She turns off the hoover. The silence is always a little shock. These places should never be empty. Just a few more desks to do.
She's not sure where the Hristo fella's from. Maybe Bulgaria. Maybe it's his home that Carmel is buying. She'd like that. She could introduce him to Carmel. Hristo, Carmel. Carmel, Hristo. You can chat about the EU together.
Now, now.
Nearly done. Then she'll follow them out, her staff, all four of them. She'll escort them off the premises. Then down to Tara Street. She hates that walk. Up to the platform. She hates the wait. Onto the Dart. And home to her cake and family.
Desks never
Another time, she got sick into a toilet while she was cleaning it. She remembers thinking: God. She remembers thinking: that's handy.
The good old days.
She's nearly done. She usen't to like this open-plan layout. She wanted walls between her and the supervisor, and Charlo and the rest of the world. Now she doesn't care. She isn't interested in hiding. These days she's the supervisor.
Paula's the boss. For two weeks now she's been the boss. It's nothing really. She still has to clean. And that's grand. She'd be bored if she didn't. The money's a bit better. Thirty euro more a week. It's no big deal.
But it's great.
Still though, she'd love a change. It would mean a lot. A start or something.
She's not complaining. She's still delighted.
The boss, Paula's supervisor, came in one day with new bottles of bleach and fresh cloths and mop-heads and the rest. She stopped and had her couple of words with Paula.
—The kids okay, Paula?
—They're grand. Your own?
—Can't keep up with them. I'll tell you though, Paula. Liam's college fees are a killer.
—Yeah, said Paula.
—And the grandkiddies? said the supervisor.
—Lovely, said Paula.
—'Course they are, said the supervisor.
Give the woman her name. It's Lillian.
—I'll leave you to it so, Paula, said Lillian.
—Okay, said Paula. —Thanks.
—What do you make of the new fella?
—Hristo?
—Yeah.
—He seems grand, said Paula.
She didn't say more; she never would. But Hristo was useless.
—Okay, said Lillian. —See you so, Paula.
She walked away towards the lifts.
—Oh, she said. —I nearly forgot.
She told Paula they needed a supervisor for the fourth and fifth floors because Eileen upstairs was calling it a day. She was waiting for an answer before Paula realised she'd been offered the job.
—God, she said.
—That's a yes, is it, Paula?
—Eh – yes, said Paula. —Yes. Yeah.
Are you sure? she wanted to say. Are you fuckin' serious?
But here she is. Hristo's still useless and she's the boss. She'll sort him out. In her own good time. I insisto, Hristo.
That's another big change, maybe the biggest. The men doing the cleaning work. Nigerians and Romanians. She's not sure if they're legal. She doesn't have to know. She's not paying them. They come and go. They're grand. They're polite. She feels sorry for them. It's not work for a man; she'll never think different. The African lads come in dressed to kill, like businessmen and doctors. They change into their work clothes and back into their suits before they go home. Ashamed. God love them. Handsome lads. They deserve better. But everyone starts at the bottom, she supposes. But that's not true either. She knows it. There's nothing fair about the way things work. She didn't start at the bottom. It was hard work getting there.
But that was then. She's one of the tigers now. She's in charge of two floors.
She's nearly finished. She turns off the hoover. The silence is always a little shock. These places should never be empty. Just a few more desks to do.
She's not sure where the Hristo fella's from. Maybe Bulgaria. Maybe it's his home that Carmel is buying. She'd like that. She could introduce him to Carmel. Hristo, Carmel. Carmel, Hristo. You can chat about the EU together.
Now, now.
Nearly done. Then she'll follow them out, her staff, all four of them. She'll escort them off the premises. Then down to Tara Street. She hates that walk. Up to the platform. She hates the wait. Onto the Dart. And home to her cake and family.
Desks never
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