Rare Objects. Kathleen Tessaro

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СКАЧАТЬ laugh, but it came out forced, like a broken machine gun—“there has to be something!”

      She picked up a single sheet in her in-tray. “See this? This is it—I’ve got one job. And about two hundred girls waiting for my phone call. And I’m sorry to say, kid, but you’re not what they’re looking for.”

      “What is it?”

      She squinted as she read the heading. “A temporary clerk/salesgirl.”

      “But I can do that!” This time my laugh sounded real—full of relief. “I don’t care if it’s not secretarial. I’m not going to be picky!” I added graciously.

      “Yes, but not just any clerk. It says”—she referred to the paper again—“‘The girl in question should be a young woman of quality, well-spoken and professional, able to create a favorable impression with affluent clientele.’” She peered at me over her glasses. “Allow me to translate: that’s ‘No Irish redheads, thanks.’ They want a blueblood. Or at least someone who passes for one. It’s one of those fancy shops on Charles Hill.”

      “Look, I can’t go home with nothing, Maude. You don’t understand. I’ve got bills, debts to pay.”

      “No, you’re right,” she said flatly. “I’ve never had a bill in my life.”

      “What about the telephone company? They always need girls, don’t they?”

      “Not anymore. They let fifty go last month.” She stubbed her cigarette out in the mug. “I’m sorry, really. I am.”

      “What’s the address of this shop?”

      “Oh, no!” She shook her head. “No, I’m not taking any chances! I need this commission!”

      “I know how to speak properly and which fork to use at dinner!” I had an idea. “You know what? I’ll just dye my hair blond!”

      “Are you kidding me? And end up looking like every two-bit secretary I already have on the books, all of them trying to be Joan Blondell or Jean Harlow? These people want a young woman of quality, not a chorus girl!”

      “Please, Maude!” I was starting to sound desperate. “Just give me one chance. That’s all I’m asking.”

      She winced; the conversation was painful for both of us. “I’ve known you a long time, Maeve. And you’re a smart girl with a lot of potential. But my God, if you haven’t got lousy timing!” A buzzer sounded in the room next door. “Things are tough here. Real tough. Maybe you should’ve stayed in New York.”

      She got up and went into the waiting room to unlock the door.

      I grabbed the paper from her in-tray. A card was attached to the bottom. I tore it off and shoved it into my pocket.

      It wasn’t until I got outside in the street that I took it out again and looked at it.

      WINSHAW AND KESSLER

       Antiquities, Rare Objects, and Fine Art

      Under the address were the following lines:

      EXTRAORDINARY ITEMS BOUGHT, SOLD,

       AND OBTAINED UPON REQUEST

      Absolute discretion guaranteed ______

      R. H. Stearns had long been established as the most exclusive department store in Boston. Located in a tall, narrow building overlooking the Common, its hallmark green awnings promised only the finest, most fashionable merchandise inside. Already the windows were dressed with pretty pastel displays of spring fashions in stark contrast to the customers, still bundled in thick winter coats and furs, browsing through the long aisles.

      I didn’t go in through the polished brass doors, though, but went round to the back of the building. Normally visitors were prohibited from using the staff entrance, but I managed to walk in behind a couple of cleaning girls unnoticed. There was only one person who could help me now, and unfortunately, she wasn’t going to like it.

      The alterations workshop was a large windowless room in the basement between the stock rooms and the loading bay, filled with long rows of sewing machines, ironing boards, and clothing rails. The constant clattering of the machines echoing off the cement floor and ceiling made it sound like a factory. Twenty or so women worked side by side, wearing white cotton calico smocks over their street clothes. The department was presided over by Mr. Vye, a very particular, exacting man in his mid-fifties who sat at a desk near the door. He assigned each garment, liaised with the customers, and oversaw the final result. Everything had to go through him, including me.

      Ma had a sewing machine at the front of the room in a prime position. It was widely acknowledged that her abilities with difficult materials like silk, taffeta, organza, and brocade were extraordinary, and as a result she was the first choice for eveningwear alterations. Behind her on a dress form was a fitted gown of black velvet with rhinestone straps. When I arrived she was kneeling on the floor, pins in her mouth, taking up the hem.

      Mr. Vye scowled at me, an intruder in his domain. “May I help you, young lady?”

      “Oh, that’s my daughter!” Ma got up, brushed the stray threads from her knees. “You remember my daughter, Maeve, don’t you? She’s just come back from New York!”

      “I’m sorry to disturb you,” I apologized. “Only I wondered if I could have a quick word with my mum.”

      He nodded begrudgingly, and we went into the hall.

      “I need a favor, Ma.”

      “Tell me what happened at the interview. Did they have anything for you?”

      “There’s not a lot out there, but there is one job. Only I need your help.” I lowered my voice. “Ma, I have to dye my hair.”

      “Dye your hair?” She recoiled as if I’d just slapped her across the face. “Certainly not! You have beautiful hair! It was bad enough when you cut it. Only fast girls do that sort of thing!”

      “But it’s for a job, Ma!”

      “What kind of job? A cigarette girl?” She folded her arms across her chest. “Absolutely not!”

      I would’ve happily taken a job as a cigarette girl, but I didn’t tell her that.

      “Look, I don’t want to look fast, or cheap,” I explained. “Which is why I came to you. It’s for a job in Charles Town. An antiques shop. They want a woman of quality.”

      “Really?” Now she was indignant. “And what are you, may I ask?”

      I lost my patience. “What do I look like, Mum? Do you think anyone’s going to figure me for Irish? Why don’t I just go in clutching a harp and dancing a jig?”

      “There’s no need to be vulgar!” But she frowned and bit her lower lip. We both knew she’d spent years erasing all traces of her Irish brogue for exactly the same reason. But dying one’s hair was vulgar and brazen as far as she was concerned. She tried to sidestep the question. “Well, I can’t help you tonight. I’m going to mass.”

      “We СКАЧАТЬ