‘Yes, I’m aware of that. After you telephoned Amy, she made a note of what you said. I have it here.’ Collecting the page from the desk, Mr Jacobs remarked, ‘I’m impressed with your many achievements, but,’ he referred to the point in question, ‘it says here that you returned to working on the building sites for personal reasons.’
‘That’s right, yes.’
‘May I ask why you would do that – go from office work back to labouring? Of course, you do understand that before I can make a decision, I will need to contact your former employers?’
Harry explained, ‘I went back to the building sites because it made fewer demands on my time. Although I enjoyed my work at the office, it meant I was there for long hours … sometimes at weekends too, when I badly needed to be at home. Whereas on the sites I could work the hours I chose. There were no telephones or accountants to deal with, and I could arrange my working day to suit the situation.’
‘What situation would that be then?’
Bracing himself, Harry revealed the reason. ‘My wife was diagnosed with a terminal illness; we both knew it was only a matter of time. I had to earn a living, yes, but she came first. I needed to be with her, you understand. Not only to console and support and to make the most of every minute available to us; there were practical things, like long stays in hospital, and our son to take care of.’
Pausing, he swallowed hard before going on to explain how, when she lost her fight against the illness, he had come back to the place where he had grown up. ‘That’s the long and short of it,’ he concluded. ‘A very dear friend has taken me and my son in, until we find a place of our own. And now I need a new job.’
‘Hmm.’ The older man had listened intently to what Harry had to say, and now he had to make up his mind. ‘Wait outside,’ he instructed. ‘Amy will get you a cup of tea. Have a walk about. Talk to people. See what you think. I’ll call you in presently.’
With that he ushered him out.
‘It looks good to me!’ Amy was delighted to have the company of this fine, good-looking fellow. ‘He kept you in there longer than the others,’ she announced cheekily. ‘I reckon he likes you.’
Harry made small talk for a time, then he wandered away and talked with the salesmen. ‘As bosses go, he’s not all that bad,’ John told him. ‘A bit pompous at times, but fair and straight when needed.’
The same sentiments were echoed by everyone Harry chatted with, although: ‘He’s a hard taskmaster.’ That was Louise, the only woman in sales.
Harry went upstairs to the bed department, and was amazed at the sheer scale and diversity of items on offer. He went across to the soft furnishings area with its wonderful displays of curtains and bedlinen, and the best selection of cushions he had ever seen, and now he was back downstairs amongst the displays of furniture, all set out as different rooms in the house. There were kitchens and living-rooms – here a piano and there a wall of pictures and paintings.
‘It’s like Aladdin’s Cave!’ He was surprised when Amy crept up on him. ‘I swear, I’ve never seen anything like it.’
She laughed. ‘You haven’t seen outside yet then. There’s lawn mowers and ladders, and everything else you might want in your backyard or garden.’ Tapping him on the arm she informed him. ‘You haven’t got time to look now though, because His Majesty has summoned you.’ Making Harry smile, she gave a little curtsy. ‘Follow me, my good man.’ Not relishing the idea of another reprimand, she then set off at a brisk pace.
After showing him into the office, she returned to her desk, delighted to offer Harry congratulations half an hour later. ‘So, you got the job?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘From your beaming face when you came out.’
It was still beaming as he walked onto the street. ‘I’ve got work, Sara my darling,’ he murmured.
Three months’ trial, a generous travelling allowance, and he was virtually his own boss.
It was an excellent start.
Kathleen and Tom were also pleased with their day.
‘You’ve worn me out, so ye have,’ Kathleen groaned as they headed for the café on the High Steet. ‘I can’t believe a little fella like you could take longer than a cartload o’ women to choose a pair of shoes: Jaysus, Mary and Joseph! Sure, ye could make a living at it.’
‘I’m not tired,’ Tom announced proudly.
‘Oh, are ye not?’ Kathleen quipped. ‘Well, aren’t you the lucky one, ’cos I’m dropping on me feet, so I am.’
‘I’ve got money.’
‘Sure, I know that already,’ she answered. ‘Didn’t I see yer father give it to ye?’
‘I can buy you some new shoes, if you want,’ he offered grandly.
Kathleen laughed out loud at that. ‘Aw, ye little darlin’.’ She gently ruffled his hair. ‘Shall I tell ye something?’
‘What?’
‘Right now, I don’t think I’d even get a pair of shoes on me feet.’
‘Why not?’
‘’Cos me poor oul’ feet feel like two fresh-baked loaves.’
‘D’you want to sit down?’
‘Ah, sure I wouldn’t mind that at all.’
‘I need an ice cream.’
‘Ah! So what you’re really saying is we should find a café, where I can sit down and you can have an ice cream, and we’ll both be happy, is that it?’
‘I don’t know.’ The little boy was confused.
‘Ah, but ye’re a joy to behold, so you are! Look, there’s a café right there, and a little table for you and me, right by the window. What d’you say then?’
‘Yes, yes!’ Tom did his usual leaping up and down.
Kathleen chuckled. ‘Y’know what, m’darlin’?’
‘What?’
‘Ye’re a fella after me own heart, so ye are.’ She tightened her hold on him, and as fast as her sore old feet would take her, she rushed him across the road. ‘Will ye look at that!’ she cried merrily. ‘Sure, me feet are getting that excited, they’re almost running!’
Unbeknownst to them, a small skirmish was unfolding some way down the street. ‘Get away from me, you dirty beggar!’ Shoving the woman aside, the man hurried on. ‘People scrounging in the street. Whatever next!’
‘I wasn’t scrounging!’ The woman was close to tears. ‘I was just asking the time, you miserable old devil.’
Clad in a plain dark dress fastened at the waist with a broad belt, she looked nothing like a beggar; yet she appeared waiflike, and there was an air of desolation about her that could be mistaken for hunger of a kind.
In her early thirties, she was painfully thin, with long, fair hair and small, distinctly pretty features. Her soft grey eyes told a story; of great sadness, and fear.
As she darted her anxious gaze up and down the street, the fear was like a living entity in those sorry grey eyes.
When the hand fell on her shoulder, she gave a small, frightened cry. ‘It’s all right!’ The man was a friend. Grey-haired and weathered, he was old enough to be her father.
These past years, because of her situation, he and his wife, Pauline, had taken it on themselves to watch out for her. ‘I saw you just now,’ he said as he led her away. ‘That