swinging to and fro on its slack hinges, 'Deux Pernod, s'il
vous plaît ...'
He shook his head and retreated. At the
bar I watched as he removed the bottle from the shelf, inflating broad cheeks
as he poured two small, thin glasses.
I didn't know what to say to the woman
at my side. I watched as she took up her drink and, after a few deep breaths,
downed the last of the liquid in one swift motion.
As we sat waiting for the barman to
bring two more shots I wondered just what I had got myself into. I knew I
should get up right away, pay for the drinks and leave, but something kept me
right where I was. I was surprising myself in new ways; ways I had never even
considered possible until the moment the dark-haired woman walked into the bar.
'I'm Frank,' I said.
'My name is Elena.'
First Day in the
Job
'Now listen, you get a good grip of
them, boy.'
'It's Bobby.'
'What ...?'
'My name's Bobby.'
'Aye, right you are; now, like I say,
get a good grip of them keys, boy. Count them.'
'... Eleven.'
'And it's eleven I'll want back at the
end of the day. Hundred and forty bar it costs to get them cut if you lose them
– you hearing me boy?' Bobby nodded. The Old Giffer listed off the keys' uses.
Red top: stock room; blue top: back stairwell; green top: shop floor; other red
top: supply cupboard and fuse box ...
The Old Giffer handed Bobby a dustcoat.
It was mustard-coloured with two pockets at waist height and one at the breast.
There were pens in the breast pocket and inky stains. Bobby touched the stains
and looked at his fingers.
'Get it on, boy,' said the Old Giffer.
Bobby put the coat on. There was a tear in the seam of the first sleeve he
tried to put on and his hand popped out like a puppet. The Old Giffer laughed.
'You'll have to get your mammy to sew
that for you, boy.'
Bobby did up the dustcoat's front
buttons. The Old Giffer's coat was flapping open, exposing a prominent gut.
'Right, at least you look the part; now
follow me, we've a lot to get through the day.'
They set off down the corridors. The
Old Giffer pointed out the air-con vents and flanges, the thick black
iron-riveted pipes of the plumbing, the service elevators, waste chutes, the
Big Man's office, fire exits, the stairwell ingress and some floor tiles that
needed replacing; all the time pointing out 'wee jobs' that had been messed up
by Bobby's predecessor.
When they reached the basement the OldGiffer sat down. There was only one seat in the room. Garbage was flowing
from a hole in the wall into a big tin container with wheels, like a
supermarket trolley. It was a noisy process.
'Do you smoke?' said the Old Giffer,
stoking his pipe with tobacco.
'Aye.'
The Old Giffer lit his pipe and blew
grey plumes into the heavy basement air. Bobby took out his packet of ten
Regal.
'Filter tip!' said the Old Giffer,
before his voice trailed off into a hacking laugh. Bobby lit up. There was no
talk between the pair of them. The smoking tasted good to Bobby. He bit the tip
and drew it deep into his lungs and it reminded him of home.
'When's lunch?' he asked.
'Don't you concern yourself with that,
my boy. I decide who eats, and when, around here,' said the Old Giffer. Bobby
looked around the basement, but there was only the two of them.
'Twenty year I've been here, boy, I'll
no' have you dictating to me one day in the job!'
'I was just ...'
'I was just. I was just. I was just
nothing! I make the rules up – have done for twenty year – and you'd do well to
remember that!'
The Old Giffer tapped his pipe off the
side of the tin container and stamped the black soot into the cement floor with
the sole of his shoe. He took Bobby over to the far corner of the basement and
flicked on the four rows of light switches. The room lit up like a fairground
and Bobby screwed up his eyes. The Old Giffer saw this and smiled, then turned
them off again and the dim bulb in the centre of the room took over on its own.
'Never put all the lights on like that,
boy,
vous plaît ...'
He shook his head and retreated. At the
bar I watched as he removed the bottle from the shelf, inflating broad cheeks
as he poured two small, thin glasses.
I didn't know what to say to the woman
at my side. I watched as she took up her drink and, after a few deep breaths,
downed the last of the liquid in one swift motion.
As we sat waiting for the barman to
bring two more shots I wondered just what I had got myself into. I knew I
should get up right away, pay for the drinks and leave, but something kept me
right where I was. I was surprising myself in new ways; ways I had never even
considered possible until the moment the dark-haired woman walked into the bar.
'I'm Frank,' I said.
'My name is Elena.'
First Day in the
Job
'Now listen, you get a good grip of
them, boy.'
'It's Bobby.'
'What ...?'
'My name's Bobby.'
'Aye, right you are; now, like I say,
get a good grip of them keys, boy. Count them.'
'... Eleven.'
'And it's eleven I'll want back at the
end of the day. Hundred and forty bar it costs to get them cut if you lose them
– you hearing me boy?' Bobby nodded. The Old Giffer listed off the keys' uses.
Red top: stock room; blue top: back stairwell; green top: shop floor; other red
top: supply cupboard and fuse box ...
The Old Giffer handed Bobby a dustcoat.
It was mustard-coloured with two pockets at waist height and one at the breast.
There were pens in the breast pocket and inky stains. Bobby touched the stains
and looked at his fingers.
'Get it on, boy,' said the Old Giffer.
Bobby put the coat on. There was a tear in the seam of the first sleeve he
tried to put on and his hand popped out like a puppet. The Old Giffer laughed.
'You'll have to get your mammy to sew
that for you, boy.'
Bobby did up the dustcoat's front
buttons. The Old Giffer's coat was flapping open, exposing a prominent gut.
'Right, at least you look the part; now
follow me, we've a lot to get through the day.'
They set off down the corridors. The
Old Giffer pointed out the air-con vents and flanges, the thick black
iron-riveted pipes of the plumbing, the service elevators, waste chutes, the
Big Man's office, fire exits, the stairwell ingress and some floor tiles that
needed replacing; all the time pointing out 'wee jobs' that had been messed up
by Bobby's predecessor.
When they reached the basement the OldGiffer sat down. There was only one seat in the room. Garbage was flowing
from a hole in the wall into a big tin container with wheels, like a
supermarket trolley. It was a noisy process.
'Do you smoke?' said the Old Giffer,
stoking his pipe with tobacco.
'Aye.'
The Old Giffer lit his pipe and blew
grey plumes into the heavy basement air. Bobby took out his packet of ten
Regal.
'Filter tip!' said the Old Giffer,
before his voice trailed off into a hacking laugh. Bobby lit up. There was no
talk between the pair of them. The smoking tasted good to Bobby. He bit the tip
and drew it deep into his lungs and it reminded him of home.
'When's lunch?' he asked.
'Don't you concern yourself with that,
my boy. I decide who eats, and when, around here,' said the Old Giffer. Bobby
looked around the basement, but there was only the two of them.
'Twenty year I've been here, boy, I'll
no' have you dictating to me one day in the job!'
'I was just ...'
'I was just. I was just. I was just
nothing! I make the rules up – have done for twenty year – and you'd do well to
remember that!'
The Old Giffer tapped his pipe off the
side of the tin container and stamped the black soot into the cement floor with
the sole of his shoe. He took Bobby over to the far corner of the basement and
flicked on the four rows of light switches. The room lit up like a fairground
and Bobby screwed up his eyes. The Old Giffer saw this and smiled, then turned
them off again and the dim bulb in the centre of the room took over on its own.
'Never put all the lights on like that,
boy,
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