by Ian Whates
“I – I can’t believe my uncle would agree to sell,” Augustine stammered.
Jacques’s smile wasn’t as confident as usual. “Well, Augustine, sometimes there aren’t any alternatives.”
Augustine didn’t care one bit for the bright, cold fire hiding in the young man’s eyes.
3.
The shop floor was full of shadows when Augustine crept along the hallway from the spare parts room with the folder under her arm. After dinner, eaten in the kitchen with Nancy, the hours had crawled by, but Augustine had wanted to be sure that the mechanics had left for home before she retrieved the folder from its hiding place. Jacques’s confidence that her uncle would sell them to Giffard-Krebs troubled Augustine so much that she had climbed the stairs and cracked opened her uncle’s door. In the fading light that filtered in through the half-opened curtains, Augustine had made out the shape of her uncle resting in bed, his plastered leg propped up on a pillow. The sharp smell of cigars and morphine hung in the air. She didn’t dare go further than the threshold. Even though Bernard Whittock had never had anything good to say about her, Augustine felt afraid and uncertain thinking of a future that suddenly didn’t include the familiar office and filing and Nancy’s sandwiches. Despite her lack of education and encouragement, Augustine wasn’t stupid. She knew that if they were sold to Giffard-Krebs and her uncle made good money in the deal, Augustine would be the first one tipped off the wagon. Yesterday, while reading the legal and bank papers in her uncle’s private folder, she had discovered that the only reason he tolerated her at all was because of the inheritance left by Frederic and Rebeca. When Augustine turned twenty-one, a portion of her inheritance would be split off, which would more than cover the money her uncle had spent raising her to that point.
Augustine’s fingers felt damp against the cardboard of the folder. The beat of the hands on the large copper clock on the far wall were a dull ticking to her ears. There must have been a full moon that night, because a cold light streamed through the skylight, illuminating the silhouettes of machine parts awaiting service and the hard gleam of metal. The engine unit of the Goliath loomed on the central line like the back of a massive beetle. The shadows of the cranes’ hoist chains were spidery legs cast onto the walls. Augustine turned to the right, toward the central line. On her way in, she had been too nervous to stop and admire the engine unit, but now she was sure that there was no one in the shop with her. She stepped carefully between the tools and spare parts lying on the floor and peered into it from the side, where a maintenance hatch had been left open. Thanks to the plans, she knew where the levers, pistons, and springs would be located. The engine unit smelled like machine grease and fresh metal. The exhaust pipes extended like wings behind the car.
Augustine gathered her courage, laid the folder on the ground, and climbed inside the hatch.
She had just pulled her skirt into the car and tugged free a wisp of hair from where it had caught on the head of a screw when a sound nearby made her freeze.
“Damn it! Pierre oughta be here himself to clean up his mess.”
“What’re you gonna do?” another voice said caustically. “He’s got a needy wife at home, and an even needier brat in diapers.” The smell of tobacco wafted to Augustine’s nose. She could make out movement among the light and shadows. The men were close by.
Augustine heard a prolonged grumble. “The kid had to get the damn pox now. If he’d waited ‘til tomorrow, Pierre could’ve explained his problem to the morning shift himself.”
“Eh, quit your complaining. We hadn’t got any further than the pub, anyway. You look over there. I’ll have a look over here.”
Augustine saw the glowering end of a cigarette and the shape of the man behind it. She pressed her back against the shell of the engine unit, hardly daring to breathe.
“Bloody hell! If his wife’d feed him better, we wouldn’t be crawling around here because he’s slimmed down so much he can’t keep a ring on his finger.”
Augustine heard a chortle of laughter.
“Too bad the shop’s gas is cut off for the night. Otherwise we’d be able to get some more light in here.”
“We’ll see if Whittock’s so tight-fisted when Giffard-Krebs fills his chest with coins enough to jingle.”
“There’s no cure for stinginess.” Augustine heard the clank of tools being moved around.
“There’s the truth. That new cockerel, though – he’s different. He seems to understand that you have to give something to get something.”
“I can’t understand why old Whittock put that kid in as foreman.”
“Didn’t have much choice. Apparently Whittock is up to his eyebrows in debt to Gaston’s old man. Hold up, what’s this folder?”
Augustine’s heart skipped a beat.
“Not Pierre’s, that’s for sure. Some maintenance files, probably.”
“Well, we can’t leave those lying around. Listen, we aren’t gonna find that damn ring in this light. What do you want to bet Pierre didn’t even lose it here? Let’s leave a note for the morning shift so they can keep an eye out for it.”
The other man yawned loudly. “Gotta admit I’m ready for some shut-eye.”
When Augustine was sure that the men were gone, she climbed out of the car with trembling arms and legs.
Bernard’s folder was gone.
In the morning, Augustine checked every possible place the workmen might have left it. She didn’t find it among the incoming or outgoing internal mail, on the table in the break room, or even in the dressing room, from which she returned with cheeks ablaze. Finally, she shuffled up the metal stairs to the office and stood in front of Gertrude’s desk. The lack of sleep was heavy in her limbs.
Gertrude raised her eyes from the page being spat out of the typewriter, and the dance of her fingers over the keyboard paused.
“Augustine, is something wrong?”
Augustine twisted the fabric of her skirt between her fingers. She had no choice but to admit everything, and Gertrude was the only person she could even consider going to.
“I lost my uncle’s folder.”
“Which folder?”
“The one he keeps in the secret compartment under his cigar boxes.”
Gertrude was completely motionless for a moment. “The one with his private customer list?”
“Yes, but Mr Gaston has the list. He asked for it two days ago. But everything else. . .”
Gertrude stood up. Augustine’s eyes stayed on Gertrude’s face, which had turned pale. She felt her lower lip begin to tremble and tried to take a deep breath.
“Does Jacques Gaston have Bernard’s customer list?” Gertrude asked.
“He needed it so he could prepare for the meeting with the representatives from Giffard-Krebs. I thought you knew about it.” Augustine began to panic, though now for a different reason. “Sh-should I not have given it to him?”
The expression on Gertrude’s face softened. “It’s all right, dear. You couldn’t have known.”
“Known what?”
Gertrude cleared a few loose papers from her desk and collected her handbag and wide-brimmed hat from the coat tree. “I need to speak with your uncle.”
“Am I in trouble?”
Gertrude stopped with her hand on the door frame. Augustine didn’t meet her gaze. “Not you, Augustine. But someone else is.”
4.
“You lied.”
Sitting in her uncle’s chair, Jacques Gaston turned to look at Augustine standing at the door. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and he had loosened his tie. He laid down the pen he had been tapping against his palm. His eyebrows raised at Augustine’s words.
“You said you had Gertrude’s permission to see my uncle’s customer list.”
“When would I have ever claimed something like that? You must have misheard.”
Augustine’s hands clenched into fists. It was hot in the office. The sunlight pouring in the windows that looked onto the shop was blindingly brig
ht. “Two days ago. I want it back.” Augustine reached out her hand.
Jacques pulled open a drawer and slapped the bundle of papers down on the corner of his desk. “Take it. I don’t need it any longer.”
Augustine pressed her lips together. She snatched the pile and retreated to the doorway squeezing the papers against her chest. “If my uncle had known you were a liar, he would never have hired you – debt or no.”
Jacques’s eyes brightened, and he straightened his back. A small smile spread across his lips. “So you know about your uncle’s debt to my father?” He let out a little click of his tongue. “Augustine, Augustine. As I said earlier, you’re a clever girl.”
“My hearing may be poor, but there’s nothing wrong with my head.”
“I’ve noticed.” Jacques leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. “So surely you’re aware that your uncle’s debts were also behind your parents’ fatal accident?”
“More lies.”
“Do you think so?” Jacques pushed his chair back from the desk and stood up. “Augustine.” He came towards her with hands outstretched.
“Don’t come any closer.”
Jacques paused and lifted his hands to calm her. “I’m only saying you should know all sides of the story before you start throwing around accusations.”
She looked at the freckles on his young face, and at his eyes, which sparkled despite the fact that his expression was otherwise serious. She had been charmed by him. That was why her sense of betrayal was so strong that she dared speak so bluntly. But now she wasn’t as sure. “Mother and Father were hit by a train trying to save me. It was an accident.”
Jacques nodded. “An accident, doubtless. But you hadn’t wandered onto the tracks, Augustine. Your family was waiting for a train at Gare du Nord and Bernard Whittock was there with you. Bernard’s creditors targeted the wrong man, and when Frederic was pushed in front of the oncoming train, your mother tried to save him.”
A blur of tears arose before Augustine’s eyes. “That’s not true,” she whispered. “You can’t know that.”
“There were several witnesses, but only two of them understood what had really happened: Bernard and my father.”
Augustine shook her head. “My hearing was damaged when I struck my head on the rails. I’m the reason my father and mother are dead. No one else, do you hear?” Augustine’s voice rose. “Especially not my uncle and his stupid debts!”
“Augustine –”
Nancy was standing beside the stove making tea when Augustine burst in.
“Good Lord,” she said. “First Gertrude and now you. Both of you look as if you’ve been caught out in a storm!” Then she noticed the tears streaming down Augustine’s face. “Augustine?”
“Tell me, is it true?” Augustine sniffled and wiped her tears on her sleeve. She had barely been able to see in front of her when she had stumbled out of the machine shop, leaving her uncle’s important documents behind in the office. “Tell me, am I an orphan because my uncle couldn’t manage his money?”
Nancy stared at her with eyes wide. “But where is this –?”
“I hate him! Hate him!”
Augustine flew out of the kitchen and ran up the stairs. She passed the closed door of her uncle’s room, pushed her own door open, and started to pull her clothing and other belongings onto the bed. She searched for the pitifully small suitcase that was a carryover from her childhood. The bag had languished unused since she had moved into her uncle’s house. Now Augustine packed it so full that she struggled to make the buckles meet the straps. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and from time to time she paused to wipe them with her wet sleeve. She didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to shed a single tear on account of her uncle, but it was impossible to contain her disappointment.
She hadn’t heard anyone come in, but a hand on her shoulder told her she was no longer alone. Gertrude. From the faint smell of cigars, Augustine knew that she had come from her uncle’s room. Augustine shook off her hand. She caught a glimpse of Nancy in the doorway.
“Augustine, where do you intend to go?” Gertrude asked.
“Away.” She checked the buckles of her suitcase.
“It’s dangerous in the streets, dear. Your uncle will worry.”
Augustine turned to look at Gertrude. “He’s not concerned about anything other than maybe not getting his piece of my inheritance when I turn twenty-one in six years.” Gertrude didn’t look surprised. Augustine’s stomach turned. “But apparently you’re already aware of that.”
“Perhaps it’s best you have a seat and calm down.”
“And did you know that my uncle is a murderer, too?” Augustine was so full of rage that she didn’t know where to direct it all. “He let me believe that what happened to my parents was my fault. Can you believe it? He couldn’t even take responsibility for that. And now he’s planning to sell us to Giffard-Krebs!”
Gertrude took Augustine by the arm. Her grip squeezed like a vice. “He plans to do what?”
“That, dear Gus, is not correct.”
Her uncle stood in the doorway, leaning on a crutch.
“That’s what Jacques Gaston said,” Augustine said defensively.
“Young Gaston says whatever benefits him most at any given moment.”
Bernard Whittock’s eyes were bright with morphine, and his skin looked doughy and lifeless. A pair of wrinkled pyjamas hung off him, and his robe was only slightly less wrinkled. Nancy stood behind him, looking as if she would have liked to remind him that, according to doctor’s orders, he shouldn’t be using a crutch, not until he’d received permission.
“What is Augustine talking about, Bernard?” Gertrude asked.
“The Giffard-Krebs companies would like to buy our skills and expertise. It’s nothing new, but when we secured the maintenance contract the matter became timely again.” Bernard hobbled on his crutch toward the armchair, and Nancy helped him sit down. She left the room.
“I’m your secretary, Bernard.” Gertrude’s voice was strained. “Why haven’t I heard of this – or even seen the papers?”
“Because the few documents relating to the matter were drawn up in the gentlemen’s club,” Bernard said.
Augustine listened to the exchange. Her tears had dried up, but anger still coiled under her breastbone. She fingered the handle of her suitcase.
“Is that so?” Gertrude said.
Nancy returned to the room, carrying a footstool. She placed it in front of Bernard’s chair, and he carefully lifted his plastered ankle to rest on it. Then his gaze turned to Augustine. “I heard what you said about your parents, Gus. I’m terribly sorry you had to find out this way.”
Augustine swallowed. “S-so you admit it was your fault?”
“It was an accident.”
“But it happened because you were in debt?”
Her uncle’s lips grew narrow. “My economic situation was admittedly unstable at the time.”
“And how about now? You’re in debt to Gaston. Th-that’s why you hired Jacques.”
Augustine felt Gertrude and Nancy staring at her. She straightened her posture. “And that’s why I believe that you intend to sell the repair shop and all the skills that we’ve acquired. You got Jacques to arrange the sale, and he’ll take a cut of the money to cover what you owe the Gastons.”
Bernard shook his head. “Gus, Gus. You have far too much free time if you’re coming up with stories like that. You must have heard something wrong.”
Augustine’s face grew flushed. “I’m not deaf. And don’t call me Gus. It’s a stupid boy name.”
Her uncle’s eyes bulged. “Watch your tongue, girl!”
“Bernard –” Gertrude said.
“If you’re going to be insubordinate, you can take a walk!” Bernard pounded the armrest with his fist. “Ungrateful klutz.”
Augustine dragged her suitcase from the bed and showed it to her uncle. “See here, uncle. I’ve already packed. It would be interesting to kn
ow how you think you’ll get your money from my inheritance if the law office isn’t able to prove I’ve turned twenty-one.”
She marched past Gertrude and Nancy and out of the room.
5.
She had to find out what had happened to the folder and the important papers it contained.
She scurried down the stone steps to her uncle’s small front yard and ran to the gate that opened onto the street. The evening shift would be arriving soon. Maybe she could find the men who had searched for their friend Pierre’s ring yesterday and ask them what had happened to the folder. If she intended to get by on her own, she would need the official papers her uncle had kept hidden from her.
But in the entrance to the machine hall she bumped into Jacques.
“Ah, so here you are, Augustine! Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Judging by his top coat, impeccable tie, and brushed hat, Jacques was going out. A black leather briefcase hung from his hand.
“Nowhere.” Augustine wasn’t prepared with a better answer.
“Why the suitcase?”
“I’m moving out.”
“At the age of fifteen?”
Augustine lifted her chin. “I’ll manage.”
Jacques narrowed his eyes. His grip on Augustine’s arm changed. “Come with me.” He guided Augustine out.
Augustine looked back in alarm at the shop, where the workmen were bustling and the engine unit glowed in the sun. “Wait a minute, I can’t...” She took a better grip on her suitcase, which was nearly slipping out of her hand. “I don’t even have a respectable hat -”
“Who needs a hat,” Jacques said and pushed her into a steam car waiting at the curb, its engine pounding and hissing. Black smoke poured out the exhaust pipe in its roof. While Augustine got a hold of herself and her skirt, which had tangled around her ankles, Jacques circled around to the other side, climbed into the vehicle, and pressed a switch in the ceiling. In the front seat, the driver placed his hands on the control levers. The vehicle shuddered into motion. Augustine clutched her suitcase in her lap.
