Respect (Mandasue Heller)

by Mandasue Heller

  After scouring the vacancies and jotting down the numbers for the four she’d found which hadn’t asked for experience or qualifications, her eye was drawn to the For Sale ads and another thought occurred to her. A thought that brought her to her feet and made her run into her mum’s room.

  She had already long ago found all the loose change that had ever fallen down the sides and backs of the sofa and chairs, and had emptied every pocket and old handbag in the flat. But it had never even crossed her mind to think about selling her mum’s old jewellery. And, for a woman who had always claimed not to have enough money to feed decent food to her kids, she sure had enough of the stuff. By the time she’d finished gathering it all together, Chantelle had bagged three gold chains, a couple of chunky sovereign rings, another ring with a chipped amethyst in its centre, four pairs of Creole earrings, and numerous studs and sleepers. None of it was particularly good quality but it was all gold, so she was sure she would get something for it.

  After getting dressed, she rushed over to a pawnbroker in Moss Side. A tiny twinge of guilt flared inside her as she accepted the £120 that the old man had offered her for the lot, but she pushed it firmly out of her mind, reminding herself that she wouldn’t have had to do it if her mum hadn’t left them to fend for themselves.

  Chantelle stashed the money in her bra before she left the shop, determined not to let Ricky get his hands on it if he came round again. Then, feeling more positive than she had in a long time, she headed over to the market to do some shopping before walking home with a new spring in her step.

  A few days later, Chantelle got up early and ironed her best skirt and blouse before polishing her least-scuffed shoes. After making the mistake of telling the first of the employers whose ads she had answered that she was only fifteen and currently on holiday from school, she’d lied to the other three and had managed to secure interviews with them all. It was going to be a bit of a mad dash, because the first two were in Chorlton while the third was in Cheetham Hill. But she wasn’t going to complain about a little thing like that. She was just grateful that they had all agreed to see her on the same day.

  Dressed, she went into her mum’s room and picked through the clutter of make-up on the dressing table until she found mascara, lipstick and foundation. She had never been one for wearing make-up, and she felt awkward as she applied it. She didn’t want to cake it on like her mum did and end up looking like a clown; she just needed to look eighteen.

  Pleasantly surprised by the results when she’d finished, she stepped back to view herself in the mirror from every angle before going out into the hall and slipping her coat on. Then, reaching for her handbag, she tapped on her brother’s bedroom door.

  Leon was lying in bed admiring his knife. He’d had it for a while now, and it still gave him a major buzz whenever he held it in his hand. But he knew that Chantelle would have a fit if she found out about it, so he quickly shoved it under his quilt when she knocked and looped his arms behind his head.

  ‘’S up?’ He smiled innocently up at her when she popped her head around the door.

  ‘I’ve got to nip out for a few hours,’ she told him. ‘Will you be all right on your own till I get back?’

  ‘Yeah, course.’ He stretched his arms and yawned. ‘Where you going?’

  Chantelle had decided there was no point telling him that she was looking for a job until she managed to get one – after which they would have to have a serious talk; so she lied and said, ‘Just to the library. I’ll come straight back as soon as I’ve finished. But if anyone calls while I’m gone, don’t answer the door without checking first.’

  ‘I’ll be going round to Kermit’s,’ Leon told her, sitting up. ‘Can I have some money for chips?’

  Chantelle took two pound coins out of her purse and tossed them onto the bed. ‘I’ll see you in a bit. Make sure you behave for Linda.’

  ‘Always do,’ Leon murmured, flopping back down onto his pillow after picking the money up. ‘Have fun with your books.’

  ‘Wouldn’t hurt you to start taking an interest in reading,’ Chantelle said, smiling as she closed his door.

  When she emerged at the bottom of the stairwell a couple of minutes later, Anton Davis was walking past. Still mortified by her behaviour the last time they had spoken, Chantelle blushed when their eyes briefly met, but then felt strangely deflated when he just nodded and walked on. He was the best-looking boy on the estate and all her friends fancied him like crazy, so it had been kind of flattering to think that he’d been making an effort to talk to her lately. Not that she’d had any intention of trying to take it any further, or anything, because she had always vowed never to follow in her mother’s footsteps and get hooked up with a man who would inevitably cheat on her, beat her, or have the police raiding her house every two minutes. But still …

  Annoyed with herself for having let him get under her skin, Chantelle shoved Anton resolutely out of her mind, raised her chin, and went on her way.

  The first interview was at a small bakery in the centre of Chorlton. It was packed with customers when Chantelle walked in, and the women who were working behind the counter looked flustered and sweaty as they tried to serve without getting under each others’ feet. Chantelle waited at the back of the shop until the rush had died down, then stepped forward and told one of the women she was here to see Mrs Jones.

  ‘That’s me.’ The woman wiped her face on her sleeve. ‘You the girl I’m supposed to be interviewing?’ She pursed her lips when Chantelle nodded and raised the flap at the end of the counter. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘I’ve actually been here for ten minutes,’ Chantelle corrected her as she followed her through the shop and into a room at the back. ‘But I thought I’d best wait for the shop to clear.’

  ‘If I say you’re late, you’re late,’ Mrs Jones snapped, flopping down into a chair behind a messy desk. ‘And if you’re already arguing, is there any point me even interviewing you?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Chantelle murmured. ‘I’m just a bit nervous.’

  Mrs Jones sniffed, then waved her hand, indicating for Chantelle to sit down on the chair facing hers. ‘What did you say your name was again?’ she asked, shuffling through the paperwork on her desk.

  ‘Chantelle Booth.’

  ‘And you’ve never worked in a bakery before, right?’

  ‘No, but I’m a quick learner.’

  Mrs Jones gave up her search and sat back. ‘I know I wrote it down somewhere, but never mind, I’ll get what I need off your CV.’

  ‘I, er, forgot to bring it,’ said Chantelle, blushing, because it wasn’t as easy to lie face to face as it was over the phone.

  ‘What about your references?’

  Chantelle clutched her bag tightly in her lap and shook her head.

  Mrs Jones peered at her through narrowed eyes. ‘Have you even actually worked before?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Chantelle said quietly. ‘I’ve, er, been at college since leaving school.’

  ‘Studying what?’

  ‘Art.’

  Mrs Jones rolled her eyes. ‘Fat lot of good that’s going to do you in the real world.’ Then, sighing, she said, ‘Look, I’m sorry, love, but I can already tell this isn’t going to work out. I’ve got other people to interview, and some of them have got experience.’

  ‘Oh.’ Chantelle was deflated. ‘I thought the ad said experience wasn’t required?’

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Mrs Jones. ‘But if it’s a choice between someone who knows their way around an oven, and someone who’s spent the last couple of years painting pretty pictures …’ She left the rest unsaid and shrugged. ‘I’m sure you get my drift.’

  Chantelle nodded and stood up. ‘Thanks for seeing me,’ she said politely. ‘Bye.’

  Tears of disappointment stinging her eyes, she made her way back out onto the street. It would have been the perfect location, and she reckoned it wouldn’t have been too hard to learn the ropes. But she doubted she’d have enj
oyed working for that woman, so it was probably just as well.

  With plenty of time to spare since the first interview had ended so quickly, Chantelle walked to the second address on her list. This one was for a part-time position at a newsagent’s, and now that she’d had a taste of the kinds of things she might be asked she felt a little more prepared.

  The interview went quite smoothly, and they said they would contact her within the week to let her know if she’d got it. But Chantelle wasn’t sure she would accept it even if they wanted her, because they wanted someone who could start at 5.30 a.m. and that would cause problems with Leon. He’d been spending most of his days round at Kermit’s lately, and she had mentally arranged her work schedule around that. But if she had to leave before he got up in the morning, he would have to let himself out. And if he left the door open, or that horrible Ricky burst in like he had on her the other week, they were screwed.

  Chantelle caught the bus to the third interview in Cheetham Hill and walked around for half an hour before she found the road that the café where she’d been told to meet the man was situated on. It was set right back off the main drag, and she shivered when she walked around the corner and saw how run-down everything looked. Most of the buildings that had once stood on the road had been demolished, leaving a vast expanse of rubble that stretched out as far as she could see. Of the four buildings that remained, one was boarded up, and the second, a scruffy MOT service station, stank of old grease and oil. The third building was an ancient office block, most of the windows of which were either broken or had handwritten ‘To Let’ signs propped up in them. The café was next door to this, and the smell of the greasy food when she pushed open the door was almost as bad as that emanating from the MOT station.

  A tired-looking woman with straggly hair was perched on a stool behind the counter, picking at her nails. Three customers were seated at separate grimy tables, and Chantelle looked at each of them as she entered, wondering which, if any, was Bill May. It clearly wasn’t the only female customer, who was at a table by the window tapping on a laptop; but both of the two men looked too old and scruffy to own a business.

  ‘Chantelle?’

  She turned at the sound of the voice and found the lone female customer smiling at her. ‘Er, yes.’ She approached the table. ‘Are you the lady I spoke to about the interview with Mr May?’

  ‘Mr May?’ The woman chuckled. ‘Afraid not, dear. I’m Bill.’ She held out her hand. ‘Short for Belinda,’ she added with a grimace. ‘Far too twee for my liking.’

  Chantelle didn’t know what ‘twee’ meant, but she smiled as if she did and shook the woman’s hand.

  ‘Take a pew.’ Bill used her foot to push out the chair that was facing hers. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Chantelle perched on the edge of the seat.

  ‘Two coffees, Maureen,’ Bill called to the woman behind the counter. Then, clasping her hands together on the tabletop, she said, ‘So, Chantelle, tell me a little about yourself.’

  Thrown, Chantelle gave a nervous little shrug. ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘How old are you?’ Bill’s pale blue eyes seemed to be boring into hers.

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘Are you currently working?’

  ‘No. I’ve been at college since I left school.’

  ‘Are you planning to go back after the break, or have you graduated?’

  Chantelle licked her lips, wondering if it was a trick question. If she said no, the woman might think she was a drop-out; but if she said yes, then Bill might think there was no point taking her on in the first place. She stumped for, ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  Bill nodded, and said, ‘I ask because, if I take you on, the work may not be as regular as you’re hoping for. I said in the ad that it was part-time, but it will actually be more of a flexible arrangement – as in, if I need you, I’ll call you. So if you’re looking for something more stable, then you should probably look elsewhere.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Chantelle murmured, wondering now if this was the woman’s way of letting her down easy because she’d already decided that she didn’t want her.

  Maureen of the straggly hair carried their coffees over to the table and plonked them down, splashing liquid out of both cups. Dabbing at the mess with a napkin, Bill said, ‘The hours will be irregular, and it will involve night work. Would that be a problem?’

  Chantelle hadn’t even considered working at night, but now that the subject had been raised she realised that it might actually work out better. One of her main concerns had been the thought of Leon getting into trouble if he was left to his own devices all day, but if he was already tucked up in bed before she went out it would greatly reduce the risk.

  ‘No, it won’t be a problem,’ she said.

  ‘Good.’ Bill plucked a crust off a plate that was sitting on the table and fed it to a dog that Chantelle hadn’t noticed which was lying at her feet. Then, wiping her hand on her trousers, she looked Chantelle in the eye and said, ‘I’m going to lay my cards on the table and tell you that I was really looking for someone a little older. But you’re the only applicant, so I’m going to suggest a trial run – see how we get on before I say yea or nay. Is that okay with you?’

  Chantelle was disappointed, but she reasoned that at least she was being given a chance; and if she did well, Bill might give her the job. So, smiling, she said, ‘Yes, that’s fine.’

  ‘Good girl. Now, it’ll be cash in hand until we decide where we’re going, and I’ll cover your expenses on top of that. I’ve operated pretty much solo until now, but I’m neither as agile as I used to be, nor as inconspicuous as the majority of the jobs which seem to be coming my way lately require, hence my need of an assistant.’

  ‘To take calls and make appointments?’ Chantelle ventured, assuming that these were the main duties of a receptionist.

  ‘No, dear, that’s my department,’ Bill said, peering at the laptop screen. ‘All I need you to do is look pretty and take some photographs. Or rather, a video, from which I will extract stills – providing you’ve managed to capture anything remotely usable.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Chantelle was confused. ‘I thought the ad said you needed a receptionist?’

  ‘If I had been upfront in the ad, I’d have been inundated with applications from every would-be James and Jemima Bond in Manchester,’ Bill said cryptically. ‘But I need someone I can trust, who is also attractive, and preferably female. Unfortunately, the law prohibits me from specifying the latter, so I was forced to word it in such a way as to guarantee that few if any men would bother to answer. As it happens, nobody did, apart from yourself.’

  ‘So what do you actually want me to do?’ Chantelle asked, frowning now.

  ‘Covert surveillance.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Bill looked up and smiled. ‘I shan’t divulge too much at this stage, as I’ll need to get the measure of you to ascertain as to whether I can rely on your discretion. But, basically speaking, I want you to videotape somebody – without them knowing that you’re doing it.’

  ‘What, like, spying?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. You’ll be in a public place, so you’ll be in no danger; and I’ll be waiting around the corner to make sure you get home safely. Are you still up for it?’

  ‘Er, yes, I guess so,’ Chantelle murmured, wondering what on earth she was letting herself in for.

  ‘Excellent,’ Bill said approvingly. ‘Let’s get some details, then, shall we?’ She turned her attention back to the laptop. ‘Here we are … Chantelle Booth, aged eighteen. Address and contact number …?’

  Chantelle gave Bill the details she wanted. Then, shifting in her seat, she said, ‘I don’t have a CV, or references, or anything.’

  ‘Not necessary at this stage,’ Bill assured her, saving the file and closing the laptop. ‘Now, the fee will be fifty pounds per job …’

  ‘Fifty pounds?’ Chantelle’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Depen
ding how long it takes,’ Bill went on. ‘I anticipate it should only take two to three hours, but if it should go beyond that, we’ll reassess. Is that agreeable?’

  ‘Yes!’ Chantelle said without hesitation.

  ‘Splendid.’ Bill picked up her cup and swallowed a large mouthful of the hot coffee. Then, slapping a £5 note down on the table, she gathered up her laptop and reached for the dog’s lead. ‘Nice to have you on board.’ She rose to her feet.

  ‘When do you want me to start?’ Chantelle asked, guessing that the interview was over when Bill headed for the door, tugging the arthritic old chihuahua behind her.

  ‘I’ll call you when I need you,’ Bill said, holding the door for Chantelle to follow her out onto the pavement. There, waiting patiently as the dog cocked its leg against the lamp-post, she said, ‘I don’t expect it to take too long before a job comes in, so please keep your phone switched on at all times.’

  Assuring her that she would, Chantelle said goodbye and headed back to the main road. Her mind was in a spin as she walked, and she struggled to make sense of what had just happened. She had never met anyone quite like Bill May before, and with all the secrecy she was beginning to wonder if the woman really owned a business at all, or was just a jealous wife who wanted someone to follow her husband around. But fifty quid was fifty quid, so even if it turned out to be a one-off she wasn’t about to turn it down.

  Leon was out when Chantelle got back to the flat. She popped her head around his bedroom door when she’d hung up her coat and tutted when she saw his unmade bed and the clothes strewn all over the floor. He’d always been lazy, but he had been getting progressively worse since their mum took off and Chantelle was forever picking up after him. It was her own fault, she supposed. Instead of doing it for him, she ought to put her foot down and make him do it himself. Or, better yet, train him not to do it in the first place.

  She snatched up the wet towel that was lying at her feet and carried it into the kitchen. After putting it into the washing machine, she wiped her hands on her skirt and cast a critical eye around the room. Leon wasn’t the only one who’d been lazy lately; there were crumbs and bits of dried-up food on the ledges in here, and the lino looked grimy and dull beneath her feet. But it wasn’t just the kitchen and Leon’s room that needed tackling – the whole place needed scrubbing from top to bottom.