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‘And as a good man-’
Oh God! Here it comes…
‘…I ask you to hear a mother’s plea. Please. I’ve tried to stay away. I’ve tried to respect his wishes. But I can’t let him do this to himself and his family any longer. I have to see my son.’ Her eyes bored into mine. Bloody hell, if they just didn’t look so much like his! I felt my defences crumble. And then came her last cannon shot: ‘Please.’
That’s it. I’m fired.
I took a deep breath. ‘You know…’
‘Yes?’
‘I think I’ve been mistaken. I just remembered that Mr Ambrose didn’t say he doesn’t want to be disturbed. He said he wants to be disturbed. As much as possible, at every opportunity. Especially by mothers, and any other relatives that happen to pass by. So, by all means, go in.’
The smile that spread across her face was reward enough. I just hoped I’d still think so in three weeks when I had to fend for myself, out of work and without a penny in my pocket.
‘Thank you, Mr Linton! Thank you so much!’ She squeezed my hand again, then let go and slowly moved towards the door of Mr Ambrose’s office. ‘I won’t forget this.’
Oh, neither will I. He won’t let me.
Turning to face the office door, she raised her hand and knocked.
‘I said I didn’t want to be disturbed, Mr Linton!’ came a familiar, cutting and cold voice from inside. ‘What is it?’
She opened the door.
‘Hello, son.’
There was deafening silence.
She stepped inside, and the door fell shut behind her.
Half an hour had passed before the door opened again. She hurried out, a gleam in her eyes that I had only ever seen on the faces of mothers and deranged opium addicts. Nodding to me in passing, she left my office.
Silence reigned.
Long silence.
Then, Mr Ambrose stepped out of his office, his face as cold as the Antarctic in winter after an invasion by Nordic frost giants. His eyes snapped to me.
‘Tell me, Mr Linton,’ he demanded, his voice deceptively calm. ‘Did you listen in at the keyhole?’
My eyes widened innocently. ‘Me? Of course not!’
His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. ‘You had better not be lying to me, Mr Linton!’
‘I’m not! I swear on women’s right to vote!’
‘Women don’t have the right to vote.’
‘But they will have, soon!’
In a flash, Mr Ambrose had crossed the distance between us. His hands slammed down on my desk, and he leaned forward until my nose was only inches away from his clenched, rock-hard jaw.
‘If I ever find out that you have listened at the keyhole,’ he breathed, a thunderstorm roiling in his dark eyes, ‘you will be very, very sorry. Understood, Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir!’
And I did understand. Completely. Absolutely. Why would I listen at the keyhole, when there were so many better options available?
