Alright then, since youre so clever translate this! the director had sniggered, flinging the contract at the cleaner. A week later he was the one boxing his things.
I stared at the muddy scuff left by someones shoe across the freshly cleaned linoleum floor. That familiar sting of bleach and cheap soap still caught at the back of my throat. I was thirty-two, and for five years now, my life had been measured out in buckets of soapy water and the number of staircases I scrubbed each day.
Dawson, are you daydreaming in there? The bark of Mr Andrew Victor Locke, the managing director of Ironbridge Engineering, hit my ears as sharp as a slap. The Germans will be here in ten minutes for the boardroom meeting. Not a single speck of dust in sight, you hear?
I straightened without a word. Being invisible had become a second skin. No one in this building knew that under my blue uniform was a woman whod once read Goethe in the original German and dreamed of becoming an international lawyer. Life had collapsed easily Mums heart attack, the wheelchair, the bills for rehab swallowing up our flat and every last hope. My German faded, set aside and replaced by the rota for cleaning shifts.
It was stifling in the boardroom. I could still smell the polish Id used on the table, now gleaming beneath a sleek, expensive-looking leather folder. The cover sheet was densely printed in a language I hadnt seen for years.
Vertrag über die Übertragung von Anteilen My eyes fell into the rhythm of the words; they still made sense. This wasnt just a contract. It was the death sentence for the factory. Andrew Locke was methodically stripping the assets, ready to leave the foreign investors with an empty shell and looming wage arrears for the staff.
Whats this, Dawson struggling to make out the letters? Locke strolled in, re-knotting his tie with exaggerated care. The chief engineer, Peter Marshall, scurried in after him.
I didnt step aside in time. I met his gaze, and for a moment, that same old flash of pride flickered through me, the one I thought Id buried for good.
Theres an error in clause twelve, Mr Locke. The Germans will take over control the moment theres any delay in payments. Youll be signing away the right for them to sack you inside a month.
Locke went rigid. His face flushed a poisonous mottled red. He turned to Peter, and in the uneasy hush, he forced a humourless, patronising smile.
Heard that, Peter? Seems our cleaners now an expert in international law. Just look at her stained uniform, mop in hand, spouting legal advice!
He strode closer; I caught the mix of expensive aftershave and whisky.
Go on then, clever clogs translate! he sneered, tossing the contract right next to me.
Lets see how smart you really are. If there isnt a full breakdown in English with your suggestions on my desk by 8am tomorrow, return your kit and go beg on the street. How long would your mother last, living on broth alone?
Peter looked away. I picked up the folder it was heavy. Heavy as my heart.
That night, I didnt sleep. I sat at the kitchen table under the flickering lamp, Mum whimpering softly in her sleep in the next room. The contract and my battered old student dictionary lay in front of me.
I attacked the pages like a woman possessed. Sentence after sentence, all the subtle legal twists. I saw, as clear as day, how Locke had put not just himself but hundreds of others at risk. Hidden dead loans in his financial reports.
Come morning, I didnt reach for the mop. I wore the one decent black dress left in my wardrobe, saved for desperate meetings with the council.
At exactly eight oclock, I entered Mr Lockes office.
Heres your translation, Mr Locke. My advice: dont sign. Theres a clause making you personally liable with all your own assets.
He didnt even look up from his expensive cigarette.
Get back to scrubbing floors, Ms Consultant. The only reason I havent sacked you yet is no one else is desperate enough to clean the stairs tomorrow. Off you go.
Next day the delegation arrived, led by Mr Schneider, an unsmiling man with a granite face. The negotiations were behind closed doors, but as I wiped the corridor skirting boards, I could hear Lockes voice climbing to a shrill panic.
Suddenly the door burst open. Schneider stepped out, waving the translated notes the ones Id prepared in the night.
Who wrote this? he demanded, in clear English tinged with a German accent.
The official translator, a nervous-looking lad, floundered. Locke came storming after, sweating and wild.
Rubbish, Mr Schneider! Just the cleaners nonsense Ill sack her at once!
Schneider held up a hand to stop him. He approached me, still clutching the cloth.
You? he asked, his accent thick.
I did, I replied, in perfect German. And if I were you, Id check the debtor audit in Appendix Four. The numbers are false.
Locke reeled; his face twisted in fury. He reared up, ready to lash out, but Mr Schneider caught his arm.
Thats enough, Schneider said, voice like ice. We suspected deceit this technical examination confirms our worst fears. Mr Locke, our lawyers are already drawing up a claim. Youre not just losing this deal. Youre losing everything.
He turned to me, looking long at my cracked hands.
We need someone who knows this place inside out, and English law as well. Were appointing a temporary management board. Would you work with us? We need an honest legal audit.
I looked at Locke. He clung to the doorway, looking like he might crumble and slide to the floor. His eyes were hollowed of all authority there was only terror.
Yes, I breathed, almost to myself.
A week went by. Lockes office was quiet now. I sat behind his old desk, wearing a new suit paid for with my advance.
A timid knock sounded at the door. Peter Marshall, the chief engineer.
Miss Dawson he hesitated, Lockes here to collect his things. Security wont let him up unless you say so.
I went into the corridor. Andrew Victor Locke was by the lift, a cardboard box in his arms: a few awards, a framed certificate, half a bottle of whisky. He looked a decade older bristled with grey stubble, suit jacket shapeless on his shoulders.
He met my gaze, not angrily but with a dull, fatalistic look.
You translated it, then, he said, hoarsely. Happy now?
I just wanted the factory to keep running, Mr Locke, I answered. So people could earn their wages, not so you could rake in bonuses at their expense.
I nodded to the security guards. They parted. Locke stepped into the lift, and the doors juddered closed, severing him from the world where hed always been king.
I returned to the office, walked to the window, and looked out over the yard. By the entrance, a new cleaner had started a young girl, awkwardly mopping the marble tiles in her blue uniform.
Inside me, something long-sprung tight finally released. My legs went weak and I dropped into the chair. It wasnt victory in some grand battle just a return to myself.
I took out my phone and dialled home.
Mum? Its me. Yes, its all fine. The doctors coming tomorrow, a proper one from the centre. Dont worry now. Well manage. No more scrimping on your medication.
I ended the call and looked at the stack of paperwork. There was a mountain to do but now, it was finally work worth living for.
