June 13th
Sometimes I wonder if bleach is supposed to taste sharp in the back of your throat, or if that sensation simply means youve been scrubbing the same patch of linoleum for five years straight. That was meEmily Dawson, aged thirty-two, eyes fixed on a muddy boot streak marring my freshly mopped floor. The tang of cheap soap lingered on my hands. My days were counted, not in hours, but in empty buckets and clean stairwells.
Dawson, you drifting off? Mr. Andrew Cartwrights voicethe managing director of Steelworks Limitedcrashed into my head without warning. The Germans are meeting in the boardroom in ten minutes. Not a single speck of dust, you hear?
My fingers clenched tighter around the mop. No one here knew about the woman beneath the stained blue tabardone who once breezed through Goethe in German and planned to become a solicitor for international law. Life collapsed without drama: Mums heart attack, the wheelchair, bills rinsing away our flat, and with it my ambitions. My German collected dust in the attic corners of my mind, muscled aside by shift rotas and disinfectant.
The air in the boardroom was heavy, not helped by the polish Id rubbed into the table. A leather-bound file lay open at one end, expensive and intimidating. The top page, neat and bristling with unfamiliar letters, caught my eye.
Vertrag über die Übertragung von Anteilen… The words unfurled their meaning, automatic and clear as breathing. Not just a contractthis was the noose for the whole factory. Cartwright was sneakily transferring company assets, readying a hollow shell for the investors. Workers pay would dissolve along with the business.
Whats this, Dawson? Recognise a few letters? The director swaggered in, smoothing his tie, with the chief engineerPeter Collinsscurrying behind him.
I had no chance to retreat. Instead, I met his eye and, for one short moment, my old pride woke.
Theres a mistake, Mr. Cartwright. Clause twelve. The Germans seize control even after a single late payment. Youre about to sign away everything in less than a month.
Cartwright stopped cold, face flushing an ugly scarlet. Hear that, Collins? Not just a cleaner now, we have a legal adviser in a stained apron and clutching a mop! Taking liberties, she is!
He leaned in close, cologne and whisky clinging to him. Well, clever clogs, translate this then! He tossed the contract onto the table next to me with a mocking chuckle.
By tomorrow, eight a.m., I want a full analysis in Englishyour so-called amendments and all. If not, leave your keys, and you can beg on the street. Dyou think your mumll last long on dry toast?
Peter Collins looked away. I picked up the folder in silence. Heavy. Like my life.
That night, I didnt sleep. I perched at the kitchen table under the dim lamp, contract open and battered dictionary spread beside it. Mum muttered in her dreams behind the thin wall. I worked like a woman possessed. Every legal twist, every snare deciphered beneath my pen. It was clear nowCartwright was endangering not just himself, but hundreds of us. Hed stashed away bad debts off the books.
In the morning, for the first time in years, I didnt don my tabard. Instead, I wore the single black dress Id saved for desperate meetings with social services. My hands shook, but at eight sharp, I entered Cartwrights office.
Heres the translation, Mr. Cartwright. My advice: dont sign. Theres a clause on directors being personally liable for all assets.
He didnt spare it a glance, hissing cigarette smoke my way. Get back to mopping, Dawson. Only reason youre not out the door is no one elsell polish those stairs. Off you go.
The delegation rolled up next morning. Herr Schneider led the Germansa hard-faced man if ever I saw one. Negotiations shut behind doors, though I was close enough with my duster on the skirting boards to hear Cartwrights voice growing sharp and nearly shrill.
Suddenly, the door burst open. Schneider stormed out, waving the very pages Id worked through the night.
Wer hat das geschrieben? he barked, staring at every face in the room. Who wrote this?
The official translatora nervous young ladfaltered. Cartwright charged out, sweating and flushed.
Its nothing, sir! The cleaner was meddling he flustered. Ill sack her at once!
Schneider cut him off with a crisp gesture and came to mestill clutching my cloth.
You? he asked, in rough but clear English.
I did, I replied, in fluent German. If I were you, Id check the accounts in appendix four. The figures dont match reality.
Cartwright jerked like Id slapped him, hand rising threateningly, but Schneider seized his arm.
Thats enough, said the German, cool and certain. We suspected deceit. This analysis confirms our fears. Mr. Cartwright, my lawyers are preparing a legal claim. Youre not just losing the dealyoure losing everything.
He fixed a long look at my cracked hands.
We need someone who knows this factory inside out, and who can read English law. Were imposing temporary administration. Will you help us? We need an honest legal audit.
I glanced at Cartwright. He was clutching the door, about to simply sag to the floor, with nothing left of his old authorityjust fear.
I will, I said quietly.
A week passed. The directors office was silent now. I sat at the desk Cartwright once used to scatter his papers. My suit was new, paid for out of my first advance.
A gentle knock at the door. Peter Collins, the chief engineer.
Miss Dawson he stumbled. Cartwrights here to collect his things. Securitys outside; he cant go in without your say-so.
I stepped into the corridor. Cartwright stood by the lift, clutching a cardboard boxtrinkets, a certificate in a cheap frame, half-finished bottle of whisky. He looked ten years older, stubble going grey, his pricey jacket hanging limp.
He met my eyesnot angry, just hollow and lost. So. You translated. Are you happy, then?
I just wanted the factory to survive, Mr. Cartwright, I replied. So people could earn their pay, instead of you pocketing bonuses at their expense.
I nodded to security. They stood aside. Cartwright entered the lift, doors closing him off from the world where he once played king.
I returned to the office, gazed out at the yard below. By the entrance, a new cleanerjust a girl, reallydragged her mop, trying to keep her place in the world.
Something inside me, tight as a wound spring, finally began to release. My legs felt weak; I sank into the chair, trembling. It wasnt victory in a warjust a homecoming to myself.
I grabbed the phone, dialed home.
Mum? Its me. Yes, I promise, everythings alright. The doctorll come tomorrowfrom the city hospital. Dont worry, please. You dont have to skip your medicine any longer.
I ended the call and looked at the mountain of filesso much work ahead. But now, it was work worth doing. Work I lived for.
