There have been a lot of them around recently, and despite my thoughts on the unrealistic expectations of writers as to their prospects of actually winning something, the converse is also true: even a mediocre success can be incentive enough to keep a writer persevering. I was reminded of this when a chance encounter on the sun terrace at the Listowel Arms, brought me into the company of the now retired Radio 1 producer, formerly known as Mr Francis MacManus. A mutual acquaintance introduced us and I found myself thanking Seamus Hosey for giving me my first break. Back in 2010, at a point when I thought I would never write another word again, I received the coveted email from Seamus congratulating me on making the shortlist for the Francis MacManus story competition. To people used to winning things, this would appear a non-event, but for me it served as a much-needed fillip. My story ‘Hired Help’ didn’t make the prize-winning final three, but still served to encourage me to keep going. I include an extract below:
Hired Help
Silvia arranged the sets of keys in a circle on the scratched pine table. The baby in the apartment next door started to wail. She reached for the dial on the radio and turned the volume up. The neighbours could probably hear the loud music through the thin walls, but she could hear their screaming baby, so one-all. She wondered which set she’d need today. The key-rings and the labels reflected their owners’ personalities. Uptight Mrs Maguire had coloured coded labels with little stickers attached to each key, as if Silvia were unable to differentiate between a chunky Chubb lock and a plain old Yale key. ‘Entrance Porch: First lock’, they read. ‘Entrance Porch: Security bolt’; ‘Front door: Lower lock.’; ‘Front door: Upper lock’. The best of all, of course, was the purple label with the alarm code. Such was Mrs Maguire’s paranoia that she changed the combination every month. When Silvia had begun working for her, she received a laminated sheet with twelve coloured dots opposite a corresponding month. On the nearest working day to the end of the month, Mrs Maguire presented her with the new coloured badge and its code.
Credit: Ivanna Blinova
For all the fussiness, ‘Shangri-la’ was a good place to be. They had a grand piano, the only one of her ladies in that league. When Silvia yearned for her old life, she lifted the polished lid, slid the stool out from under the key board and adjusted the seat to her own height. Her newly-scrubbed fingers glided enthusiastically up and down the stiff ivories. Rarely used, the keys resisted her rapid Chopin or gentle Débussy and she stumbled over phrases that she would normally take in her stride, as the keys stuck in shock at being played. Silvia had never seen this piece of furniture put to use. Roderic, the seven-year- old, was taking lessons but the presence of the Steinway in the panoramic drawing room was principally an interior design feature. As the hungry baby on the other side of the wall reached his crescendo, the argument on the radio phone-in raised its decibel level in sympathy. It was time to get out. Silvia checked her tiny pocket diary to see who was where and pushed the keys around the table once more. She stashed the Shangri-la set into her black leather tote, which she always used when on a job. It was large enough to create the illusion that it contained cleaning materials, yet it was stylish enough to make her feel like any other twenty-seven-year-old on a shopping trip. She chose a second set with a Los Angeles car number plate key-ring. These belonged to Jennie, who insisted she call her by her first name, ‘because we’re all equals here’, something Silvia never did, because it only served to highlight the disparity between the two women despite the pretend chumminess of informality. Jennie was a successful make-up artist who regularly travelled abroad for film work and whose modest detached house, could have survived without outside intervention. She had an entire room dedicated to her art, where her neighbours had in its place a garage. Silvia’s only task in the studio was to sweep and mop the tiled floor and empty the waste paper bins, as Jennie often took private clients for a make-up lesson or to have their face done at short notice, and she disliked the disruption. It was this room that had first given Silvia the idea. Rows of glittery nail varnish were arranged on miniature shelving systems, sitting there, waiting to be tried. There had to be at least fifty different lip colours – some in little tubs applied with brushes; others of the more conventional stick variety. The cupboards under the counter where the sink was, held drawer upon drawer of powder, tubes of foundation, compacted blocks of blusher. There were two other doors marked ‘eye make-up’ and another marked ‘hair’. It was the sheer volume and variety of products which tempted Silvia. One April morning with spring sunshine streaming in through the windows, she put down the mop and sat into the red leather swivel chair. She inspected her own hands and felt the roughness of her skin, a consequence of rubber gloves worn inconsistently. Wild Berry called out to her from the polish rack. Her nails, although in need of a professional manicure, were at least neatly cut – she had no option if she wanted to continue playing at Giorgio’s – but how much prettier they would look all gleaming with colour. Jennie had so many - she’d never miss ten little blobs. Deftly, Silvia ran the narrow brush over each nail – three light strokes apiece – and watched as the skin on each hand seemed to glow, drawing warmth from its berry-coloured extremities. The following week, she made up her eyes, sifting through that cupboard’s contents and selecting shades of muted green, greys and a smidgen of silver. Once the task was completed, she replaced everything exactly where it had been. Silvia would have been horrified at the notion of removing anything from any of her ladies’ houses, but after her twice weekly clean of Jennie’s, she emerged perfectly made-up and with stunning fingernails. The waiters at Giorgio’s had begun to comment. ‘Che bella!’ they would sigh, when she slipped in the side-door to arrange her music in sequence on top of the piano. Her repertoire at the restaurant was less classical than she would have liked, but the patrons preferred easy-listening with an Italian twist, so she tinkled her way through Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra, some Billy Joel for the fifty-some-things and lots of regional Italian folk songs, to satisfy the indigenous population when they were in. Pleased with the compliments on her newly-groomed self, Silvia began to take stock of her other resources, beginning with the Steinway. The next time she was due at Shangri-la, she stuffed a book of Chopin Nocturnes into her leather bag. Mrs Maguire tended to vacate the premises on Tuesday mornings, deliberately scheduling golf or the gym so she wouldn’t have to witness someone on their knees cleaning under the rim of her toilet bowl. If Silvia speed-cleaned the house, that would leave a good hour to try and learn some of the new nocturnes. Giorgio, the restaurant proprietor, had promised her free rein at the piano one evening a month in which she could play her ‘real’ music, and she needed to work up some pieces to standard. Of course, on the evenings when she would play her classical tunes, Silvia would need to look the part. She had no evening gowns with her in Ireland, but she thought carefully of the various sizes of her ladies. Mrs Maguire was a bit taller than Silvia, but she was about the same dress size. She resolved to vacuum the bedroom thoroughly the following Tuesday and to have a look at her collection.
It didn’t take Silvia long to become the most popular cleaner on the south-side of the city. Her clients wondered at the obvious pride she took in making their houses gleam. The hired help for her part had a genuine enthusiasm for her visits. She made notes about her clients’ comings and goings. She listened attentively to their long weekend plans, the film they were working on in New England; the 25th anniversary holiday that hubby had booked, because it was sometimes difficult to get through everything on the appointed day – and clean as well. The pocket diary became a road-map to Silvia’s own social life. Once she discovered the perks of all those delightful houses, the world opened up. Her body is now trim and toned from the twice weekly workout in Mrs O’Reilly’s home gym. The Steinway’s keys do not stick any more, happy to be put through their paces vigorously several days a week. Clothes Mrs Maguire thinks she gave to the charity shop have been re-tailored and grace Silvia’s svelte figure in the restaurant or on the stage at the occasional concerts she is beginning to be offered.
This evening’s recital at Giorgio’s is an important one. It has been listed in the Event guide of the national papers and she will receive 50% of the cover charge. Giorgio likes the exotic sound of her full name – Silviana Houskovà – and is delighted with the new interest in his small and rather dated restaurant. The chef has assembled platters of antipasti and cases of prosecco and cheaper wine have been brought in to cater for the music-lovers. Silvia has chosen an emerald green silk-jersey dress. It is sleeveless, with a diamante cluster gathering the plunging v-neck. The length has been altered since Mrs Maguire last wore it and Jennie’s black satin court shoes are elegant and won’t slip on the pedals. Her make-up is slightly more dramatic than usual, because Giorgio has installed a couple of spots to illuminate her. She had to spend more time than planned in Jennie’s that afternoon to achieve the effect. A neighbour seemed suspicious but Silvia cheerily explained that she was freshening up the place for her client’s return from overseas. She reluctantly had to break her rule about removing things from the houses and had slipped the satin shoes into the tote before going up to Shangri-la for a final run-through undisturbed, as the Maguires were enjoying a romantic break in a country house hotel to celebrate something or other.
At 9 o’clock, the restaurant is full. The usual intimate tables of twos and fours have been amalgamated into longer configurations to accommodate more people. Waiters circulate and take orders for the platters and pop prosecco corks. Giorgio blows into the radio mike and introduces her. A ripple of polite applause competes with clinking glasses and conversations. Silvia concentrates on her opening choice: Débussy’s 'Clair de lune' – something familiar that won’t frighten yet gentle enough not to overpower the room. A tendril escapes from her upswept hair as her wrists flex and her arms and shoulders begin to move with the music. Absorbed, Silvia segues effortlessly into her second choice.
At the door, Giorgio personally greets Thelma and Roger Maguire. They are a bit perturbed by the long tables and hadn’t known about the pianist. Away for a long weekend, blah de blah, no interest in cooking, blah de blah, wanted a quiet meal. Giorgio soothes, placates, seats, fusses. Thelma studies the new antipasti, concedes that they look ok. Roger risks a bottle of unknown red and squints up at the elegant brunette in the green dress, dainty fingers punishing the keys. The waiter pours the wine and Thelma takes a sip. She waves at a new trio who push their way into the restaurant.
‘Look, Roger, Jennie Browne, my make-up girl, and some hobo friends of hers. Film crew, I’d say, judging by the clothes.’
Thelma bites into a tomato and olive bruschetta. Roger grunts and downs his wine, quite drinkable, for the price.
‘That young one playing the piano isn’t bad, is she?’
‘No, though I don’t agree with paying a cover charge for the privilege of listening to her.’ Thelma holds out her glass for a refill. ‘I used to have a dress a bit like that. You never liked it.’
‘Can’t say that I remember. Look here’s your hippy friend coming over.’
‘Be nice, Roger. Remember, she’s the one who found us Silvia.’
‘Ah yes, the hired help. Where would we be without the wonderful Silvia?’
‘Quite. Where would we be indeed?’ *
© Fidelma Kelly
