The Things You Do For Love

‘This could be my last chance’ I thought, as I roughly undid my tie and fumbled to loosen the top buttons of my shirt in an effort to cool down. The walk up the long bank towards the old warehouse would normally be a comfortable ten minute stroll, but in the unusually hot weather it seemed to be taking longer. Under normal circumstances I would have taken my time, kept my cool, but today I had no more time to lose. Why had I left it this late? I mumbled to myself through clenched teeth. After all these months of squandered moments and missed opportunities, I was left with three quarters of my lunch hour to convince Margaret of my feelings for her. On ringing the bell mounted on the door of the small dispatch bay at the rear of the warehouse, I tucked an errant shirt tail back into my trousers, redid my collar and tie, and waited anxiously , wiping the sweat from my brow as I stood. For the last two weeks Margaret had been left to work alone in the warehouse, supervising the fleet of lorries and vans descending like scavenging birds to pick the building clean. Her duties had been carried out in her usual cheerful and efficient way, and her final responsibility was to hand over her keys to the company shop-fitter who would be arriving later in the afternoon. She would be moving to pastures new, people new, and away from me. Presently she answered the door, and on opening grabbed my arm and pulled me quickly indoors. She peered outside, scanning the street like a resistance fighter, before turning and calmly locking the door behind her. Leaning slowly back against the door she made a show of placing the key into the breast pocket of her pink and white nylon overall, patting it down with her poppy painted fingers. Folding her arms, she gave me that what am I going to do with you look, that I’d seen before and loved being the subject of. She knew I shouldn’t be there, and that the boss had given me my final warning. He had warned me specifically to keep away from the old warehouse, but what he and I knew he really meant, was keep away from Margaret. She knew she was at the centre of this stand-off, and I felt all along that she revelled in the tension of the situation. For my part, at that moment, I needed Margaret more than I needed a job, which was unfortunate for me as it turned out. What had been merely a place of work over the previous two years, had in recent months transformed into a personal utopia of Margaret filled moments. For me, the worst part of every working day was home time. Each evening, my entire being would collapse into self- inflicted torturous longing, unable to allow time to take its natural course towards the morning, when my world would blossom and come alive again for another eight opportunity filled hours. Weekends and holidays were almost too much to bear. Day after day, hour after hour, minute after useless minute of gut churning doubt, where was she? What was she doing? Who was she with, and why wasn’t it me? I might possibly have settled on living forever in that unreal world of alternating bliss and torment, but when the company revealed its plans to relocate, involving re-deployment of staff, everything changed. I needed to act. As we both stood facing each other in that small humid dispatch area, all alone just as I’d hoped the reality of the situation suddenly hit me. My brain ceased to function properly, my mouth dried up, and all the heartfelt words of love that I’d practiced and rehearsed over and over in my head during my endless wait, escaped my grasp at the last moment. What happened next took me completely by surprise. She took hold of my hand in a way that made me feel that we’d always shared this gentle intimacy, and with a knowing smile pulled me towards the stairs leading to the first floor of the building. I floated behind her blindly and willingly as she playfully skipped up the stairs. On reaching the top ,I realised any attempt to put my feelings into words would be counter-productive, serving only to put at risk the promise she had showered me with. The warm life-affirming sun shone through the large floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the rear of the warehouse, highlighting her soft strawberry blonde hair, full pink lips, and rose petal skin. In the background, the small tinny transistor radio that Margaret always had tuned religiously to radio one, was playing Procul Harem. I’d dreamed and daydreamed about a scenario such as this, but as my hands instinctively slipped around both sides of her waist, gently persuading her closer to me, the shattering shrill warning of the back door bell stopped me in my tracks. Margaret pulled away sharply, leaving my hands frustrated and empty, outstretched and grasping. She sidled slowly to the side of the window and pressing her back against the wall, carefully peeked down at the street below. In whispered, hurried tones, she relayed to me that ‘octopus hands’ as she liked to call the boss, was outside, and with him was a small older man in brown overalls. From this scant description I deduced the boss had decided to drive the shop-fitter to the warehouse, consequently arriving earlier than expected. I had met the shop-fitter recently, during his visits to the new premises where he was putting final touches to the layout. Over a cup of tea or two, he had confided that he was near the end of his career and was looking forward to putting his feet up after nearly forty years with the company. Throughout those conversations, to my surprise given our extreme age difference, I found him a very likeable, funny bloke, but that was before his unexpected early arrival shattered my plans and tore Margaret from my arms. All sensible sentiment was swept away with the ringing of that doorbell, and was replaced by unjustifiable petty hatred for him, his ridiculous brown bib-and-brace overalls and pathetic carpenter’s bag that he humped around full of his stupid worn out tools. My anger and loathing extended with ease to his pompous chauffeur, but these emotions were nothing new between the boss and me. From the day I came under his management I had a mistrust and dislike for him, and vice versa. He was a good twenty years older than me, and as time passed I came to the conclusion that the thing he really begrudged me, was the twenty summers that separated us. This irrational fixation, coupled with Margaret and I starting to have embryonic feelings for each other seemed to set him totally against me. In the past everyone had witnessed him leching after Margaret; conversations full of double entendre and inappropriate stories or jokes, were deflected with great skill and dignity almost daily by her. But he always came back with more. He was a married man with children, but around Margaret he regressed, and acted like an unattached eighteen year old again. There were times when he looked so sad and pathetic that I actually felt sorry for him, but not for long. The one thing that could not be argued with was his position of authority over me at work, and he never missed an opportunity to remind me of the fact. He had caught me three times over the last couple of weeks at the old warehouse, ‘sniffing around Margaret’ as he so crudely put it, and now he had me cornered, with my job definitely on the line. Rushing from the window and past me towards the stairs, Margaret hurriedly waved me away, mouthing at me to hide somewhere while she answered the back door. Catching hold of her arm as she rustled past me, I pointed out in hushed tones, the importance of leaving the back door unlocked, the last thing I needed was for my only escape route to be locked and bolted. As she disappeared downstairs, I obediently scurried into the labyrinth of tall wooden racks at the heart of the warehouse. After spending two solid years of filling emptying and re filling the racks and floor space, my knowledge of the layout was akin to that of a rat and a sewer system. Initially my plan was very simple I would hide just out of sight, but still in ear shot of any conversation and when the coast cleared, emerge triumphantly to carry on where I’d left off with Margaret. No sooner had I settled down to wait, when I realised the voices of the other three were getting alarmingly louder and heading in my direction. With no time to think, and before I could stop myself, I found myself clambering up the side of the empty racks like a goat on a cliff face. Eventually on reaching the top I managed to squeeze face down in the gap between the top of the racks and the ceiling. The thick, dry dust of god knows how many years , clouded up around my nose and mouth and joined forces with the rising heat of the day to deprive me of sufficient oxygen. It took all my willpower not to surrender to my urges and leap from the top of the racks to the blessed breathable regions of the warehouse floor, but the voices only a few yards below focused my mind, and I determined to grit my teeth and wait. After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only ten minutes or so the muttering group started walking away and out towards the direction of the stairs. Imediately I quickly but silently descended down the side of the wooden structure, and took a long calming deep breath as I reached the floor. I padded carefully towards a suitable vantage point that would enable me not only to see but to hear what was happening. There they were the three of them at the top of the stairs in conversation, he with his smarmy attitude, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder held with one finger casually placed through the hanger loop, legs exaggeratedly planted wide apart, and standing far too close to Margaret for my liking. The shop fitter was busy scribbling instructions onto a small note pad, his tool bag on the floor by his side. Margaret was trying to appear interested without giving away her preoccupation with my whereabouts. It was difficult to attract her attention without the other two seeing me, but with a little manoeuvring she eventually caught sight of me through a small gap in the shelving. She gave me a wide eyed stare, and an almost imperceptible shake of the head warning me not to try the stairs. The situation was now becoming farcical. I knew the only other way down to the rear door, was to use the dumb waiter .This contraption consisted of an approximately three foot square wooden box suspended via a rope and pulley system, and was used to transport tins of paint and boxes of wallpaper between floors. I had secreted myself in this device more than once before, but then only as part of practical jokes played on one or another of my work colleagues .Now it was serving a very different purpose. My future employment with the company depended on it transporting me safely down and out of the building under the very nose of the boss. As I made my move, it took me past Margaret’s eye line. She, guessing what I was up to stifled a laugh and turned away from the other two for fear of giving me away .Thankfully the wall mounted swing doors of the dumb waiter were already ajar, and it was empty apart from an old dust sheet .I slid the sheet to the back of the lift and followed it in, contorting myself into a position so that my hands were able to control the pulley rope from inside. Very slowly and gently I pulled on the rope, and with my added weight the box started to move down between the floors quite easily. As I descended, I could hear the muffled voices emanating from the top of the stairs, and prayed they would remain there for just a few minutes more .My fairly large frame was by now suffering some physical discomfort from being confined and bent like wire on my short but torturous journey. I consoled myself with the thought of replaying in detail the whole ridiculous saga to my work mates, who to a man would appreciate me making a fool of the boss. As the lift completed its travel I could see a chink of light seeping through the bottom doors. Closing one eye tight shut, I pressed the other one to the crack in an effort to check my escape route was clear .At first all seemed well but as I inched open one side of the doors, I could clearly hear the unmistakable treacle sick tones of "octopus hands" fawning over Margaret as thy entered the dispatch area. I recoiled hoping nobody had seen me. Fortunately they hadn’t, but to my great consternation I could hear the boss insisting both Margaret and the shop fitter have an early finish, and to call it a day. To her credit, Margaret tried to come up with excuses not to leave, but he was having none of it. He went farther by asking her to join him for a meal that evening as a token of his gratitude for the hard work she had done over the last few weeks. I almost laughed out loud until she unbelievably, out of the blue, answered in the affirmative. All rhyme or reason was lost to me then. My mind conjured up pictures of me, locked in a cold empty warehouse all night, while he wined and dined Margaret and god knows whatever else. I could hear the old shop fitter ushering everyone outside and trying the keys in the lock. This was not funny anymore, I had seconds to make a decision should I keep hidden and assess the situation after they had left, or come clean and reveal myself. In the end I did neither. I grabbed the old dust sheet behind from behind my legs, and in one swift movement threw it over my head and shoulders, flung the doors of the dumb waiter open, and with a primal scream leapt furiously into the dispatch area. To this day I have no idea why I thought screaming out loud like that would help my situation, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Hurtling instinctively in the direction of the open back door, I brushed away the shop fitter as I felt him attempting to grab me, and made my escape. I ran the whole length of the back street, bumping past cars and vans, and was half way down the long bank before discarding the dust sheet. Stumbling hot, sweaty, and breathless back into the new warehouse, with just a couple of minutes to spare before my lunch hour was over, I went straight into the wash rooms to clean myself up, compose myself and concoct a believable alibi, for I knew I would need one very soon. A leisurely walk to the sandwich shop I thought, a comfortable bench in the park, and a few stolen minutes catching the rays of the sun. After all it could have been anyone’s legs beneath that manic dust sheet. The boss seemed to be taking his time returning from the scene of the crime so to speak, but I attributed that to him playing another of his power trip mind games with me. After a while the sound of voices approaching broke the tension of the afternoon. I pretended not to hear them coming, and nonchalantly climbed a nearby step ladder on the pretext of checking on some important stock issue, whistling innocently as I went. A touch of a hand on my trouser leg startled me, and I looked down to find two police officers, and behind them the boss with his arm consolingly around Margaret who was sobbing into a handkerchief. It had taken only fifteen minutes from me pushing the old shop fitter over and the ambulance arriving, but they couldn’t save him. If only I’d just let Margaret get on with her life, after all I’ve lost her now anyway. If only I hadn’t played the boss for a fool, who’s the fool now? If only i'd stayed in that dumb waiter, waiting dumbly for morning. If only I was out of here…….