Oh, if youre so clevertranslate this! The factory manager chuckled, tossing the cleaner a contract. A week later, he was boxing up his belongings.
Catherine gazed at the smeared footprint across the freshly scrubbed linoleum. The lingering scent of bleach and cheap soap clung to the back of her throat, all too familiar by now. She was thirty-two, her past five years measured out in mopped staircases and the weight of a bucket.
Hopkins, are you daydreaming again? The voice of Edward Barnes, director of Sheffield Electrics, cut through the hall like the clang of a dropped spanner. Were expecting the Germans in the conference room in ten. Not a speck of dust.
Catherine straightened up wordlessly. Shed mastered the art of being invisible. No one in this building suspected the woman in the blue overalls was once fluent in Goethes German originals, bound for a legal career in London. Then her mothers sudden stroke, the wheelchair, the mountain of rehabilitation bills all of it had devoured Catherines flat and her dreams. Her German lay dormant now, buried beneath staff rotas and mop handles.
The conference room was stifling. On the polished tablejust cleaned by Catherinesat a sleek, expensive leather folder. The top page was covered in dense German print, a language she hadnt heard for years.
Vertrag über die Übertragung von Anteilen The words leapt out at her, their meaning unmistakable. She froze, eyes moving line by line. This wasnt just a contractit was a death sentence for the factory. Edward Barnes was siphoning off the companys assets, leaving a hollow shell and dumping a mountain of unpaid wages onto the workers.
Having fun reading the letters, Hopkins? Barnes strode into the room, adjusting his silk tie. Behind him trailed the chief engineer, Richard Perkins, glancing at his shoes.
Catherine had no time to retreat. She lifted her chin, and for a heartbeat, the pride shed long buried glittered in her eyes.
Theres a problem here, Mr. Barnes. Clause twelve. The Germans get control if you miss a single payment. Youre about to sign something thatll have you out on your ear within the month.
Barnes stopped cold, his face flushing an angry, unhealthy red. He turned to Perkins, a sneer curling his lips.
Did you hear that, Rich? The cleaners decided shes an international law expert. Just look at her! Marigolds on her hands, bucket by her feet, and shes giving us business advice!
He stepped in close, the whiff of expensive cologne and whisky sharp in the air.
Well then, if youre so clevertranslate it! Barnes snickered, tossing the contract on the table beside her.
Go on, clever clogs. If I dont have a proper English summarywith your correctionson my desk by eight tomorrow, hand in your keys and go beg on the high street. Think your mum will survive long on cold porridge?
Perkins looked away, ashamed. Catherine gathered the heavy folder. Its weight felt like the whole of her life.
That night, sleep never came. Catherine sat hunched over her battered kitchen table, the only light the flicker of a desk lamp. Her mother moaned softly in the next room. Before Catherine lay the contract and an old legal dictionary leftover from university.
She attacked the work like someone possessed. Every phrase, every legal snare, every financial trap surrendered beneath her methodical scrutiny. She saw now that Barnes had doomed not just himself but every worker on the linehed hidden rotten debt deep within the reports.
When dawn came, she didnt reach for the mop. Catherine pulled on her only decent dressa plain, black number, kept for meetings with social services.
At eight on the dot, she marched into Barnes office.
Heres the translation, Mr. Barnes. And my advice: dont sign this. Theres a clause making the director personally responsible for every asset.
Barnes didnt bother reading the report. He exhaled a cloud of expensive smoke.
Stick to cleaning floors, Hopkins. The only reason you still have a job is because no one else wants to scrub the stairwells. Dismissed.
The next day, the delegation arrived. The German lead, Mr. Schneidera man with a chiselled jawled the talks behind closed doors. Yet Catherine, dusting skirting boards just outside, could hear Barnes voice rising, growing shrill.
Abruptly, the doors burst open. Schneider emerged, clutching the very papers Catherine had worked on all night.
Wer hat das geschrieben? he demanded, searching the room. Who wrote this?
Sheffield Electrics official translatora nervous graduatewas tongue-tied. Barnes dashed out, sweating and furious.
Its rubbish, Mr. Schneider! Some cleaners been playing around Ill sack her straightaway!
Schneider raised a hand to silence him. He walked over to Catherine, mop still in her grip.
You? he asked in halting English.
I did, Catherine replied in flawless German. And if I were you, Id pay close attention to the audit in appendix four. The numbers dont add up.
Barnes shrank, his face contorted with rage and fear. He lurched as if to strike, but Schneider caught his arm.
Thats enough, the German said coolly. We suspected deceit, but this technical summary confirms our fears. Mr. Barnes, our lawyers are preparing legal action. Youre not just losing the dealyouve lost everything.
He turned to Catherine, eyeing her chapped, water-raw hands.
We need someone who knows this factory and understands the law. Were appointing temporary administration. Would you work with us? We need a clean legal audit.
Catherine looked at Barnes, gripping the doorframe to keep his knees from giving out. The authority in his eyes had flickered outonly dread remained.
Ill do it, Catherine said quietly.
A week passed. The directors office stood silent. Catherine now sat at the same polished desk where Barnes had so recently hurled insults. She wore a new suit, the first purchase from her advance pay.
A tentative knock broke the quiet. Chief engineer Richard Perkins hovered in the doorway.
Ms. Hopkins He stumbled over her name. Barnes has come for his things. Security wont let him in without your say-so.
Catherine found Barnes waiting by the lifts, little more than a battered figure clutching a cardboard box. Insidesome dusty trophies, a certificate in its frame, an opened bottle of whisky. His once-immaculate jacket hung from narrowed shoulders, his stubble flecked with grey.
He met her gaze. Not with angerbut with a hollow resignation.
So you translated it, then, he muttered. Happy now?
I just wanted the factory to run, Mr. Barnes, Catherine answered. For people to be paid, not for you to skim the bonuses.
She nodded to security; they let him pass. Barnes stepped into the lift, the doors closing on the only world where hed ever been a king.
Catherine returned to the office. She moved to the window and looked down into the factory courtyard. At the entrance, a new cleaneryoung and nervous in a blue overallfumbled with her mop on the marble floor.
Something inside Catherine, wound tight for years, finally eased. She slumped into the chair, legs almost buckling. This wasnt triumph; it was a quiet reclamation of herself.
She dialled the home number.
Mum? Its me. Yes, its fine. The doctor from the surgery will come tomorrow. Dont worry. You dont need to cut back on your medicine any more.
Catherine set down the phone and looked at the stack of paperwork awaiting her. The work was dauntingyet for the first time, it was truly her own.
