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“Lay down, shut up, and let yourself be helped, you knob!” Orla yelled in Alfie’s face, combining it with a sharp smack upside the head.
Now, one would not be remiss in wondering how Orla managed to not only get away with calling Alfie (an admittedly mild) rude name and smacking him. People had been murdered for less, after all. But to answer that, there must be some backtracking.
Orla had been in the employ of the Aerated Bread Company, and specifically as Alfie’s secretary, for a little over a year. And what a year it had been. Hitting the ground running, it had taken Orla a few months to get the hang of things at the bakery. Including figuring out Alfie’s filing system (she’d given up and implemented her own) and sorting out his appointment book and such. Then Orla had moved into a boarding house in Camden Town, run by Ollie’s aunt and grandmother, on top of trying to learn her job. But at least the commute was shorter and less embarrassing then what had lead to the move.
Alfie had walked into his office one morning, doffing his greatcoat and hat, and leaning his cane up against his desk. But he’d stopped short when he finally noticed his new secretary asleep on the couch he kept in the corner (for Cyril, mainly, but also for when he needed a lie down on a bad day). And she had slept through him coming in, noisy as anything, because this was his office and Alfie had never really been a quiet person. After waking her up with a “Excuse me, Miss Boswell – and pardon my language – but what the fuck?” and a shake of the shoulder, he’d gotten the story.
Alfie had just stood up without saying anything, went to his office door, opened it, and yelled for Ollie. And that was that. Orla had moved into the boarding house and found out that all the girls who lived there (ten in total, with Orla’s arrival) were all also more or less adopted by Mrs. Hoffman and Mrs. Blum. Orla was also sure that her movements when she was at the boarding house (as Alfie’s secretary) were reported back to Ollie and by extension Alfie. Example: Her first winter working for Alfie Solomons, Orla had come down with the flu. But she didn’t want to call out as she hadn’t missed a day of work in her life, and it wasn’t like there was anyone she could call to cover for her. So, a dozy and fevered Orla dons her hat and coat, and slowly makes her way to work. She had just managed to walk up to the entrance, but never made it inside; her progress impeded by Alfie waiting for her in the doorway. He’d taken one look at her and told her to go home. Rest and come back when she didn’t ‘look like one snowflake could take you out, love.’ He’d even had someone drive her back to the boarding house, so she wouldn’t have to waste precious energy she didn’t have walking.
It was a week in bed (and an obscene amount of chicken and matzo ball soup given to her by Ollie’s mum) that saw Orla recovered and back at work. The first thing Orla had said to Alfie, after thanking him for not firing her for being out sick for week (“Why would I do that?” “Y-You definitely not like other employers I’ve known, Mr. Solomons.” “Ah, now you’re catching on.”) was to ask if it was Ollie’s mother or aunt who had told on Orla. Alfie had snorted into his beard at the way she had phrased it, but admitted to Orla that it had been Ollie’s mum who made her daughter call Ollie at the bakery to inform him that she thought ‘That young Boswell girl is too sick to work, Alfie should send her home so she can rest and get better and not end up in hospital.’
So, Orla repaid Alfie the only way she really had – by working hard. Doing her job to the best of her ability, all that. Which leads up to The Incident.
Orla had been working late, getting some paperwork finished and copies filed before the morning shift came in. Orders for ingredients, invoices for bills to be paid to the bakery and by the bakery, that sort of thing. Orla is busy filing the last few things inside Alfie’s office when the door comes flying open and Ollie is first through, brandishing a gun with one hand, the other helping Alfie’s driver, Ishmael, drag a bloody Alfie into the room.
“What the hell happened?” Orla asked, slamming the filing cabinet and dashing over.
“Just go home, Miss Boswell; this isn’t something for a young lady to see,” Alfie ordered. Ishmael tried ushering Orla over to the door and out of the office. But he instantly abandoned her when Alfie cursed up a blue streak, his face a grimacing mask of pain.
Orla spots a splash of red on Alfie’s torso under his coat and spreading.
“Gunshot or blade?” Orla asks, still in her spot.
“This isn’t the kind of thing —”
“I don’t want or need details, but this: gunshot or blade?” Orla repeats, heading back toward Alfie’s desk. She knows he keeps a well-stocked first aid kit in the bottom left drawer. “Get him on the couch, you two. And someone should answer my question.”
And, amazingly, Ishmael and Ollie listened, even with Alfie bitching and groaning and moaning the entire time. The usual bull from the men of this era, it had Orla rolling her eyes even as she rolled up her sleeves.
“It was a knife that got him,” Ollie tells Orla.
“Thank you, Ollie. Get him laid out flat and – Ollie, take those pillows and stick ‘em under Alfie’s feet.”
“I don’t need –”
Orla crossed the office to Alfie, who was still sitting upright. “Lay down, shut up, and let yourself be helped, you knob!” Orla yelled in Alfie’s face, combining it with a sharp smack upside the head.
Ollie, in the process of grabbing pillows, Ishmael, and Alfie froze. Ishmael and Ollie look worried for Orla’s continued existence on this mortal plane and Alfie… Well, it didn’t take a genius to guess that it had been many a year since he’d been spoken to or treated in such a way by anyone.
And then something even more amazing happened – Alfie complied.
Alfie laid down on the couch, and so he wouldn’t put further stress on his injury, Orla ordered Ishmael to help get Alfie’s legs up onto the couch as she shoved a pillow under his feet, to keep them elevated, and added the pillow Ollie had in his hands, too.
“One of you find something Alfie can bite down on,” Orla ordered as she dragged Alfie’s chair over and set up the supplies on it.
“You’re being awful bossy,” Alfie observed.
“This is not the first time I’ve seen a wound of this sort, so why waste time waffling?” Orla answered, her tone somewhat distracted – concentrating as she was on using her tweezers to hold the needle in an open flame. “Also, you may want to start chugging rum – to help you feel the needle less when I start stitching you up.”
“Rum is for fun, not business,” Alfie tried to be stern. He didn’t mention the word he’d replaced, because bossy as she might be, he was still operating under the assumption at this point that his secretary was something of a lady. And his mother had impressed upon him and his siblings that you kept your language clean in front of ladies.
“I know that rum is for, as you put it, ‘fun and fucking,’ Mr. Solomons, but unless you’ve got some whisky or gin in here that I’m not aware of since you smashed the last bottles throwing them at bloody Sabini –” Orla left the question open ended because she knew she was right. She undid Alfie’s shirt, but only went a few buttons up to save his blushes. Or, as she rather suspected, the blushes he thought she would have about seeing an unclothed man. Again, this was not Orla’s first time sewing up a wound. The knife wound looked more like a gash than a stab, and it might have gone deep enough to require stitches to get it closed, but it didn’t look deep enough to require an actual doctor or, god forbid, the hospital.
“Ish go grab me a damned bottle,” Alfie growled. Ishmael scrambled to comply with the command and Orla took the time to start threading up the needle. Ishmael had barely put the bottle into his boss’s outstretched hand when Alfie was ripping the cork out with his teeth and spitting it into some corner of the office.
Orla cut a length of the thread, tied the knot, and scootched the stool right up to Alfie’s side as he impressively emptied the bottle in seconds. One could but hope that his tolerance was high enough that a hangover and/or alcohol poisoning would not end up factored into his recovery.
“Ollie, you’re in my light,” Orla quietly says as she completes the first stitch.
“Sorry, Miss Boswell.”
“It’s fine.”
Orla moves carefully, tries to not drag or pull at Alfie’s skin more than necessary, and maintains a steady hand as she sews her boss up. About a third of the way up, she asks either Ishmael or Ollie to get a lantern or torch so she can see better what she’s doing. But no one really talks much once she starts sewing Alfie up. Alfie, for his part, makes the occasional wince or small noise that doesn’t make it past clenched shut lips, but he is also spectacularly drunk after chugging a full bottle of rum in under 20 seconds.
It takes over an hour for the gash, only a few inches long to be sewn up. Orla ties off the string in one final knot and snips the excess with her nail scissors. She carefully wipes the skin around the stitches to get it cleansed of dried blood and gives her stitchwork some careful checking.
“Alright, we’re done. Which is fantastic because my back feels like bloody fire,” Orla groans as she leans back on the stool, hands firmly planted in support position on her lower back.
Alfie is just… gently snoring on the couch, having fallen asleep or passed out without Orla noticing.
“We’ll get you back to the boarding house, Miss Boswell, and then we’ll take the boss home. It's far too late for any respectable person to be out by themselves,” Ishmael says, looking like he is quite serious about this.
“I’ll help you get Mr. Solomons into his own bed and then we’ll get me back to the boarding house. The offer is very appreciated though, thank you.”
“Th’nk at th’s point y’can call me, Alfie,” A quiet voice slurs from by Orla’s hip.
Orla just shakes her head and doesn’t bother hiding the smile as she goes to collect her things – Ollie helps her get into her coat.
“I know Alfie would rather we take you home first.”
“I’m sure, Ollie, but I think it’d be easier to get him into bed with three of us doing it, don’t you?”
Neither Ollie nor Ishmael disagree with that, and Alfie’s unconscious again.
The three of them manage, with as little jostling as possible, to get Alfie out of the distillery and into the car. From there it’s a careful journey to his house. Orla helps Ollie and Ishmael get Alfie indoors and upstairs and into his bedroom. She, however, is politely booted (if such a thing is possible) out of the room by Ollie. He insists they can handle the rest.
Cyril follows Orla back down the stairs and quietly sits by her while she stands in the hall, looking about for something to write upon. Orla finds a bill for something or other on Alfie’s hall table and pulling a pencil out of her purse, she scribbles down a few instructions and reminders. An example of a reminder being to not push himself too hard, thus risking ripping the stitches. She underlined that one a few times. When Ollie and Ishmael eventually come downstairs, Orla holds up the bill she’s written on the back of and says one of them can go put it in his room or she can.
“Fret not, our boss’s virtue is safe with me,” Orla promises as she starts up the stairs – this after both Ollie and Ishmael look like going back up the stairs is the last thing they want to do.
“I think we underestimated you, Miss Boswell,” Ishmael speculates at her back.
Orla looks back just as she’s about to round the corner. “Perhaps. But that’s not a terrible thing, is it? C’mon, Cyril. I imagine Alfie won’t mind you saying good night to him.”
“Oh, we definitely underestimated her,” Ollie says when he thinks she’s out of earshot. “Thanks be to God she’s on our side, though.”
“I’d hate to see what she can do to someone who isn’t in her good books.”