The Living Read Online Free PDF Page B

friendship, how it might have worked. When I thought about it, actually, it made a strange kind of sense. George would be the star, of course, with Uncle Fintan as his soft-spoken sidekick.
    I GAVE G EORGE THE envelope first thing on Monday. He thanked me, then turned and brandished it at Paula. ‘Lookit here, now! Oh ye of little faith!’
    â€˜I never said anything!’ she returned.
    â€˜Here we go,’ said George as he ripped open the envelope. He took out a thick sheaf of paper and gripped it with one hand so he could flip through it. ‘One revised manuscript, all present and correct. Thank you very much, young Cate.’
    I moved to my desk.
    â€˜Did you know it was coming today?’ Paula asked George.
    â€˜I had my suspicions,’ said George.
    â€˜I had a postcard last week, hinting it was on its way.’
    â€˜Did he say Cate would be bringing it?’
    â€˜He did not. Need to know basis, Paula, need to know.’
    â€˜And did he give you any way of contacting him? Is it even worth asking?’
    â€˜Ah, he has to be careful, still.’
    Paula pointed a finger at me. ‘And how did you get hold of it?’ Her curiosity seemed coloured with irritation.
    â€˜Em … my uncle gave it to me.’
    â€˜Oh, right,’ she said. ‘Of course. Fintan “The Gentleman” Sullivan. Well,’ – she turned back to George – ‘enjoy.’
    George emitted a satisfied chuckle and disappeared into his office with the manuscript.
    I was stung by Paula’s tone. ‘I didn’t know you knew Uncle Fintan.’
    â€˜Oh, yeah,’ she said, nodding slowly and catching the side of her lip between her teeth. ‘One time, I did know him. Quite well. Haven’t seen him in years.’ She’d been gazing at the air above my head, but now she looked straight at me. ‘Is he well, anyway, this weather?’
    â€˜Yeah, he’s fine,’ I said, and dropped it.
    The atmosphere at work intensified by several notches after the arrival of that manuscript. On many days, I barely spoke aword. George and Paula were glued to their desks, and communal tea breaks became a rarity. I busied myself with the new database, which I’d almost finished populating.
    George called me into his office one day and asked, with a careless gesture that belied the fervour in his eyes, if I’d be interested in trying my hand at some copyediting. There were a couple of big jobs coming in, he said, and Paula could do with the help. I had a degree in English, didn’t I? Knew my spellings? Cared about grammar? I assented, and Paula gave me some basic training that afternoon, running cleanup macros on a set of conference proceedings. She was spiky and distracted – clearly up to her elbows in The Irish Horse – and my beginner’s errors did nothing to improve matters. After a few days I decided I’d had enough spoonfeeding and would work it out for myself.
    One afternoon the phone rang, and a woman’s bored voice said, ‘I have a reverse-charge call for George Sweeney from Ernie McDevil in Spain. Will you accept the charges?’
    Flustered, I put her on hold. ‘Paula? Can we accept reverse charges?’
    Paula looked up. ‘Who is it?’
    â€˜I think she said … Ernie McDevil? That’s obviously—’
    â€˜Spain?’ Paula asked sharply. She sprang from her chair and made for George’s door. ‘Put it through,’ she said to me as she rapped twice on the door and opened it.
    I took the operator off hold. ‘Yes, we’ll accept the charges, thank you.’ I heard George whoop in the inner office.
    A man’s voice said, ‘Seoirse?’
    â€˜Putting you through.’
    Paula came back to her desk and resumed her chair without looking at me.
    I said, ‘That was Eddie MacDevitt, wasn’t it? Bit cheeky to reverse the charges.’
    She hesitated visibly before