Marlene Dotterer - Shipbuilder

At the second landing, he put his boxes down, took out a key, and let them into a neat apartment, furnished with a sofa, two chairs and two small tables arranged on a rug in the room’s center. Casey placed the boxes next to the writing desk against the opposite wall, impressed that it held a telephone, the kind with a separate piece held to the ear, with the speaker held in the other hand. As the man placed his boxes next to hers, she stepped back into an alcove, trying to avoid the small round dining table and two chairs. A door next to the table presumably led to a kitchen; on the other side of the sitting room, another door probably led to a bedroom. It was all very neat, with everything placed just so.

Noticing the writing on the boxes, she reached down to turn them over as they stated “this end up” in dark letters. He noticed her action and smiled in approval. “Ah, can you read, then?”

The question surprised her. “Of course, sir. Got more boxes downstairs?”

“I do, aye. Just bring up two. The box marked ‘Ardara’ can stay in the car.”

She trotted downstairs, found the correct boxes, and brought them back.

He was unpacking a box that contained several plaques, each one wrapped in paper. He glanced up as she came in, flashed a smile at her that made her wish she were dressed as a girl, and brought out the sixpence he’d promised. He handed it to her, while looking her over with an appraising glance. “D’you have time to earn more? I can use someone to help deliver these plaques, and since you can read, you’d make it a lot easier on me. It might take you a couple of days to get the lot, but there’d be half a pound in it for you.”

Half a pound! Casey tried not to gape as she answered. “I could do that, sir. That would be great!”

“Wonderful!” He reached out shake her hand. “I’m Tom Andrews.”

She took the hand in a firm grip, and answered, “Casey Wilson, sir.”

He tilted his head. “You sound American. Where are you from?”

“California. I came to Belfast to live with my guardian when my parents died.”

He nodded and turned to the desk. “I see. It’s a lot of running around, have you eaten?”

She shook her head, bemused. He gestured to the kitchen. “There’s some meat in the ice box and bread in the bread box. Cut yourself some and have a bite, so you’ve got your strength about you. And,” he continued as he sat at the desk and pulled out some paper, “cut me some too, will you? I’m famished!”

Casey entered the kitchen and pulled open the icebox. Sure enough, a roast sat on the shelf, wrapped in paper. She pulled it out, found the bread, and got a knife from the block. Then she moved to the sink to wash her hands, looked for soap, and finally found some tucked under the sink. Men always seemed to not understand what soap was for. Why was that?

Casey cut a large portion of meat and bread, put them on a plate taken from the cabinet, and took them to Mr. Andrews, placing them well out the way of the moving pen. He smiled again, making her look away in confusion, which she covered by heading back to the kitchen. Wouldn’t do to start blushing; the guy might think it a bit odd.

She made a large enough sandwich to justify putting half of it in her pocket for Sam. She ate with relish, adding the roast to her private Top Ten List. She wondered if Mr. Andrews had cooked it; she didn’t see any indication of a woman living here.

She went back into the parlor just as he finished counting plaques in a box. He handed her the box and a list. “Start with this. There are twenty plaques, and the list has the names and addresses. The plaques have names on them, so you’ll have to make sure the correct plaque gets to the correct address. Some places will get more than one; I’ve tried to indicate that when it happens. These are all North Belfast, and I imagine it’s all you can get done today and maybe part of tomorrow. Come back when you’re done and collect another box and list. I’ll leave them with the landlady downstairs. Is this fair for you? Can you manage?”

She nodded, glancing over the list. She knew most of the streets, but he was right, this would take a while. She glanced up at him, froze for a moment at the sight of those eyes on her, then remembered she had a question. “Do you want me to always hand them off to someone or is it okay to leave it if no one’s home?”

He looked thoughtful. “No, they know to expect them, so you should be able to leave them. Should be someone there at most places, though.” He handed her five shillings. “Here’s half; I’ll pay you the rest when you’re done. Let me know if you have any trouble. Thanks for your help, Casey!”

What a stroke! Casey took the box and the list with concealed glee, hid the money in an inner pocket, and headed outside. Once outdoors, she put the box down and squatted next to it, examining the addresses. With a stick, she drew a grid of the city in the dirt, trying to determine where the streets were located and figure out the best route to take. A couple of minutes later, she heard a voice and looked up, startled, to find Tom Andrews standing near his car and looking quite curious.

“What are you up to, lad? Is there a problem?”

She stood up. “No sir. Just trying to map an efficient route.” She grinned at his expression; she’d managed to surprise him. She tipped her hat and bent to pick up the box. “Don’t want to do any backtracking, if I can help it!”

She glanced back just before turning a corner. Andrews had moved over to look at the map she’d drawn in the dirt, the desired streets marked with small numbers. Giggling to herself at the astonished look on his face, she headed on her way.

She spent four hours running around town, delivering about half the plaques. This was the nicer part of Belfast, with gardens and lacy curtains in the windows. At most houses, she left her package with a friendly housekeeper, who gave her a half penny, although she protested that Mr. Andrews had already paid her. They didn’t seem to mind, though, so she took it with thanks and no further protests.

Not wanting to be caught out at night, she headed home with the much lighter box. Sam was sitting at their small table, beaming with pride as the aroma of cooking wafted around the room when she arrived home. She looked around in astonishment. “You finished it?” she asked in amazement. “It works?”

“It works!” Sam declared, pointing to the hot plate he’d been working on, pausing to let a hacking cough interrupt him. “It’s not real efficient, but we can cook on it.”

“I hope.” Casey bent down for a closer look, then glared back at Sam. “How is it on safety? I don’t want to wake up burned to a crisp.”

He held up both hands in conciliation, then bent down to show her. “As long as we turn it off, it’ll cool down just fine.” He turned his head and coughed until he had to sit on the floor. “It’s on a ceramic plate, which should absorb the heat, but protect the floor. I’ll keep checking it to make sure it doesn’t get too hot. We won’t use it for long periods of time, anyway. Just short cooking sessions.”

Casey nodded. “I can live with that. Real food is something to look forward to. And hey!” She stood up and showed him both his sandwich and the money. “I ran into a windfall today! Big delivery job for this seriously hot guy. He’s going to pay me five more shillings when I’m done, which should be tomorrow or the next day. And on top of that, every place I’ve delivered to, the people tipped me a bit! Pretty cool, huh?”

He slapped his hands together. “Excellent! If we’re careful, we can make that last a few weeks!” He grinned crookedly at her and she felt a twinge of affectionate sorrow for him.