didn’t allude to her background otherwise, but a tiny Star of David on a gold chain hung around her neck. Mostly she wore it under her clothes, but sometimes you could catch a glimpse of it if she wore a scoop-necked blouse.
Because of Barbara’s absence her stack of newspapers reached from the floor to the top of her desk.
I didn’t have to wait until coffee break to talk to Joan. She stopped by my office a few minutes after I arrived at work, appearing at the door and crooking an index finger at me.
‘Mrs Pearlie,’ she said.
‘Yes, Miss Adams?’ I answered, rising from my desk.
‘General Donovan would appreciate it if you’d help me straighten up Mr Holman’s office this morning.’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, as we walked down the hallway together. ‘Now I can look for that file.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ she said, lowering her voice to an uncharacteristic whisper. ‘Guess who’s taking over Holman’s desk?’
‘Who?’ I whispered back.
‘Donald Murray,’ she said. ‘Isn’t he your beau?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘definitely not. I haven’t got any beaux. Don’t want any either.’ That remark, about not wanting a beau, surprised me. It slipped out, and I wondered if I was just being defensive, or if I really meant it.
‘Wish I could say the same,’ Joan said.
I did allow the thought to cross my mind that Don’s promotion might be useful to me, and then chastised myself for such a cynical thought. Anyway, I’d find it easier to talk to Don about the Bloch file than if Holman’s replacement was someone I didn’t know.
Don sat at Holman’s desk, smoking his pipe. He nodded a greeting at us. ‘Must have been some heart attack, huh?’ he said.
The desk, which had been piled high with documents and folders when I last saw it, was almost bare. Files and papers littered the floor. A file cabinet lay on its side, its contents spilling out of open file drawers.
‘Okay,’ Joan said, all business. ‘Why don’t Mrs Pearlie and I go through the papers and sort them, reconstruct the files, then pass them to you so you can familiarize yourself with Mr Holman’s work.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Donald said.
Two hours later Joan and I had reassembled Holman’s scattered files and stacked them on Don’s desk. I’d rummaged quickly through the undisturbed file cabinets, too. The Bloch file was nowhere to be found.
Joan went to get Donald coffee. Now that he was a desk head, God forbid that he’d sit in the cafeteria with the rest of us.
‘Mr Murray,’ I said, as casually as I could.
‘Yes,’ he answered, without looking up.
‘Friday afternoon I brought a file to Mr Holman. It concerned a hydrographer, a Frenchman in Marseille, an expert on the North African coast.’
‘Sounds interesting. Where is it?’
‘Mr Holman reviewed it and placed it in the Projects Committee box. I can’t find it now.’
Don leaned back in his chair.
‘Maybe he took it upstairs himself,’ he said. ‘Or changed his mind and sent it back to the main file. It’ll turn up.’
‘Do you want me to look for it?’
Donald frowned. ‘If you have time,’ he said, ‘and it doesn’t interfere with your other work.’
I didn’t want to press the matter any further. He fiddled with a pen for a second before addressing me again, as if he was nervous.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘about Wednesday night. Can you come to the cocktail party with me?’
‘I’d love to,’ I said. I couldn’t think of a good reason to say no, and since he’d asked me I’d gotten excited about going.
Joan came in with Don’s coffee, and the two of us left him and went across the street to the cafeteria for our own coffee break.
We were later than usual, so we sat at a table by ourselves. Joan sipped from her cup, and made a face. ‘I can’t get used to drinking coffee without sugar. I’m going to buy a pound from Mr Black this weekend, and I don’t care how much it costs or how unpatriotic
Because of Barbara’s absence her stack of newspapers reached from the floor to the top of her desk.
I didn’t have to wait until coffee break to talk to Joan. She stopped by my office a few minutes after I arrived at work, appearing at the door and crooking an index finger at me.
‘Mrs Pearlie,’ she said.
‘Yes, Miss Adams?’ I answered, rising from my desk.
‘General Donovan would appreciate it if you’d help me straighten up Mr Holman’s office this morning.’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, as we walked down the hallway together. ‘Now I can look for that file.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ she said, lowering her voice to an uncharacteristic whisper. ‘Guess who’s taking over Holman’s desk?’
‘Who?’ I whispered back.
‘Donald Murray,’ she said. ‘Isn’t he your beau?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘definitely not. I haven’t got any beaux. Don’t want any either.’ That remark, about not wanting a beau, surprised me. It slipped out, and I wondered if I was just being defensive, or if I really meant it.
‘Wish I could say the same,’ Joan said.
I did allow the thought to cross my mind that Don’s promotion might be useful to me, and then chastised myself for such a cynical thought. Anyway, I’d find it easier to talk to Don about the Bloch file than if Holman’s replacement was someone I didn’t know.
Don sat at Holman’s desk, smoking his pipe. He nodded a greeting at us. ‘Must have been some heart attack, huh?’ he said.
The desk, which had been piled high with documents and folders when I last saw it, was almost bare. Files and papers littered the floor. A file cabinet lay on its side, its contents spilling out of open file drawers.
‘Okay,’ Joan said, all business. ‘Why don’t Mrs Pearlie and I go through the papers and sort them, reconstruct the files, then pass them to you so you can familiarize yourself with Mr Holman’s work.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Donald said.
Two hours later Joan and I had reassembled Holman’s scattered files and stacked them on Don’s desk. I’d rummaged quickly through the undisturbed file cabinets, too. The Bloch file was nowhere to be found.
Joan went to get Donald coffee. Now that he was a desk head, God forbid that he’d sit in the cafeteria with the rest of us.
‘Mr Murray,’ I said, as casually as I could.
‘Yes,’ he answered, without looking up.
‘Friday afternoon I brought a file to Mr Holman. It concerned a hydrographer, a Frenchman in Marseille, an expert on the North African coast.’
‘Sounds interesting. Where is it?’
‘Mr Holman reviewed it and placed it in the Projects Committee box. I can’t find it now.’
Don leaned back in his chair.
‘Maybe he took it upstairs himself,’ he said. ‘Or changed his mind and sent it back to the main file. It’ll turn up.’
‘Do you want me to look for it?’
Donald frowned. ‘If you have time,’ he said, ‘and it doesn’t interfere with your other work.’
I didn’t want to press the matter any further. He fiddled with a pen for a second before addressing me again, as if he was nervous.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘about Wednesday night. Can you come to the cocktail party with me?’
‘I’d love to,’ I said. I couldn’t think of a good reason to say no, and since he’d asked me I’d gotten excited about going.
Joan came in with Don’s coffee, and the two of us left him and went across the street to the cafeteria for our own coffee break.
We were later than usual, so we sat at a table by ourselves. Joan sipped from her cup, and made a face. ‘I can’t get used to drinking coffee without sugar. I’m going to buy a pound from Mr Black this weekend, and I don’t care how much it costs or how unpatriotic
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