In January 2000 I pinned a new procedure above the cash tin. Every payment and purchase would be checked at the close of each working day, with both of us signing the total. I had written it neatly and left room for initials. To me it looked fair because the same rule named both of us. I had not asked Celia whether she thought we needed it.
She read it before taking off her coat. "Is this a proposal?"
"It's how we'll do the cash."
"Then no." She took an envelope from her bag. "I'm giving you notice."
I stared at the envelope instead of reaching for it. There were unfinished garments on her table, a collection booked for Friday, and the sort of small jobs she could finish while I was still threading my machine. "Over a daily check?" I said. "You'd leave over keeping proper records?"
"I'm leaving over being told what the problem is and what the solution is, when I'm the person you treated as the problem." She laid the envelope down. "I'll finish the pieces listed there. You'll pay me what we agreed. After that, you'll need somebody else."
I said we could change the time of the checks. She shook her head. I offered to sign first. She said I was still discussing the sheet on the wall. Only when she asked me to stop bargaining with the wrong thing did I go quiet. We spent that morning identifying her unfinished work and making a final list.
She completed what she had promised. I paid her in full and watched her put her scissors into their cloth case. Before leaving, she returned the workroom key. I wanted to tell her she could keep it in case she changed her mind, but even I heard the presumption in that. I put it in the drawer.
The first day alone felt almost peaceful. I could arrange every pile exactly as I wanted. By the third day I was answering the telephone with thread caught on my sleeve and forgetting which garments had been pressed. The jobs Celia had made look easy turned out to be jobs she had practiced until they looked that way.
I missed Gordon's delivery window the following week. The last bundle was ready, but I had not allowed enough time for pressing and packing. I telephoned before setting out, hoping he would say an hour made no difference. He told me his receiving arrangements had already changed and the delay would cost him another trip.
"I'll bring them wherever you need," I said.
"And who pays for the disruption? We agreed on a window."
I looked at our contract. The credit provision was there in my own initialed copy. I could explain Celia's departure or accept responsibility for work I had continued to promise. I gave him the credit and arranged the next delivery. When I put down the telephone, the money I had saved by not paying Celia that week seemed to have evaporated.
Hugh came by and found me still pressing. I asked whether he could do the packing. He hung up his coat, then stopped with his hand on the first bundle. "Tonight, or every night?"
"Until I get caught up."
"That's not an end date." He moved the bundle back. "I'll help you carry something heavy. I'll collect you if you're stranded. I'm not taking Celia's job without wages because you couldn't work with her."
I told him I had not asked for a speech. He answered that he had not offered to become the invisible part of the business. Then he sat down long enough for us to decide which single task he was willing to help with that evening. The limit angered me, but it was clear.
After he left, I took the daily-check sheet off the wall. I did not tear it up. I folded it and put it beneath the returned key. Then I finished packing, counted every garment, and wrote out the credit for Gordon. Nothing was missing from the room except the person whose absence I had made necessary.