Click-clack, click-clack, ding! Click-clack, click-clack, ding! A muttered curse, a pause while white-out was applied and blown on, then the click-clacking resumed and carried through to the partner's rooms next door. Every day, without fail, Penelope obediently typed letters dictated by her father-in-law: replies to clients, and strongly worded inquiries to ministers and military personnel. Searching for his missing son, her husband, had hijacked his work and hers at his busy firm of solicitors. Missing in action, presumed dead or deserted was how his regiment conveyed it, but that was almost a year ago, and still they would not reveal whereabouts they might have 'lost' him. Penelope, used to these absences, waited patiently with a photo of him on her desk, and dedicated herself to her typewriter.
typewriter was a present brought especially for her after her
father-in-law had appointed her his personal secretary. An antique,
it had quirks: the 'a' had to be pounded twice, 'h' lost it's tall
head, and capital 'R' its pointed leg, plus replacing the ribbon was
fiddly, but Penelope was comforted by the click-clacking sound and
the ding! was very satisfactory. Her father-in-law's firm was
progressive, but its office equipment old-fashioned, and Penelope
found she preferred the productive noisiness to the unobtrusive hum
and tap of computers. The tips of her fingers were sore and her
wrists ached, but she was winning this war – she felt useful, but
as she grew accustomed to this new forbearing attitude, her fingers
craved more exercise. After office hours, she stayed behind to type,
improving her speed and accuracy as day turned into night. These
efforts soon led to short stories, then a début novel, and a hostile
relationship with the cleaner who was forced to clean around her.
business hours, Penelope doubled her workload as other partners and
clients requested her typing services, and with this demand she
glowed. Her steady click-clack, ding! was music to their ears and won
her many admirers who courted her with scribbled manuscripts and
begged her to type them. Penelope refused, telling each hopeful
suitor she would choose when her own novel was completed, and so she
continued to hold their advances off by crossing out words and
crumpling up balls of paper. Every morning, the waste-paper baskets
overflowed with her re-workings and a memo was pinned to the
noticeboard to say she was not finished. Her objective, in fact, was
never to accomplish it and for twelve months she deceived them.
this time, her relationship with the cleaner had further
deteriorated, as she blamed Penelope for the handwritten notes now
regularly left about her lax standards: 'Why haven't the bins been
emptied?' 'When did you last vacuum?.' 'My desk hasn't been dusted!'
Twenty years without a single reprimand and Penelope had tarnished
it, but she knew her secret. One evening she arrived before the
office closed and stormed in to reveal it: flinging open a cupboard
to expose deep shelves of manuscripts. “Completed!” The cleaner
declared triumphantly. And there were many... All with the same
beginning, but different middles and endings.
relented and asked her admirers to submit their scribbled drafts. The
winner was a page-turner; a fictional narrative based on scraps of
memories which seemed to her familiar, and was penned by 'No Name.'
This anonymous author, invited to the office, was a man recovering
from a head injury, whom Penelope instantly recognised as her husband
and proved it to the authorities. Her returned husband in his
diminished faculties shredded her admirers' laboured attempts to win
her, but Penelope was contented: she had been rewarded for her
faithfulness to her typewriter and to her husband's memory.
by Penelope At Her Loom by Angelica Kauffman & Homer's Odyssey