The Benchminder

by Stan Mason

  ‘In a nutshell,’ she retorted, ‘everything! It’s not the job that scares you but the consequences if something goes wrong.

  Why don’t you admit it?’

  He shook his head sadly as if the whole world rested on his shoulders. ‘You’ve got to try to help me, sweetheart,’ he bleated wearily. ‘It’s you I’m worried about. You see, if I take that appointment, I’ll be on call day and night. One single telephone call will take precedence over both of our lives.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate, John!’ she reproached. ‘I don’t believe that and neither do you! Banking is a daily business. You Don’t get emergency calls at night like plumbers. For once I agree with your Board. Think about the job and sleep on the decision.’

  He picked up his knife with his right hand and plunged it hard into the food on the plate in front of him. ‘You haven’t convinced me to take it,’ he responded stubbornly. Lifting his knife once more, he drove the metal into the thick steak and, twisting it savagely, he gained a certain amount of satisfaction from the action. There was no other way he could vent his spleen!

  ***

  The following morning, Rigby arrived at Head Office at eight-thirty. In his branch banking days he had adopted the practice of beginning the working day at a very early hour and the habit was never allowed to die. He followed the same routine, taking the lift to his office floor and produced a key from his pocket to gain access. As a result of the incidents which had clouded the previous day he had spent a restless night which caused him to be extremely sensitive to noise and very insensitive to change on this particular morning. For that reason, he became aware of of something different in the office although his sleepy mind seemed incapable of determining its nature. A short while after he had settled down to work when there was a gentle knock on the door and a man dressed in brown overalls entered.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ he began apologetically, ‘which item would you like me to move first?’

  Rigby stared at him blankly for a few moments. ‘Items?’ he questioned with perplexity. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I moved the pictures off the wall and a cupboard from the corner after you left last night but I wanted to hang fire in case you had priorities.’

  ‘What the Devil are you talking about?’ A giant red warning light flashed in his mind’s eye as he tried to allay his fears.

  ‘Moving all this stuff to your new office.’ The man fished into his overall pocket to produce a carefully folded yellow order form. ‘You are Mr. Rigby?’

  ‘Who gave you instructions to do this?’ His eyes blazed with anger.

  The man scanned the form for a signature. ‘Mr. Cleaver... Premises Department.’

  ‘Let me see that!’ ordered Rigby filled with concern, almost snatching the document from the man’s hand. He ran his eyes over the yellow form. MacDonald had authorised the move. ‘And where, if you don’t mind telling me, is my new office.’

  ‘On the fifth floor, sir.’

  ‘The fifth floor! The Boardroom floor?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s right next to the Boardroom.’

  The executive puffed out his cheeks in surprise. The Old Man was taking no chances. He was giving him the kid-glove treatment all the way. The Executive proposes, the Board disposes! MacDonald knew that his subordinate would have to be appeased, especially as he was the one to be sacrificed. ‘You’d better report back to Premises Department,’ he instructed the man adamantly. ‘There’s been a change of plan... at least there will be!’

  ‘What do you want me to do about all the stuff in here then?’ asked the man with a puzzled expression on his face.

  ‘Leave it! Just leave everything where it is. Nothing’s going to be moved... not if I can help it!’

  As the man left the room, Rigby rang the office of the Assistant Chief Executive. ‘Miss Williamson. John Rigby here. Id he available yet? I must speak with him!’

  ‘Mr. MacDonald will not be in the office until nine thirty,’ she informed him sweetly, ‘but I’m pleased you rang. He wants to see you at nine forty-five in this office. Will that be convenient?’

  ‘I’ll say it will!’ he confirmed with frustration. ‘It’s not nearly soon enough!’ He slammed the receiver down into its cradle and sat back in his executive chair. Placing the tips of his finger together in front of him, he became deep in thought, glancing at the wall clock as anger flowed through his veins. They had no right to act in such a cavalier manner with his life or his career. In fact they were contravening every rule in the book which had been legislated to prevent this kind of action against an employee. Clearly MacDonald felt that he was on safe ground believing that his subordinate wouldn’t dare to deny the action taken by the Board and, normally, that concept would be true. But not on this occasion. The Rigby of today could not be taken for granted as would be the Rigby of yesterday. He was quite ready to take the bank to the cleaners through the Industrial Relations Court and anywhere else if necessary. The deterrent, however, was the problem of finding a new job at his age. The prospects were far from bright whichever way he viewed them. At that moment, the door flew open and Betty Brewer, his secretary, burst into the room.

  ‘I wondered what happened to you,’ she gasped breathlessly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been sitting in your new office for fifteen minutes without any sign of you. I mean you’re always early.’

  ‘Just sit down a minute, Betty,’ he suggested. ‘Sit down and catch your breath.

  ‘A man came over from Premises Department after you left yesterday to move some of the furniture upstairs. Is it true you’ve been promoted? That you’ll be taking charge of Functional Control?’

  ‘Hold your horses!’ he told her, trying to calm her down. ‘Nothing’s happened yet. Nothing!’

  ‘Mr. Elliott told his Personal Assistant you wouldn’t take the job. That you’d probably tender your resignation.’

  ‘He did, did he?’ It hadn’t taken Elliott long to start rumours flying where none existed before. ‘I’m seeing Mr. MacDonald at nine forty-five to sort it out. Until that happens, we use this office in the same way doing the same things as we’ve done in the past. Do you understand?’

  His secretary fell silent for a few moments and then responded submissively. ‘Yes, Mr. Rigby, I understand.’

  He rapped his knuckles on the desk in annoyance. It was typical of the senior management of the bank to cause confusion and dissension while mischievous people like Sam Elliott fed on doubt and despair, spreading wild rumours. There was only one way to resolve the problem. He would recommend Elliott for Functional Control and let MacDonald sort out the details!

  At the appointed time, Rigby entered the office of the Assistant Chief Executive and sat opposite him. The senior banker gazed at him sternly below his big bushy eyebrows before speaking.

  ‘I’ve taken the opportunity of selecting a new office for you next to the Boardroom,’ he informed him crisply. ‘There are very7 few offices on this floor as you’re well away. Yours will be one of them.’

  ‘With due respect,’ countered Rigby sharply, ‘I’ve thought the matter over and slept on it as you suggested and I;ve come to this conclusion. ‘I don’t want to be considered for Functional Control. I’d rather stay in my present capacity in the office I have now.’

  MacDonald continued talking as though he hadn’t heard a word of opposition to his plan. ‘It’s my pleasant duty to inform you that promotion will take you two grades further up the scale with a commensurate salary. The details are not with me yet but I understand you’ll be well satisfied.’

  The junior executive raised his eyebrows in disbelief. ‘But Clement Davies was only just one grade above me.’

  The senior executive shrugged his shoulders and placed the palms of his hands together as if in silent prayer. ‘Things change,�
� he said quietly ‘Times change. Some facts of life remain constant... others do not. What’s important is that we change with the times.’

  ‘It still doesn’t attract me,’ grumbled Rigby. ‘I don’t want Functional Control!’

  ‘Stop beating about the bush, man!’ MacDonald’s tone was tinged with anger. ‘It’s a massive promotion and an enormous rise in salary. If you don’t like the title we can change it to something else.’

  ‘Agreeing with the decisions of the Board seems to come high on the list of priorities in the bank... ’

  ‘Use your common sense, man! You were selected long ago. There’s no question of flexibility here. The Board wants you to control that function. No alternative remains!’

  ‘Then why did you ask for my confirmation?’

  ‘It was a matter of courtesy. We’re gentlemen in a respected profession. The bank knows best who should undertake its specialist appointments. You’re prejudicing yourself, Rigby, and making a poor job of it. You know the old adage: “A man who’s his own Counsel has a fool for a lawyer.” Take it from me, you’re the chosen one for this appointment. And I’ll tell you something in confidence... if we could have transferred Davies elsewhere, you would have been appointed to that role earlier.’

  ‘But Davies was superb at the job... ’

  ‘Only through hard work and experience,’ cut in the senior man. ‘He was short of many qualities when he first started.’

  ‘Sam Elliott is cut out for a job like this. He would eat the problems for breakfast. That’s how simple it would be for him.’

  ‘I’d rather you left Mr. Elliott’s career pattern for us to determine. There’ll be no shenanigans with office politics in Functional Control!’

  ‘I’m still not convinced.’ The junior executive was beginning to push his luck too far for his own good.

  MacDonald clenched his teeth, drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ he said coldly, ‘but you’ll have to bite the bullet and remind yourself of the old Chinese proverb: “When rape is inevitable, lie back and enjoy it!” You have an appointment with Personnel Division in ten minutes time. Don’t keep them waiting! Miss Williamson will give you the details Then I’d like you to return to this office.’

  ‘I don’t seem to have made myself clear... ’ continued Rigby fiercely before he was interrupted again.

  ‘I don’t seem to have done either,’ snapped the senior man. ‘It’s pointless fighting the establishment when they decided on an issue. You should know that.’ He leaned forward confidentially, his voice falling almost to a whisper. ‘I’ll say this once only because it’s off the record. When executives contest the Board’s decision, they’re no longer in accord with the policy of the bank. That’s the time they need to review their career pattern which is often received by them joining another company.’

  ‘In other words,’ translated the junior executive acidly, ‘take the job or resign!’

  MacDonald looked at him with an ostensibly pained expression. ‘I never said that, Mr. Rigby... you did! We have an investment with every one of our manager and your interests are close to our heart. Why else would we elevate you two grades higher on the promotion scales and a considerable salary rise. Consider yourself to be a lucky man to be so favoured.’

  Rigby stood up slowly. ‘Yes,’ he responded coolly. ‘I have all that in exchange for emasculation by the Board.’ He placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward so that his face was less than two feet away from that of the senior officer. ‘I’ll say this once only because it’s off the record,’ he repeated sarcastically in a quietly controlled voice. ‘It’s not bloody worth it!’ Without saying another word, or giving any indication of his intentions, he turned and left the office.

  He made his way to the Personnel Department as though a great weight had been placed on his shoulders, shaking his head as though he could not believe he was being forced to take the appointment. When he returned to his office a short while later, he found that it had been cleared of all the furniture. With the exception of the telephone laying on the carpet, the room was completely bare. He stood stock-still for a few moments experiencing a mixture of anger and nausea until his secretary bounded into the room.

  ‘I’m sorry , Mr; Rigby,’ she told him apologetically. ‘I couldn’t stop them. They descended like a swarm of bees with trolleys and boxes for all the loose items. It took them five minutes to clear the office.’

  He pressed his lips firmly together and shook his head. ‘It was like standing on the edge of a precipice and he was in serious danger of falling. MacDonald was going to fulfil his contract with the Board come what may, or hand the head of his subordinate to them on a plate. The ball was now in his court with regard to his future and he couldn’t delay the issue any longer. A decision has to be made... one way or the other!

  ‘One month on a trial basis,’ he told MacDonald adamantly after returning to the office of the senior executive. .But let me be quite clear. I still don’t want the appointment of Head of Functional Control!’

  ‘Let me congratulate you on your promotion, John,’ applauded MacDonald warmly. ‘Secondly, a month is too short and you know it. Give it a year!’

  ‘Now that’s far too long and you know it. If we’re horse-trading, I’ll conceded and make it three months.‘

  ‘In my opinion, you’ll not only make a success of it but also find job satisfaction. I’m positive you’ll be back in this office in three months’ time asking for an extension for a further three months. You wait and see!’

  Rigby jutted out his jaw defiantly. ‘Perhaps I may enlighten you on that point. There’s a saying which goes: “don’t hold your breath!”’

  A small smile appeared on the face of the Assistant Chief Executive as he allowed the comment to pass. ‘Good luck, John!’ he said, sticking out his hand. ‘I know you’ll do your best.’

  The junior executive shook the other man’s hand numbly and left the room to search for his new office. The world was suddenly opening up for him and he wasn’t certain that he was ready for it. He recalled that Clement Davies had once commented that the work could be a paradise for job satisfaction or a jungle which suppressed sight, sound, mind and body. Clearly the result depended on the individual in charge... and he was now at the helm! As he stood behind his desk in a strange room, trying to identify himself with the new surroundings, the telephone rang to bring his life into perspective. ‘Rigby!’ he growled testily into the mouthpiece.

  ‘I want Davies!’ came the terse reply.

  ‘What’s your problem?’

  ‘This is Fender at London South District office. We have a problem. Mr. Hepworth and Miss Jones work together in one of our offices. Well she’s pregnant and he’s responsible. As you know, two people who are connected, such as husband and wife, or any other family connections, are not allowed to work at the same branch for a whole variety of reasons and I’m ringing... ’

  ‘Fender!’ barked Rigby, interrupting the man before he went any further. ‘Can you give me one reason why you’re telling this to me? Surely it’s a matter for your manager to contact Personnel Department. I’m not interested in the private affairs of bank employees!’

  ‘I’ve already approached Personnel Division. Why do you think I’ve come to you? They’re not interested either. I just felt that you had the authority to do the right thing.’

  ‘What’s that, Fender? What is the right thing?’

  ‘To get him to agree to marry him and then Personnel Division can transfer one of them elsewhere.’

  ‘In case you need to be told, Fender, this is not a marriage guidance council. If Miss Jones can’t get him to marry her, why should this Department get involved?’

  ‘Let me speak to Mr. Davies!’

  ‘He’s gone!’

  ‘When will he be back?’ />
  ‘He won’t be coming back.’

  ‘He didn’t get the Newcastle job he wanted, did he?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s gone much further than that. You’ll have to deal with me in future.’

  There was a long pause at the other end of the line and then Fender decided to take another tack. ‘Look, Mr. Rigby, I’ve got a year to go before retirement and these kids look on me as their grandfather. If the situation’s not resolved Mr. Hepworth, who’s only twenty-one years old, is likely to resign from the bank or they’ll send him way out to the sticks and let him rot there. I feel that if you touch the rudder in the right direction, it’ll make all the difference.’

  Rigby stood still thinking about it for a few moments. It was a minor issue and a good one to start him on his new career. ‘All right, Fender,’ he conceded. ‘Send them over. I’ll see whether I can knock some sense into the pair of them.’ He replaced the receiver and stared bleakly at his secretary. ‘Betty,’ he asked simply. ‘What the hell have I got myself into?’

  The telephone rang again at that moment and she answered it. ‘I have a call on line two,’ she informed him, ignoring his rhetoric question. ‘It’s your wife.’

  He pulled a face and lifted the instrument to his ear. ‘Yes, Diane! What do you want!’

  ‘Who’s a cross-patch this morning,’ she riposted. ‘I couldn’t get through to your extension. What’s happening?’

  ‘What do you want, Diane?’ he repeated rudely. ‘I’m very busy!’

  ‘Just to tell you that the estate agent has sold the house. I’ve arranged for my solicitor to handle it... on behalf of both of us, of course.’

  ‘Thank you for letting me know,’ he uttered dryly. ‘Is there anything else you want to discuss?’

  ‘Like what for example?’

  ‘Like consenting to a divorce!’

  ‘I do hope it’s not inconveniencing that little woman of yours. You know whom I’m talking about... the young thing about half your age with only half a mind!’

  ‘Diane!’ he returned tiredly. ‘Sarcasm and jealousy won’t help. You realise I can go through the channels and get a divorce in time. You can’t stop me.’