Chapter Two:
A long hard day (June 1982)
“Tas, do you know where I put that tie I had in my hand just now.”
Tony was walking around their bedroom picking up things and looking underneath them, the impending interview was making him nervous to the point of distraction. His wife’s voice drifted back up the stairs along with the delicious smell of frying bacon.
“The last time I saw it was draped around your neck.”
He looked down and there it was. He knotted it in a careful Windsor, he hated the slipknot method of tying ties as they always came loose and made it look as if a bloke was waiting for the gibbet. He brushed some more imaginary dust from his best suit and went down to breakfast, which Tas put on the table as he walked in. Tas was a brunette of around five feet five inches, thirty-four years old with a good figure. She was usually supportive of her husband, but in the matter of his redundancy from Grunwold Pumps Ltd, in his view she had been remarkably offhand about the whole business.
Having herself worked for the same oil company since leaving school and at a higher than average salary for the work than she would have received from any company not in the oil business, he felt she did not really understand how it feels to be chucked on the scrap heap over night. He had been for eighteen interviews now, all for less money than he had been earning before. Never the less as the market was becoming flooded with redundant office workers and people were practically asking for a degree in maths for someone to work the office photocopier. He smiled at Tas.
“Thanks lover. I’ll go back to cooking it tomorrow, but a nine fifteen interview doesn’t give me a lot of time when I have to get all the way over to Taunton after I drop you off.”
He punctured his poached egg and spread it evenly over his piece of toast.
“Are you nervous of this interview, Tony?”
“Yes, but only because I really would like a crack at this job. It would be nice to be doing something to help people for a change, rather than trying to steal their customers and then making your own staff redundant when that doesn’t work.”
Tas shook her pretty head in confusion.
“But Alcoholics Anonymous. You hate drunks. Look how you feel about your old man.”
Tony’s step father was a consummate piss artist who not only got legless with monotonous regularity, but then liked to go home and start violent arguments with his wife, one of the reasons Tony hadn’t visited them for nearly eight years. They regularly visited Tas’ parents, but he drew the line at the “Old Man.”
“Its not Alcoholics Anonymous Tas, its the Southdown Council for Alcoholism. I will be coordinating the efforts of all organisations in the County who are involved in trying to reduce alcoholism. At least, that it said in the job description.”
“But you like your wine with the rest of them.”
She gave him her “get out of that” smile.
“I know I do, but the difference is that I don’t let it screw my life up. I don’t beat my kids and I don’t come home drunk and give my wife a hard time.”
She snorted.
“That is because you don’t have any kids and you bloody well wouldn’t dare to start on me.”
He choked on a piece of toast that went down the wrong way as he tried to answer this and then panicked that he had sprayed egg all over his clothes. He grabbed at his handkerchief and carefully removed the debris. What had brought that little outburst on?
“You stupid beggar. What are you trying to do to me? If I had choked on that bit of toast I hope you know enough about first aid to have removed the blockage.”
She smiled sweetly and shook her head.
“No, darling, but your notice period doesn’t run out for another few weeks yet so I could have claimed your death in service benefit. I would have missed you of course, but it would have helped me enormously to get over the loss.”
He got up and took his plate to the sink. Up until now it had never bothered him, but recently with Tas’ complete lack of sensitivity over his redundancy he had found his mind dwelling on it. What was wrong with her and why the hard-arse act all the time? He shook it off and made light of her remark about death in service benefits.
“I don’t know how I have survived eight years married to you, I really don’t. Come on, or we will both be late.”
He picked up his briefcase and headed for the front door.
He had driven the car out of the garage and was sitting waiting for Tas to get her backside out of the house when he noticed that the quince bush at the end of the drive had been flattened. Swearing under his breath he went to investigate. Tyre marks! That Brummy Pratt from the corner house had backed up over his garden again. Right! That did it. It was time for drastic action. He headed back to the garage.
They lived in a hammerhead at the end of the cul-de-sac and the gardens were all open plan without hedges, fences or gates. His neighbour, unlike Tony, never backed his old Cortina into his drive. He just screamed in forwards and then abandoned it. In the mornings however, for some reason that Tony could never fathom, he didn’t back out into the hammer head proper although god knows there was plenty of room. Not him. He always backed around into their drive, often running over the edge of the garden where they had the quince bush. When faced with an angry Tony he always denied it, but Tony knew it was him as he had checked his tyres and the pattern matched.
This was the third occasion the poor old quince had been run over and he was getting more than a little pissed off about it. He stormed into the garage and collected a four foot piece of angle iron that used to be one their back garden fence posts before they had the wall put up, and a two pound lump hammer. Taking off his jacket and putting it on the bonnet of his car he placed the angle iron near the middle of the bush and proceeded to hammer it into the ground right next to the quince bush until only eight inches or so was standing proud. He stood back and examined it. Nothing showed. He gave a satisfied smile and took the hammer back to the garage. Returning to the car he yelled in the direction of the house for Tas to get a move on. Her voice coming through the car window beside him caused him to jump and then to flush. He climbed into the car.
“Are you going to warn him that you have put in a nuclear deterrent to stop the phantom quince bush killer, or are you going to let him find out the hard way.”
Her voice said plainly that she favoured the former course of action.
“Sod him! Let him find out the hard way. It will teach him to respect other people’s property.”
Tas chose not to argue. He started up the MGB and drove away harder than was necessary. Tas shook her head.
“God, Tony, I’m glad you don’t have an important interview every day. I don’t think I could stand it.”
They drove on in silence until they reached the depot where Tas worked. After getting out of the car she put her head back through the window to give him a second kiss.
“Good luck, darling.”
He smiled and tried to ignore the knot of tension that was forming in his stomach, but couldn’t. He nodded his head to her and pulled away.
He reached Taunton in good time and for once found somewhere to park in the same street as the address on the letter he had received. He checked the number, but that did no good as none of the neo-Edwardian buildings that made up the Taunton Council offices bore any numbers. After all, their staff knew where all the offices were, so sod the public. After walking along the row of imposing buildings for a good ten minutes while wondering how much of his exorbitant rate bill was spent on their upkeep, he eventually spotted the brass plate stating, Southdown Council for Alcoholism, ring and enter. It was affixed to one Taunton’s smaller and far less imposing municipal buildings about three hundred yards from the Main Council Chambers and backing onto the park. As he had half an hour to kill he went into the nearby park to spend twenty minutes relaxing in the sunshine and composing him self. Opening his briefcase he took out the letter again, hoping for some clue as to what kind of person th
ey were looking for. It was a very short letter.
Dear Mr Filton,
We have received your application for the position of Coordinator to the Southdown Council for Alcoholism and we are quite interested. Could you please attend this office for a preliminary interview on Thursday, 2nd June 1982, at 10-15 am.
Yours Sincerely
Robert H. Alderton (Major)
Coordinator
The title had worried him a little. While he could understand that the good Major may well be an excellent organiser, unless he had been a Padre he wondered about the amount of understanding and human kindness a life in the army had instilled in him. He could imagine the major marching all the local drunks down to the canal with their bottles of red wine and furniture polish, or whatever it was they drank an then lining them up shouting, Hup, two, three, throw, two, three, cured, two, three, Dissssmissss. He also knew that having himself missed National Service by a whisker, he was in no position to judge what he hadn’t experienced. However, the husband of one of Tas’ best friends was a Sergeant in the Army Air Corps and another neighbour was a Major with NATO and Tony thought they were both completely insensitive buggers. In fact as far as the Major was concerned he sometimes worried that he may be relying on him to keep the Russians at bay. He wondered what the bloke would do in the event that things got nasty. Probably try to reason with them and get them to understand that it just wasn’t what decent chaps did, dropping H bombs on each other, while the Sergeant would probably be too pissed to fight them if his performances down their local when he was on leave were anything to go by.
Thinking about them took him back to this morning’s conversation with Tas. He hadn’t found the conversation very funny and her complete lack of support or sympathy was beginning to annoy him. He put it down to her background. Tas had not attended the local secondary modern like Tony. In Hemel Hempstead, where they had both attended school, there had been only two Grammar schools, one for boys and one for girls in those days before coeducational schools. Tas’ father was a scientist at the local veterinary college and had sent Tas to private school until she was eleven, from where she had waltzed straight into the local girl’s Grammar. Tony on the other hand had passed his eleven plus, but had been called for interview at the boy’s Grammar School. He needed a parent to accompany him and as his mother had been terrified of meeting the Head Master, his stepfather had gone with him.
Unfortunately the interview had been for three o’clock and that meant that his father had had time for a pint or three before they left. All the way there he had told Tony that if they accepted him it would cost a fortune in school uniforms and gym kits and hinted darkly that anyone who attended Grammar school was letting down the working man. Tony’s stepfather was a conductor on London Transport’s Green Line coaches, which meant that in his view he had already reached the top of the ladder without ever going near a Grammar School.
At the School they were made to wait at least fifteen minutes before they were shown into the Head’s oak panelled office. The head himself actually wore a gown. Tony was so nervous of what his Dad might say that he made a complete hash of the interview and even at the tender age of eleven, knew it. But it was his father that put the tin hat on the matter. When the interview was ended the headmaster had said they would be hearing in due course. Slightly tipsy or not Tony’s Dad realised that this probably meant Tony would not be accepted and asked why they could not have a decision there and then. It had ended as these things often did with Tony’s Dad, with him telling the Head how he had fought a bloody war for buggers like him and now he was denying his son a place in his lousy posh school.
This was not entirely true as he had spent all his time at some rail depot in India and never heard a shot fired in anger, but it was what he always came out with. Tony’s face had burnt with shame all the way home as his father continued with his theme at the top of his voice despite the looks he was getting from other people. Tony never made the Grammar School.
At Corner Hall Secondary Modern he had been put straight into the “A” stream class. The only advantage of going to the school was it was only five minutes away from his front door. Two and a half if you ran and the wiser first year new kids always ran all the way there and all the way back home before the fourth year kids got hold of them.
It had been the same when he left school. Because of her educational background, British Oil had accepted Tas despite her having only gathered one GCE in social science and one in English Literature. Tony, who had GCE’s in English language, English Literature, Maths and Science had been rejected by the town’s highest payers and had eventually taken an engineering apprenticeship with a local manufacturing company. The money was lousy and he was expected to work on Saturday mornings. He stuck it out because his stepfather had signed the apprenticeship forms, but he hated it. He spent most of his time on a fly press and knew this was not the training that would get him a decent job. He bitterly regretted not taking the Careers Officers advice and opting for office work.
The two of them had met at a youth club dance when the rock group he and his brother James ran were playing at a Saturday night dance in a local youth club. It had not been a great start as Tas had just been recovering from influenza and had only been allowed out by her mother if well wrapped up. This had meant a woollen tartan wrap around skirt, red woollen tights and a big green roll neck pullover. She had looked like a badly wrapped Christmas present. Tas’ friend was going steady with the band’s drummer and they had spent the half time break with the two girls. Tony had teased Tas about her clothes and she had not liked it.
The following week they had been playing at Tring town hall for the Valentine’s night dance. Tas had turned up in a full skirt, high heels, and a figure-hugging sweater. Tony was smitten, but it had taken him a long time to talk her around after his laughing at her the week before. They had courted for about four years before marrying. Tony had known the band would have to go when the wedding bells rang and had not rushed at it. Tas got impatient and took to telling him about some of the good looking blokes in her office that were always asking her out, but the clincher had been her parents.
At the age of fourteen Tony had found out to his relief that his drunken father was in fact his stepfather, his real father having disappeared during the D Day landings. They had never told Tony about this as it transpired his mother had never got around to marrying him. It explained why the school, his Doctor, the Town Library and several other organisations had him down as Tony Collins, his mother’s maiden name. It said much for the innocence of the early sixties that he had never twigged this until his mother had tearfully taken him aside and explained. His stepfather wanted to formally adopt him and Tony was bright enough to realise that if he followed his inclination and said no, his mother, his brother and three sisters as well as he himself, would cop hell during the ensuing fallout. He had given in and signed the bit of paper and forever after was to expected to be grateful.
Tas’ parents were different. Unlike his own parents who liked to put every one they met in a social category, they only seemed to care about what he was like as a person. They welcomed him, his band and his friends to their house at the drop of a hat and made him feel he really belonged to a family for the first time in his life. He took to calling Tas’ mother, Mum. He would never realise it, but his decision to ask Tas to marry him was more than a little based on his liking for her parents. Three years after they were married Tas had been asked to transfer to the West Country. It meant an upgrade to Senior Clerk for her and as she already earned about a third more than he did he had given up his job to go with her. He had found when he got there that there was a real shortage of qualified engineering staff and had been able to choose his new employment from several offers made to him. He had selected Grunwold Pumps and had worked quite happily in their tool room.
Five years had passed happily and then one day during the lunch break he had been looking at the notice board in his lunch break when
he had spotted a vacancy for an Assistant Personnel Officer advertised. The notice made it quiet clear that they did not expect to find a suitable candidate in house as it went on to say that the job would also be advertised in the local paper. Tony was fed up with being a tool room turner and thought he should apply. After all, he had the right paper qualifications they were asking for. He had talked to Tas about it and she had been very definite.
“Whatever you think is best, but you are daft if you do not apply. You could do it stood on your head.”
He had decided to go for it. He had taken the new suit he had bought for his brother’s recent wedding, thankfully a nice charcoal grey, in a plastic dry cleaning bag along with the shoes, shirt and tie that went with it. Half an hour before his allotted interview he had spotted Terry Colburn, the Personnel Manager, in the foreman’s office, obviously making some excuse to be there so that he could look Tony over. At the time he was turning a cast iron spigot and was covered in black dust. Fifteen minutes before his interview he shot into the washroom and showered and changed, appearing for his interview looking so different that Terry Colburn had not even recognised him. However, Colburn had been impressed with his efforts and he had got the job. As the company operated a closed shop within the manual trades it had caused a degree of animosity from his ex-Union colleagues that he had changed sides on them, but in a year that had disappeared. Then two and a half years after his appointment Colburn had gone to work for an American company and Tony had stepped into his shoes.
His reverie was interrupted when the clock chimed and he jumped, the park suddenly coming back into view before his eyes. It was nine o’clock. Putting the letter back into his briefcase, he checked his tie was straight and his cuffs all right and leaving the park walked the two hundred yards to the Council’s office. There he rang and entered, as the sign commanded.
He found himself in a lobby at the foot of a set of stairs in almost complete darkness. The reason for this is that a self-return spring had closed the solid front door behind him before he’d had time to look for a light switch. He was still fumbling about in the dark feeling for the switch when a door at the top of the stairs opened, allowing down a little light and revealing enough for him to see he was facing the wrong wall.
“Hello, can I help you?”
The voice was female and more than middle aged. He turned his head away from the wall and peered up the stairs.
“Er, yes. I have an appointment with Major Alderton. My name is Filton, Tony Filton.”
“Ah yes, Mr Filton. You are a little early, but do come up.”
The door closed again plunging him into darkness once more. He resisted the sudden temptation to find the front door and leave, but only because he stumbled over the bottom stair first. He felt his way cautiously up the old wooden stairs, going cold every time one squeaked and wondering what the woman felt about some one who could not carry out a simple task like find a light switch. After about three minutes he knew he had reached the top of the stairs when he saw a gleam of light under a door. He pushed it carefully open and found himself in a light, airy office space that was surprising large.
Sitting at a desk in the large main office was a pleasant looking woman in her fifties while through the large window behind her the park could be seen drowsing in the warm morning sun. Through a corridor he could just see into another office through a partly open door. A man in his mid thirties could be glimpsed sitting to attention on a hard, straight-backed chair and Tony guessed this must be one of the other candidates. It seemed a very pleasant working environment and a great improvement over his last office with its magnificent view of the car park and the dual carriageway beyond. The woman looked up from her typewriter and smiled.
“Hello, Mr Filton. I thought you had changed your mind for a while there.”
He read the name board on the front of her desk.
“Hello, er, Miss Wright. I’m afraid I let the door close behind me before I found the light switch.” He shrugged. “Not a very good start I’m afraid.”
Miss Wright put her hand to her mouth in dismay.
“Oh dear. That is my fault. I was supposed to switch the light on when you rang the bell, but it must have been already on and I went and switched it off.”
Tony wondered if Miss Wright came with the position.
“Never mind. I made it safely up the stairs so no harm is done. I would appreciate it if you could have it on for the return journey, though.”
Yes of course.”
Blushing furiously she got up and going to the door at the top of the stairs flicked the switch down. She came back and giving him a nervous smile returned to her typing. Tony felt a sudden compassion for her. After all, it must be just as unnerving for her to sit here watching a stream of strange people pass through, any one of whom could be her new boss. He looked around the office.
It was huge and doubled up as a display area with racks of different leaflets and an area to one side with a coffee table and half a dozen low chairs. It was light and airy and not at all what he had expected, as he was aware that it was situated over the tractor sheds for the Parks and Gardens unit. He had noticed that when sat in the park killing time. This must be the old hayloft converted into offices with another door and stairs down to the street outside the park.
The murmur of voices down the corridor rose in level and it was obvious from the scraping of chairs that the interview was over. A tall young man of about thirty-five came out accompanied by an older gentleman. The older man ushered the other to the door, assuring him that of course they would let him know the outcome as soon as possible and then letting the door close, turned back into the room. He looked at Miss Wright and shook his head. She glanced across to see if Tony had noticed the obvious signal before he could look away and she once more blushed furiously. The Major then turned to Tony.
“Mr Filton, I presume.” The voice was crisp and firm.
Major Alderton was a very polished individual. About five feet seven inches tall, he was dressed in a light grey, hand tailored suit of some shiny and obviously expensive material. He wore what looked to Tony like a genuine silk shirt and a regimental tie, tied with a slipknot. Highly polished, brown lightweight shoes and a Rolex watch and gold signet ring completed the ensemble. He was plump to the point of sleekness with almost a full head of silver hair that was swept back in wings over both ears. His facial skin was as smooth and pink as a baby’s with plump cheeks and a small double chin. Yes, the word to describe him was sleek. Tony wondered if the silver BMW 520 he had parked behind, belonged to the Major and made a small bet with him self that it did. He gave his practised “Personnel Smile” and firmly shook the offered hand.
“Good morning, Major. Nice to meet you.”
As the Major had shaken his hand a waft of expensive cologne had drifted up.
“And you, Filton. Do come on in.”
He led the way into his inner sanctum, which had the same identical view of the park. The office was extremely well furnished with everything in teak and leather except for the visitor’s chair. The Major caught his look.
“Sorry about the chair, but I find it keeps visits short and to the point.”
His own chair was deeply padded in what looked like black leather.
“Drink?”
“Thank you. Can I have tea please?”
“No, no old chap, not do you want a drink. Do you drink?”
For a minute Tony was lost until he remembered where he was. Then the penny dropped.
“Oh, I see, do I drink? Alcohol you mean?”
The major nodded. Tony could see no point in lying about it and he wasn’t sure the Major would believe he was teetotal even if he claimed to be.
“Yes I do.”
“Much?”
“No, not really.”
He was one of the lightest drinkers in his skittle team every Monday night and he couldn’t remember the last time he had been legless. Yes he could. Just after he and Mattison
had made three hundred people redundant, one nice sunny summer afternoon one and a bit years ago and about three days before they all went off on holiday. Christ, he had been pissed that night.
“How much?”
“Moderately, Major, moderately.”
“Quantities, old chap, quantities.”
This interview was not going how Tony had expected and he wondered what exactly the Major based his interview techniques on. It was certainly different to any method he had ever seen in over five years in the business. Still, better answer.
“Well, let me see. Mondays I play skittles with the local team. That is two pints of beer if we are at home, as I can walk there and two halves of shandy if we are away and I have to drive. Wednesdays we do the shopping at Sainsbury’s and we always take a bottle of their own-brand champagne home. Half an hour in the freezer and its ready, sort of gets us through the rest of the working week.”
He caught himself.
“Not the alcohol you understand, but spoiling ourselves, as it were. Lastly we go out for our supper on Friday’s to one of the local pubs and usually have a couple of glasses of house wine with our meal.”
He sat back and waited.
“No drink in the house?”
“Pardon?”
“No drink in the house? You know, whiskey, brandy, gin, vodka and that sort of thing.”
Tony pretended to give this question serious thought while he tried to work out just how much input the Major would have in choosing his successor.
“There may be some stuff left over from Christmas, but that is mainly port and sherry, that sort of thing, although I think we used all the sherry in cooking if I remember rightly. We don’t drink any spirits”
He gave a small smile and wondered if he would be asked about his ability to do the job. It seemed not, so far. The Major sat back in his chair and relaxed. He smiled and brushed his hands one at a time along the silver wings of his hair to make sure they were still in perfect position.
“Well.” He let his breath out with a rush. “Glad to get that bit over. Always embarrassing to have to ask a chap personal questions like that, never liked it even when I was in the Regiment. Always feels like prying to me.”
He put his hands back on the desk satisfied that his hair was still glossily perfect and allowed Tony to admire the well manicured fingernails.
“Now, let me tell you about the position. After all, it is my job to brief you so that you can answer the panels questions more concisely.” He beamed. “What do you want to know?”
Panel Questions? Ah, this was just the preliminary then. Tony decided he could relax a bit.
“Perhaps you could tell me how the Council came into being and exactly how you coordinate it?”
This question obviously pleased the Major.
“Of course, of course.”
He made a steeple his fingers under his chin while he gathered his thoughts together.
“Well, there were all these different organisations looking after these alcoholic Johnny’s and they were all duplicating each others work, you see. So the County Council gave me the job of sorting them all out.”
He paused and gave it more thought.
“That is it really. Been doing it for the past five years, but now the Memsahib thinks we should retire.” He smiled. “ Next question.”
Tony was beginning to wonder if the Major really was getting over ten thousand a year to sit in this nice office all day, or if he had just bumped into some devilishly clever new interviewing technique that he had never heard of before. He decided to play it safe.
“What about clerical backup?”
He had been going to say assistance, but felt that backup had the kind of efficient military ring the Major would appreciate. He did.
“Good question. Margaret, that is Miss Wright, comes in every morning from eight thirty to one thirty to deal with the correspondence and typing, etc. Don’t really need anyone in the afternoons as I usually save that for field work.”
“Field work?”
“You know the sort of thing, visiting the chaps and lassies at the sharp end. Building morale and letting them see they are not forgotten.”
He stared down at the desk with a small frown on his face.
“Very important, morale.”
With so little feed back Tony was beginning to flounder.
“So who would I, that is, if I were successful, who would I report to?”
The Major looked puzzled at the question.
“To the Council of course.”
Tony realised that he may be about to blow it here, but felt that he had to press on.
“Err, could I ask who is on the Council, do you think?”
“Well it’s made up of all the people from the different organisations working with the alcoholic Johnny’s.”
Suddenly all was clear.
“Oh I see. They have formed a Council of all the different organisations and they decide policy, and then your brief is to coordinate everyone to the agreed policy.”
“Exactly. Didn’t I say that?”
The Major looked a little surprised.
“Well, not in so many words, but I think I’ve got it now.”
“Good. That is it then for this morning, panel interview this afternoon. Lets go and see what slots are available, shall we?”
He got up and strode into the main office leaving Tony with his mouth open.
“This afternoon. No one said there would be two interviews in one day. What if he’d had another arranged?”
He caught up with the Major by Miss Wright’s desk. She was consulting a timetable.
“Two fifteen is free, Major.”
The Major beamed.
“Two fifteen OK with you, Filton?”
His tone said that it ought to be if he wanted this position. Tony thought, “Sod you” and made a show of opening his briefcase and consulting his diary. He held it away from the Majors sight so that he could not see that there was only the one entry in it.
“Yes. I’m glad to say I can fit that in.”
“Good man. Report back here a two o’clock and Margaret here will take you over to the Council building. The Panel will see you there.”
He held out his hand.
“Good luck.
As he shook the proffered hand Tony reflected that the Major would probably have said exactly the same thing just before going over the side on D Day. He smiled a farewell to Miss Wright and headed for the door. He was very relieved to see that the light was on.
Outside in the sunshine he pondered on what to do. It was now around ten fifteen and he had four hours to kill. He had time to go home and change his shirt if he felt like it, but that was another couple of gallons of petrol. He decided to ring Tas, tell her he would do the shopping today, and find out if they needed anything out of the ordinary. That should take a good hour. Then he would buy this month’s Practical Photography and find a quiet pub in which to eat a ploughman’s lunch while he read it for an hour or so. Better stick to tonic water this time, wouldn’t want to face the panel stinking of bitter. That decision made he went to find a phone box.
After fighting his way around a crowded Sainsbury’s he had stacked the shopping in the back of the MGB, parked it carefully in the shade to keep it all fresh and then gone to find a nice quiet pub for lunch. On the way he bought a copy of the West Country Press to look through the Situations Vacant page. It was cheaper than a magazine and more practical. He had about fifteen applications going at this time, but felt that he had to keep applying until he found himself another job. He had been trying only to apply for those jobs that he felt he could do well or that specifically intrigued or interested him. No point in dashing around all over the option chasing jobs that he had little chance of getting, or that he would probably hate if he did get them. Consequently he kept well away from anything to do with Sales, which cut out over fifty percent of the available positions. He had exhausted all the larger advertisements an
d was looking through the columns of minor jobs, dinner and lollipop persons wanted etc, when a small, boxed advertisement caught his eye.
VACANCY
The County of Avon require a Supervisor to work in the Special Unit of their Youth Opportunities Scheme. The successful person will have a training background and will be currently unemployed. They will enjoy working with young persons.
He opened the briefcase and taking out his writing materials wrote off immediately to the address given, which was a junior school in Weston Super Mare. He didn’t have a clue what he was letting himself in for, but the job intrigued him and that was one of his criteria for making applications. He had just closed his briefcase and was preparing to spend the next half hour reading the rest of the paper when he heard a strangely familiar voice ordering a large whiskey. He peered out around the edge of the high backed wooden bench on which he was sitting and there was the Major. He watched as the man swallowed the whiskey in two gulps and indicated for a refill. The Landlord obviously knew him well, for when he brought him the second drink he asked him what he wanted for lunch today.
Tony was in a quandary. He did not think the Major would take kindly to one of the candidates for his job discovering that he drank well over the legal limit before making his afternoon visits and he felt it would be best to leave before the man spotted him. The problem was that the Major was between Tony and the only exit from the bar. He looked around. The only other door he could reach unseen said Toilets, in neat gold letters.
Picking up his briefcase, he slid out of his seat and through the door. Once through the door he discovered he was in a small vestibule. To the left were two more doors in the same gold lettering, marked Gents and Ladies. A third door was marked private and he could hear the sounds of the pub’s kitchen behind it, while a fourth door was not marked at all. He tried the handle of this door and it opened out onto a small back yard with a high wooden fence, full of neatly stacked aluminium beer barrels. He crossed the yard and tried the gate on the far side.
Locked! Of course it would be or the local lads wouldn’t bother to buy their beer in the bar. They would come down with a van and nick it by the firkin. He looked around. There was no other exit. It was climb the fence or go back through the bar and face the Major. The hell with it, he would climb the fence.
Fortunately there was a second stack of empty barrels against the fence so putting his briefcase on top of these barrels he gingerly climbed up onto the first layer. They were obviously empty as they wobbled a bit, but no disaster. He clambered carefully up onto the next layer, praying that none of the barrels behind the bar would run dry, bringing the Landlord into the yard for a replacement. So far so good, he thought although the final layer of barrels was going to be far more difficult.
The yard was only made of roughly poured concrete and although the bottom layer of barrels only had rocked slightly under his weight, by the time he reached the top layer, they were wobbling about alarmingly. He gripped the top of the fence that now came only to his waist and looked up and down the narrow alleyway that was now revealed to him. It was empty except for two small girls who had stopped playing with their dolls pram and were now watching him with big round eyes. He smiled at them his best favourite uncle smile, but their expressions didn’t alter.
He turned back and picked up his briefcase. He wished he had never started this, but it would be even more difficult to go back than to carry on, as the barrels were now extremely unstable. Laying along the top of the fence on his stomach with his right hand that was holding the briefcase hanging down into the alley, he pushed of with his left foot, relying on the grip of his left hand on the top of the fence to bring him to the upright position as he dropped. Two things happened.
The push off from his left leg was the final straw for the empty barrels and the whole pile collapsed with the sound of thunder. His left hand did as planned and swung him around to the upright position, but when he let go to drop the final two feet to the floor he only fell a couple of inches before being jerked to a stop with a force that felt as if it had broken his neck. The problem was there clearly to be seen about six inches in front of his eyes. His best tie was wedged between two planks leaving him literally hanging by the neck. He thanked the Lord he hadn’t used the slipknot that morning.
The sudden lack of oxygen as his eleven odd stones hung on his own tie, gave him the strength of desperation. Dropping the briefcase into the alleyway he gripped the tie with both hands and drawing up his legs in front of him, pushed backwards with all his strength. For a moment nothing happened and he vowed he would never buy another expensive tie. Then there was a sudden tearing sound as the lining gave and he flew backwards to land on his back in the alley some five feet below. For a few seconds he lay there with closed eyes, severely winded. When finally he opened them there were two small, angelic faces looking down at him with curiosity.
“You all right, Mister?”
He nodded, too stunned to speak.
“Didn’t you have enough money, then?”
This, plus the sound of an angry voice in the pub yard as the Landlord came out to investigate the commotion, galvanised him into action. Scrambling to his feet he picked up his briefcase and sprinted the thirty or so yards to the end of the alley and out into the noise and bustle of the High Street, his sudden entrance causing a few people to stare at the dishevelled and decidedly dusty figure that had burst from the alleyway. As he arrived at the kerb a taxi was just dropping a fare and he dived into anonymity of the back seat while the cabby was giving the previous occupant his change.
“Where to then mate?” The cabby glanced back and then did a double take. “You know you’ve ripped your tie.”
Tony resisted a sarcastic answer and produced a pound.
“Take me to the nearest place where I can get a wash and brush up will you?”
The cabby looked surprised.
“But that is only just down the road, Guv, you hardly need a taxi.”
“Please,” said Tony, holding out the coin while looking anxiously back at the alleyway, “just drive.”
“OK mate. It’s your money.”
The cabby drove some fifty yards along the High Street and then stopped again. He pointed to some black iron railings that denoted the entrance to a Victorian underground lavatory.
“There you go then. Wish I had more customers like you.”
He leaned back and opened the rear door.
“Don’t forget your brief case and I should stay away from that one in future. Looks as though she’s a bit of a handful, or her old man is.”
This last was too much for Tony and he cracked. Muttering “Balls” under his breath he slammed the door as hard as he could and turned around to find himself face to face with a stout old lady carrying a Marks and Sparks bag. She had heard him swear and looked at him as if he was the scum of the earth as he scurried away down the steps of the underground convenience.
The washroom attendant was most helpful and produced a set of antique clothes brushes and a damp sponge to tidy up Tony’s suit and also a pair of scissors with which to remove the torn lining from his tie. While the man went about this work Tony washed his hands and face and used a paper towel to restore most of the shine to his scuffed shoes. At the end of ten minutes he looked reasonably presentable again and giving the attendant fifty pence he emerged back into the sunlight of the real world. He reflected that this was becoming a really expensive interview one way and another. Passing a post box he remembered the application he had written in the pub and after dropping it in, turned and headed back to the Major’s office.
This time when he rang the bell and entered the lobby he did not allow the door to close until he had located the whereabouts of the light switch. Switching the light on he then closed the front door. He was just about to put his foot on the first stair when the world was again plunged into darkness and the door at the top of the stairs opened a crack and then closed again. Thinking Miss Wright had
thought the stairs devoid of human life and the ringing of the bell the prank of some youngster; he groped his way back to the switch and clicked the light on again. He had taken one step towards the stairs when the light went out a second time. With one thing and another he’d had enough. This time he sat down on the bottom stair and waited. The door at the top of the stairs opened and a gasp of annoyance drifted down to him before it closed again. He sat tight. The light came on once more and still he did not move from his seat. He heard the door open and a grunt of satisfaction from the top of the stairs followed by a gasp as Miss Wright saw him sitting there.
“Mr Filton! What on earth are you doing there? Why didn’t you come up?”
He gave a small smile.
“Hello Miss Wright. I did try, honest Indian I did, but some one kept switching the light out.”
He indicated the front door.
“Have you ever thought about putting a small window in this? It could save someone’s life one day. Yours,” he thought, “if the next person is less patient than good old Tony”
She gave a nervous little smile.
“I was just coming down to meet you as we have to go to the Council Chambers for your interview. I am sorry about the muddle with the light and I will pass your idea on to the Major.”
This last remark made Tony wish he had kept his mouth shut. The Major did not look like the kind of man who took advice very well. He allowed Miss Wright to precede him out of the door and they both stood blinking in the bright June sunlight.
“This must be one the best Junes we have had for ten years,” she said. “I cannot remember the last time we had such a good start to the summer.”
He kept his answer short.
“Yes.” his mind was elsewhere. “I wonder what is wrong with Miss Wright that she hasn’t been Mrs Right by now? She must be in her mid Fifties although she is quite a pleasant soul. Maybe with her record of switching off lights at the wrong time no potential suitor ever lived long enough to marry her before breaking their necks on the stairs.”
He realised she was talking to him.
“So you see it will be quite a large panel.”
He came to with a bump as he realised that she had been talking to him for some time without him realising it.
“That is her problem then, totally and instantly forgettable.”
He made an effort to concentrate on what she was saying, but she had evidently finished for now. They had arrived at the main entrance to the Council Building and inside he was shown into a large sunlit room with full-length windows in which three other people were already sitting. In the manner of interviewees everywhere they studied him carefully without actually letting on that they were looking and he was acutely aware that his tie and shoes were not at their best. By some magic trick, as he entered the room and gave the other candidates the once over, Miss Wright had turned into a different woman. She was now about thirty, slim, blonde and exquisitely dressed, and looking much more like a professional secretary as she flourished a clipboard at him.
“Name please?”
The voice was cool and distant. Her realised the vision was addressing him with a look of impatience upon the exquisitely made up features.
“Filton, Mr Tony Filton”
He said it in a clear voice to impress upon the other candidates that here was a man who was not cowed by a little thing like an interview, even if his tie had seen better days.
“Please take a seat, Mr Filton, I am afraid we are running a little late, but the panel do hope to see everyone today.”
He was already walking towards a vacant chair when this last sentence stopped him in his tracks.
“Hope to see everyone today? Hope! How bloody late were they running?”
He turned.
“Miss!” but he was too late, the door was closing.
He thought about it and then decided he had enough for one day. No one was going to keep him hanging around on the chance they might interview him. He went in pursuit and caught up with her just as she entered an office marked, Rachel Watts, Admin Coordinator.
“Miss Watts!”
She turned and looked at him in surprise and then continued to her desk, not choosing to look at, or speak to him until she was seated behind the impressively large desk.
“Mrs Watts, and you are in the wrong room, Mr Filton. The other room is the waiting room.”
She turned her attention to the papers on her desk. He put as much sarcasm into his voice as he could manage.
“As I am not a total cretin, I do understand that, Mrs Watts.”
He emphasised the Mrs. She looked up at him as if this last statement had come as a surprise to her, but he ignored it and plunged on.
“What I want to know is an estimated time for my interview. I started this day at ten o’clock having been given the impression that I was only attending an informal first interview. I have now been in Taunton for four hours and if I am to spend even more time here I want to know that at some witching hour I am not going to be told to come back tomorrow.”
He took a deep breath and waited.
“Do you want me to remove your name from the list of candidates?”
She raised her eyebrows and gave him an interrogative little smile. He took another deep breath and counted slowly to ten, while he lowered himself into the chair in front of her and then he slowly let it out. He smiled back at her. One of the smiles he used to save for when he was telling the Shop Stewards Committee that the company could not comply with their requests on this occasion. He kept it there nice and neutral while he recalled the name on her door.
“Look, Rachel.” She stiffened at the use of her Christian name. “I realise that these confounded interviews have probably blown your whole timetable for today, but life is sometimes like that.”
He now gave her his what a reasonable guy I am smile.
“However, I would like some indication of whether or not I will be interviewed today and if so, at what time.”
The smile disappeared.
“Otherwise, when I am having a quiet drink in the pub tonight, I will have to tell Councillor Tenant just what a terrible day I have had. If you look at my application form you will see that he lives two doors from me.” He rose. “If you could bring me that information in the next ten minutes I will be in the waiting room with my fellow sufferers.”
Giving her a small nod of his head he turned and left. On the way down the corridor back to the waiting room he smiled as he remembered that the only time he and Councillor Tenant had ever exchange words had been a few years earlier, when he had told that gentleman that he would not be voting for his party and would he please keep his leaflet as he had all the waste paper he could use. He had never agreed with door to door canvassing and thought only someone as basically stupid as a politician could believe that it would actually make a favourable difference to the way people voted. The result was that the eminent County Councillor had never spoken to him again. Ah well! That would teach him not to disturb people in the middle of a World Cup match preview.
He had been back in the waiting room for just nine minutes when Mrs Watts came in. Without looking at anyone, she made an announcement in a voice that sounded as if the statement had been rung out of her.
“We have changed the timetable and Mr Filton will be next, on account his having another interview elsewhere, later on this afternoon.”
She turned and swept out of the room without another word before anyone could protest. The others glared at Tony, but nobody said anything. He felt cheerful for the first time since he had seen the Major in the pub and smiled back at them with some satisfaction.
The Building they were in was the usual neo-Edwardian style of all the council buildings in Taunton. High ceilings with full-length windows letting in the June sunshine were making the room extremely hot and Tony was glad when after five minutes Mrs Watts opened the door and called his name. He hadn’t heard anyone pronounce his name with that much loathing
since his Art teacher at school. She spun on her heel and strode of down the corridor at a rate of knots, forcing him to lengthen his stride to stay with her.
“The famous Filton charm didn’t work on this one, Tony, good job you’re not into blondes in a big way.”
She halted at a pair of large double doors and knocked. A male voice bade her to come in and she opened the door and announced him.
“Mr Filton.”
Tony walked into the room and Mrs Watts closed the door behind him. For the third time that day he thought his eyes were playing up. The only light came from the middle of the three full-length windows on the far side of the room, where the strips of sunlight coming through the Venetian blind illuminated a solitary chair. The other two windows had the heavy drapes firmly closed.
“Come in and take a seat, Mr Filton.”
The voice came from what looked like a row of shadows, but as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he could see they were a row of silhouettes sat behind a long crescent shaped table.
“There must be over a dozen of them,” he thought as he walked towards the chair and sat down. The blazing sunlight immediately blinded him, forcing him to squint in order to see at all. “Sod this!”
He stood up.
“Excuse me, but I am afraid that now the sun has come round a bit I cannot see any of you from here. May I move it back a few feet?”
He did so without waiting for an answer and then sat down again.
“That is better.”
It was, but not much. He was no longer blinded, but with the only light coming from behind them he could still not make out the features of the people in front of him, even to the extent of which were male or female.
“Are you ready now, Mr Filton?”
“Yes Chairman.”
“Right, let me introduce you to the Panel. On the far right is the Reverend Bartholomew. No Mr Filton, my right. Next to him is Mrs Babcock of Social Services....” and so it went on.
At the end of the interview Tony had no idea how he had got on as even without the sunshine directly in his face he could still not make out enough of the features of any the panel to get any clue to their reactions to his answers. He wondered if all the priests were Catholics and that they had set the interview up, yearning back to the days of the inquisition. He himself was a confirmed atheist, but he had seen enough films to know that the way this interview was being conducted was remarkably like a confessional. When it was over they thanked him and he had left. Mrs Rachel Watts studiously ignored him as he passed through the outer office on his way to the street.
“So, do you think you have a chance?”
Tas was sitting back in a deck chair on their small and totally enclosed lawn, sipping a glass of cold white wine and enjoying the warm evening sun.
“Damned if I know, Tas, it was such a weird day all around that I can’t really tell you how it went. After the morning and lunch time, not to mention an hour in Sainsbury’s on Pensioners Thursday, and you would not believe how vicious those little white haired old ladies can be when they are driving a shopping trolley, I was too shell shocked to really take it all in. You cannot imagine how strange it is to talk to people when you can’t see their faces clearly. You get no feedback at all.” He took a sip of his wine. “Still, I am not sure I will cry if I don’t get it. It seemed a really strange set up to me.”
“Perhaps that’s because its local government. You know what wallies they are. Sat in their nice safe jobs and spending our money while they jaunt off on their jolly ups to twinned towns.”
Tony switched off. On the subject of local government he knew Tas’ views backwards and felt he could safely drift away until she stopped talking without missing anything new. He noticed that the lawn needed cutting and that the fence could use another coat of preservative.
“So when will you know one way or another?”
Tas was back down from the hobbyhorse.
“By the end of next week, they said.”
“Well that is pretty quick compared to most of the interviews you’ve had. How many replies are you waiting for at the moment?”
“Three results of interviews, but this week I have put five more applications in the post.”
“Never mind then love, you are too bright not to get something soon. You will just have to be patient won’t you? Top my glass up, will you?”
She held out her glass, problem solved.
The Opportunities of Youth Page 3