by Geoff Ryman
Contents
223
PROFESSOR DIONNE BUTLER
Outward appearance
Elegant, but slightly down-at-heel, black woman about 45. Very tall, so her long brown flared trousers extend into the aisle, showing thick-heeled but scuffed shoes. Huge, new fawn anorak, low-cut black sweater.
Inside information
American academic and ex-student of Angela Davis’s at UCLA. Dionne emigrated to Nigeria ten years ago and now teaches at the University of Lagos. In London at the invitation of SOAS to lecture on African literature. En route to visit MOMI.
What she is doing or thinking
Since getting on at Kilburn, Dionne has had her eye on the old lady in the corner, who kept looking around her, horror stricken. She has just stood up and asked a young man to dance. People’s faces froze, they looked away. Oh come on, she just wants some life! She hasn’t asked you for money. People cough and shift.
Then the woman starts to sing: ‘Is that all there is?’ and Dionne understands.
Dionne first heard the song when she was seventeen, and it seemed then to sum up America; something sad and disaster-bound about it. Even then, it was the loneliest country in the world. One reason why she lives in Africa.
And people look as if the poor old dear has said something obscene. She’s singing!
Dionne stands up, and with her strong clear voice, joins in. Her eyes fix all the frightened people in turn. ‘Everybody!’ Dionne shouts and links arms with the old woman, who looks up at her with comprehending gratitude.
The young man bows. The dance begins.
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224
MRS LOUISA BALBROUGH
Outward appearance
Craggy woman with cropped grey hair. Her trousers are tartan in front, yellow with red polka dots in back. Wistfully reading a yellowed letter.
Inside information
Antiques dealer returning from Camden Passage. Divorced, recently lifted up by a love affair with a tall, craggy man called Peter Wolffe. Her father, an ex-Army officer, recently died, leaving her his letters.
What she is doing or thinking
Reading words written in 1946 from Germany to her mother.
My darling, I’m so proud of you and baby Louisa. The photograph is beautiful. We are still sweeping up the mess made by this war but I will be home soon.
There is one thing darling I never told you. I have another child, a son. His mother asked me to help; she could not stand her husband, who does not know. I’ve never seen the little fellow, but both of us need to remember, for Louisa’s sake, that his name is Peter Wolffe.
Louisa had never experienced anything like meeting Peter. His rangy body, the life etched into his face—she saw him and thought: That’s the one’. Peter said later he felt the same thing.
It’s the Siegmund Syndrome—in the Wagner opera a brother and sister meet for the first time and abandon the law from love. Peter lives simply in East Anglia, selling smoked fish. She wants to live there with him.
Louisa watches dancing people. She thinks: I’m 50; there can be no children, there are no Gods to enrage. She folds the letter away, smiles, and joins the party.
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225
MR HENRY GIDDING
Outward appearance
Scuffed boots, jeans with an open fly over another pair of jeans, bumfreezer jacket over thick Aran-isle sweater, knitted hat, creased face, black beard. Head thrown back. Snoring loudly.
Inside information
Display Operative for EyeFeast Ltd. He puts up three-sided outdoor rotating signs. They come in nearly one hundred separately printed slats, about nine foot high by four inches wide. He and his mate Mark usually do ten a day.
They have spent the last two days doing the same one. And the last two nights doing the other nineteen.
What he is doing or thinking
Seeing slats in his dreams. Over and over, he and Mark have tried to assemble the three-sided sign. It’s like a giant jigsaw that won’t come right.
One of the ads is for the National Power/Powergen sale of remaining shares. ‘An impressive release of power,’ it says, over a volcanic eruption, all red and black speckly bits that are absolutely indistinguishable. On the back of that is, ‘Share the power’—a clever tie-in from the Billericay who are a share shop for the offer. It’s all red and black too.
In his dream, it’s bloody cold on the scaffolding and he keeps dropping the slats. They fall and impale passers-by.
Then Nick Berry, Britain’s highest paid television actor, steps in, dressed as a bobby. He starts passing Henry the slats in the right order, and Henry sees that yes, for real, this is the right order.
Then someone shouts, ‘Everybody!’ With a snort he wakes.
The right order scatters.
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226
MRS GEMMA CARTY
Outward appearance
Woman in mid-thirties. Fawns, pinks, browns merge to form a business-like presentation. Orange lipstick matches her short hair. Reading a document, shaking her head slightly.
Inside information
Conference Director of the Britannia Club. Gemma balances the needs of Club members with sales to other customers. She referees when catering, marketing, AV, and finance all disagree.
What she is doing or thinking
Currently reading minutes taken by her new secretary and pondering the mysteries of the human mind. She was told that Suschita, an Indian girl adopted by Swiss parents,1 would be a very thorough notetaker and not to be alarmed by her methods. Gemma was appalled at the first monthly sales meeting. Suschita spent the entire time drawing circles, arrows, zig-zags, and Dumbo the flying elephant. Her ex-employer Mrs Hofer soothed Gemma’s fears.
And here are the minutes, typed from circles and arrows.
Mr Gestetner emphasized that the brief for the new audio visual equipment was a matter for the presentations team. Miss Buxton replied that it was typical of the AV team to try to do marketing; Mr Gestetner replied that it was typical of marketing to think that equipment did not need specification. Mrs Carty resolved the issue by deciding to include marketing in the tender team.
Gemma can’t send that to people. It’s too accurate.
People on the carriage begin to sing and dance. There are puppets and party favours. Getting out at Waterloo, Gemma thinks: what a strange and miraculous species we are.
Then she thinks: I’ll send it just as it is.
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Another helpful and informative 253 footnote
1. The real Suschita Jungblot was murdered a few days before 11th January, 1995 in the town of Dunstable. She was a twenty-year-old au pair studying English with the Hofers. In this fictional world, things worked out differently.
227
MS ELSPETH WORLIDGE
Outward appearance
Very suitable girl, dressed like an ad for sherry in a 1967 Sunday Telegraph colour supplement. Hermès scarf tucked around neck, yellowish blouse, carefully combed brown hair, simple black business suit, clean coat with fake fur collar. She stares ahead frozen in horror, her freckled hand jammed into her orderly hair.
Inside information
PA to the Director, Public Sector Services of Dun and Old, the accountancy and business consultancy.
What she is doing or thinking
Everything has just fallen into place. The tenders for consultancies to the nearly innumerable government bodies (4,000 on their mailing list) fall like autumn leaves onto her desk. They want corporate strategies, sales strategies, efficiency savings, marketing plans. She photocopies the documents and sends them to the same ten people in Dun and Old, and sets up a tender meeting. Sometimes she reads them.
The tender in her bag is headlined ‘General Policy Direction and Application: tender for long-term consultancy and evaluation contract.’
She read it
several times before it made any sense. It kept talking about long-term targeting, horizontal and vertical analysis followed up by monitoring and corrective actions.
The sense it has just made to her is this: the governance of Britain has been put out to tender to the private sector. The United Kingdom will be run by a consultancy. No wonder Dun and Old has built a mini-Whitehall just across the river. No wonder her boss danced a little jig and then rang to thank Larry.
They are in competition with three other companies. Are any of them European?
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228
MISS BECKY PATTERSON
Outward appearance
Raw-boned, hearty girl wearing an iridescent jacket in a pattern of roses and leaves. Glossy peppermint-pink lipstick. Lady Di honey hair, grey slacks, red sweater. Takes out a torch from her bag, rifles through jump leads, and takes out a wiring diagram.
Inside information
Daughter of third-generation Zimbabwe farmers, with a degree in Tibetan. Assistant librarian in the British Library’s oriental collection near Blackfriars. Planning the rewiring of the flat she has just moved into with her partner Bill, a burly schoolteacher.
What she is doing or thinking
Bill turned out to be English, after all. He’s so wimpish about everything. She’ll have to do the rewiring herself. He’s scared and wants an electrician.
It’s like their bathwater. All she says is that it’s wasteful to use the water only once. He gets to be first; and she’s stopped using it a third time for the dishes. If only he’d remember to use biodegradable soap, like he promised, she could use it to water the basil.
He’s never had to transport all his water by truck in barrels. He’s never had to save and reuse everything. Why not reuse good fat? All the different things it’s cooked add to the flavour.
She admits: it was a shame about the mouse. OK, so it fell into the fat jar and she didn’t find it until months later. Doesn’t he know what gives wine its bouquet?
That’s the trouble with Westerners; they’re just too clean. They don’t develop their immune systems.
She sniffs, having decided how to rewire the flat.
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229
MRS NANCY KRESS
Outward appearance
Checked jacket, white shirt, long red dress. Reads The Telegraph with beady focus. Her blue shoes are patchy with stains.
Inside information
Customer liaison at IBM, mother of three, proud cook. Nancy’s life is a whirlwind.
What she is doing or thinking
Maybe she’s doing too much.
The kids had finished their breakfast, Bill had taken them to school, she had her car keys in her hand, about to go, when she saw that a jar from last night’s marmalade session was still unlidded. She screwed on the lid, and held the jar up to the light.
Baking the jar sterile must have cracked the glass. The bottom fell out. Marmalade poured over her keys, her suit, her shoes, the floor.
To sweep it up would ruin her broom. She tried pushing the dustpan into it, which was only partially successful. She went to get newspapers and heard the kiss of sticky shoes on carpet.
She took off her shoes and cut her foot on broken glass. Scraped up jam as best she could, flooded the floor with water, and covered it with newspaper to soak it up. Went off to change clothes and stanch bleeding.
Came back to find that the mixture of marmalade and water had flyposted the newspapers to the pine floor. Used the egglifter to scrape them up.
Ran to car, and jammed keys into the ignition along with a chunk of orange peel. Abandoned car.
She has just remembered that she didn’t have time to wash the jars. The marmalade will taste of homemade pickled onions.
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230
MR GRAHAM WADDLE
Outward appearance
About 26, skinny, spotty, with a big nose, no chin, and huge teeth that threaten constantly to push his mouth into a smile.
Inside information
Van driver for Buntleys Coachworks. Very quietly keeps the company functioning. Its stock control system is faulty: the computer system needs too much feeding. Graham knows what parts are running low and what is being repaired, and collects what’s needed before it’s even ordered. Gives staff and customers lifts, deals with the MD.
What he is doing or thinking
Never a dull moment at Buntleys. Graham needs the loading bay for the van, but Mr Gray parks there overnight. Graham just has to laugh. The number of times he’s pulled in with part of a chassis, or an exhaust, only to find Mr Gray’s car there.
Graham’s become quite an expert on the MD’s movements. He says he’s popping out for a sandwich, but takes his car. One lunchtime, Graham saw the MD’s car parked in a residential street in Clapham. That would be some sandwich.
The two black guys who’d had their car kicked in: Mr Gray told Andy to use an old panel. Graham slipped Andy a new one instead. He saw Mr Gray filch Andy’s lighter out of his bag. And there was that joke on Pru.
So all in all, Graham’s decided. If Mr Gray says he’s going out for a sandwich, Graham will follow him. And if he goes to some bird’s house, Graham will make sure the lads all know.
And he’ll ask Andy if he got his lighter back.
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231
MR THOMAS MILEY
Outward appearance
Casual labourer? Striped shirt, bulging tummy, jeans, orange anorak, thinning hair. Reading some kind of briefing document. Sticker on brown briefcase says ‘Temporary Pass London Weekend Television.’
Inside information
A professional mentor. He coaches middle managers, giving them advice on office politics or career strategy. To do that he must gain access to their places of employment in the guise of being a potential customer or supplier. Currently pretending to be a camera assistant in order to advise a producer at LWT. The terrible truth is, the producer isn’t very good.
What he is doing or thinking
Reviewing the proposed charter for a new professional body: the Institute of Mentoring (‘to guide, advise, and nurture’). Some thorny professional issues are being faced.
If a Member discovers that mentoring one individual brings the Member into the position of potentially advising against the interest of another client, the case will be referred to a second Member.
Members are encouraged to become experts in the cultures of particular companies. This is to limit the need to access company realities under false pretences.
The bloody puritans are saying that the clients should openly introduce their Mentors to the company. But the whole point for clients is that their Mentor is a secret weapon. And, they’re ashamed of needing one.
If the Institute tries to make Mentoring open, it will create a second, secret profession. Like Thomas, it will gain entry under false pretences.
On the other hand, how else are they to get a Royal patron?
And what is he going to tell his client?
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232
MR PETER MORSE
Outward appearance
Young black man. Hair close-cropped in zig-zag patterns. Under an index finger, he hides a grin.
Inside information
Dishwasher at the lower staff canteen in Pall Mall Oil. Peter fires a hose of steaming water at the crocks before they’re run through the main dishwashers.
Mr Cerbasi, the manager, has been trying to take the canteen upmarket. Customers can see into the dishroom. The dishroom staff talk and joke. That is not upmarket. So Cerbasi has put a bloody great chunk of lavender plywood across the tray window.
This reduced the space through which dirty dishes can be pushed by about two-thirds. Instead of resting on shelves, they avalanche either forwards into the dishroom or back over the canteen floor. An
d since there is no flow of air, the dishroom is a regular 45 degrees.
What he is doing or thinking
Yesterday, Peter heard a crash of trays the other side of the window. Mr Cerbasi, fat and pale, ran in, grabbed the hose and tried to prove that if you worked in a continual panic, you could, just about, keep up with all the trays. Sweat poured off him.
Peter shrugged, walked off, peed, and came back.
‘Where were you?’ Cerbasi demanded.
‘I’m allowed to pee,’ Peter replied. Cerbasi left.
Inspiration struck and, to the tune from Handel’s Messiah, Peter began to sing, ‘Hallelujah! Cerbasi! Cerbasi! Hallelujah!’ Everyone in the dishroom joined in. It was quite merry. Then Peter rang the Health and Safety Executive and shopped the canteen.
He’s looking forward to today’s talk with Cerbasi.