by David Szalay
‘I mean, you know, soon.’ This does not seem to satisfy her. ‘A few weeks,’ he says.
‘In a few weeks! In a few weeks it’ll be almost February!’
‘Yes.’
‘And what about the February rent?’
He finds it extremely stressful to think so far ahead. He screws his face up, and puts a dry hand over his eyes. ‘We’re going to have to borrow money for that anyway,’ he says. ‘Whatever I do. Even if I started a new sales job the first week of January I wouldn’t have enough money by then. Unless you can pay it. I’ll pay you back, obviously.’
‘No, I can’t.’ She sounds upset, aghast.
He does not want to open his eyes. He says, ‘We’ll have to mortgage the car.’
Turning, then, to specific jobs he might do – what is there? He looks through the jobs section of a week-old paper, the Argus. Estate agent? No. One of the things that he is sure of is no sales, not in any form. He does not even want to work in a shop, the whole retail sector is out – no sales in any form. He does not want to mingle professionally with the money-spending public. Any non-sales but phone-based work – call centres, principally – he also excludes. It is thus a dispiriting experience to leaf through the jobs pages of the Argus; his no sales and no phones policies put a line through many of the jobs on offer, and his lack of any non-sales skills does for most of the others. There seems to be a number of openings for chefs, for instance. Not much use to him. Nor the vacancies for prison officers, driving instructors, typists, database analyst developers, dental nurses, roadside patrol mechanics or financial consultants. This last he looks at more closely, but it is not for him. Not only does it turn out to be a straightforward sales job – a ‘target-driven environment’, as the text of the ad delicately puts it – but it requires him to have ‘plenty of drive and a proven track record in selling financial products’, to be ‘a great communicator and relationship-builder’, and to hold ‘qualifications FPC 1–3 or equivalent’.
More or less the only job which he feels would be suitable – and that only because it does not specify any necessary qualities, skills or qualifications, except in the very vaguest terms – is ‘Purchase Ledger Clerk’.
We are currently recruiting an Accounts Assistant to join the small and friendly finance team of this busy public sector organisation. Reporting to the Finance Manager you will be responsible for purchase invoices. A minimum of a year’s experience in a similar role is desirable. Applicants should be enthusiastic and have good attention to detail. The client offers an excellent basic salary and an attractive benefits package as well as the opportunity to work in a positive and supportive environment.
Heather, who was not at all satisfied with the outcome of their talk, is on edge and suspicious, and prods him with pointed looks and impatient sighs whenever she sees him doing anything other than finding a job – watching the tail end of Christmas TV, for instance, or putting his jacket on to take Oli to the snooker club. Several times a day she seeks progress updates, and he tells her, with increasing irritation, not to expect anything to happen before the new year. ‘But you’re not even trying,’ she says, a shrill, despairing note to her voice.
‘I am. I’ve already applied for a job.’
She shakes her head incredulously. ‘What?’
‘Purchase Ledger Clerk,’ Paul mutters, walking out the door and telling himself that he must send his application tomorrow.
Life is pervaded by a sense of financial emergency. The new television was taken back to Dixons. ‘God that was embarrassing,’ Heather said, as they emerged from the shop onto Western Road, which was thronged, like North Street and Churchill Square, with impatient shoppers, struggling for their share of the sales. She had spent the whole twenty minutes they were in the shop under a crimson blush, her hair curtaining her face as she filled in the forms. She said that the money from the TV would be reserved for the February rent, the council tax, for bills – for all of Paul’s liabilities going forward. They went to Sainsbury’s. No luxury products were on the menu now. Instead the trolley was piled with basics in their no-nonsense livery, extra value multipacks and special offers. It was almost fun – like an old-fashioned game show – trying to pile up as much food for as little money as possible. The children, in particular, participated with enthusiasm, even questioning the necessity of many items, until they started to get on the adults’ nerves. And having at least a week’s supply of food stashed in the house seemed to stabilise the situation. There was something atavistic about the way that the food made everything seem more secure. Even Heather seemed to feel relaxed – she gently green-lighted a four-pack of Carling for Paul, and it was at her insistence that they bought a bottle of cava for New Year’s Eve.
What is it about ‘Purchase Ledger Clerk’ that fills him with fear and despondency? As he haltingly types a CV on Oli’s computer, wondering how many years of previous clerking experience to bestow on himself, Paul feels a massive lack of enthusiasm for the role. Filing invoices, filing bills – despite the vision of secure public-sector drudgery, there is something wrong with it. It is not the drudgery he minds. The drudgery is fine. More than fine – he is in a state in which the thought of it elicits strange little pangs of ecstasy. No, it is not that. It is the environment of ‘Purchase Ledger Clerk’ which depresses him. It will certainly take place in a grey-carpeted office with desks and ceiling panels and office equipment in neutral plastic tones. He will wear his suit. And somehow the fact that he will be filing invoices troubles him too. Leaving his half-made CV on the screen, he goes downstairs for a cigarette.
The children do not seem to understand what has happened. Or if Oli does, since it has nothing to do with snooker, it does not seem especially of interest to him. He has not said anything, or asked any questions. Of course, that may be because he senses that Paul does not want to talk about it – that it would be painful and embarrassing for him to do so; which it would be – he is embarrassed, the sense of ignominious failure is sharp, and he knows that it will be worse in the new year when instead of returning to work, he is still haunting the house in jeans and a jumper, typing CVs, and poking around in the kitchen for some lunch. He thinks of his own father – how he lost his managerial job and became a coach driver. Paul did not think less of him. Of course not. Or did he? Did he in fact, in some way, think less of him? Perhaps he did. Did he suddenly seem pitiable, impotent, small in a way that he had not until then? That he took his fate with stiff dignity did not make him seem any less diminished. Yes, he seemed diminished, and Paul senses that Oli’s perception of him is already drifting in a similar direction. The boy’s sense of status, of society, is sufficiently sharp – it is that after all, more than anything else, that he is learning at school – to notice that, in those terms, Paul has taken a knock.
Oli is watching television. ‘Have you finished with the computer?’ he says huskily, still staring at the screen.
‘Er, not yet,’ Paul says. ‘I’m taking a break. Go ahead and use it if you want.’
Oli shakes his head. ‘S’all right.’
Paul stands there for a few moments, pretending to follow what is on the TV, then goes to the kitchen and takes one of the Carlings from the fridge. He has thought a lot, since Boxing Day, about the Buddhist monks of Dharamsala who live by repairing motorbikes and cars. That is the sort of thing he has in mind. Useful simple manual work. Is it important that it is manual work, physical labour? Somehow it is. That seems to be part of the problem with ‘Purchase Ledger Clerk’. He wants no involvement, not even the most menial, with the workings of the money machine. That is precisely what he does not want. Though he had promised himself not to do so until the CV is finished, he breaks open the can of Carling and swigs at it thirstily. He does not want a job, he thinks – pleased with his precise semantic distinction – so much as work.
Perhaps it is simply the specificity of ‘Purchase Ledger Clerk’ that has extinguished his eagerness. Might not any such work, in all its drea
ry specifications, have the same effect? And more menial jobs, even more so? The old edition of the Argus is on the kitchen table, and to test this, he sits down with his lager and looks at it again. If he is really so keen on something of utter meniality – if ‘Purchase Ledger Clerk’ is too serious, too white-collar – then let him see how he responds to what is on offer for the semiliterate. There seems, however, to be very little on offer for them in the Argus. The jobs advertised there include secretaries and receptionists and sous-chefs and sales assistants, but nothing in the way of unskilled manual labour. Disappointed – more than that, starting to get depressed – he sits back and lights a cigarette.
He is drinking the second can of Carling when Oli comes into the kitchen. ‘Have you finished with the computer now?’ he asks.
‘Yeah. Yeah, I have, Oli. Thanks.’
Oli spins on his heel and leaves.
He will finish the CV in the morning. There will be time to do it then. It is early evening, dark outside. Though it is Wednesday, it feels like Sunday. He drops the empty can into the bin and goes to the fridge for the next.
In the morning a letter snaps through the front door. He recognises the handwriting. It is from his mother, and he knows what it will be – a thank-you note for Christmas. It was, she says, ‘wonderful’, its setting his ‘lovely home’, where she had ‘so much enjoyed’ meeting Heather’s ‘wonderful’ parents. He smiles, touched. Also perturbed. It makes him sad, this sense that his mother is just a little insane. Why does she always have to overstate everything? It just makes it all seem even worse than it is. There is a PS – ‘I enclose Dad’s latest PUBLISHED work!’ He looks in the envelope. There is a narrow strip of newspaper with a Post-it note stuck to it – Bucks Advertiser, 30 December 2004. Presumably a slow day for local news.
‘Gardens’
A few stalks of corn.
A cherry tree.
Muttering sprinkler.
Deep shade in the botanical gardens.
All the exotic flora
looks quite ordinary.
Window –
the garden looks dreary
on a wet December afternoon.
Pigeons feeding,
rustling unseen
in the foliage of the big tree.
Why had he not thought of it until now? All his life, he has watched with envy from the insides of schoolrooms, of offices, while gardeners tasked outside in the fresh.
12
DECEMBER, OF COURSE, is not the most opportune time to be looking for work in the horticultural sector. This does not even occur to Paul as he strolls to the newsagent for the Argus. It is a sunny day, seagulls wheeling clamorously overhead, and he wishes that he could immerse himself in some planting immediately, without delay. He imagines surveying the finished work with healthful satisfaction, enjoying a well-earned smoke. Or some tree surgery – harnessed high up the great trunk, wearing earmuffs and goggles, making delicate adjustments with a chainsaw … The feeling of freedom, this time from the unsatisfactory world of ‘Purchase Ledger Clerk’, is almost equal to what he experienced in the course of his afternoon in the Albert. ‘It’s a fucking nice day,’ he says to Heather, smiling. She looks at him strangely, perhaps suspicious of his unaccountably happy mood. ‘Yeah it’s nice,’ she says, returning her attention to her magazine. She is sitting at the kitchen table in her dressing gown, an empty coffee cup before her. Paul starts to unload his shopping – Danish bacon, eggs, sliced white bread, a large can of baked beans. Her head still bent over the magazine, Heather watches him with slight anxiety. When he starts whistling, she says, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yeah. Do you want a fried breakfast, full English?’
She shakes her head. ‘No.’
He takes out the frying pan and cuts a large wedge of butter into its shallow Teflon base, then, setting it over the gas, starts to open the bacon. He has decided that, after applying for all the gardening jobs in the paper, he will go out and take his own little garden in hand – he does not know why he has not done it before. For that – for a morning’s work in the sharp air – he will need a good breakfast. While everything is cooking, he opens the Argus. Unsurprisingly, on the last day of December, the jobs section is extremely slim, and that there is even one gardening job advertised in this midwinter limbo is extraordinary, providential. Paul is nevertheless disappointed. When he has searched through the whole section several times, he comes back to the lone horticultural vacancy. The employer is Brighton and Hove Council. ‘We are seeking to appoint a permanent gardener to undertake duties such as grass cutting, hedge trimming and street sweeping using a variety of powered hand tools and light plant (ride-on mowers). Successful applicants will also provide assistance to higher graded gardeners in more skilled tasks.’ The salary, he notices, is inadequate even for his minimal needs, but he ignores this for the time being. What troubles him more is the mention of ‘street sweeping’, which does not seem to square with the sort of work – the sort of life – that he is imagining.
The newspaper directs him to a website for further information, and after breakfast and a rolled cigarette, he goes upstairs and knocks on Oliver’s bedroom door. In his pyjamas, Oliver is listlessly surfing the Internet. ‘Um, Oli,’ Paul says. ‘Mind if I use the Net quickly? It’s quite important.’ Without saying anything, Oli stands up and leaves the room. ‘Thanks, mate,’ Paul says. Two-fingered, he types in the address from the Argus. There is a PDF document several pages long about the gardener job, and he opens it and scrolls through it on the screen. The opening statement sounds promising – ‘Overall purpose of job: to undertake grounds maintenance/horticultural work in public parks, playing fields, cemeteries and crematoria, landscaped areas and similar open spaces.’ There follows a list of specific duties. Some of these he likes the sound of, such as ‘grass cutting, hedge trimming, clearing of leaves, planting, pruning, and seeding’. Others he does not – ‘patrol and attendance duties, including the issuing of tickets and the maintenance of orderly conduct by the public’. And some he does not understand – ‘to ensure that all relevant aspects of the documented quality system are followed in practice and that the defined standards and level of performance are consistently complied with’. Still, he understands that they have to spell everything out, even if the job is mostly simple gardening. There are, however, some other potential problems. Although not an essential requirement, applicants with a full driving licence and ‘previous experience of triple-mower driving’ are particularly welcome, and he has neither. Then there is the importance of ‘basic horticultural experience, ability and knowledge’. Also, technical skill in the use of tools and equipment. Starting to sweat, he scrolls on.
The next page – ‘ALL OF THE FOLLOWING ARE PRESENT IN THE NORMAL WORKING ENVIRONMENT’ – seems specifically designed to dissuade fantasists and other frivolous applicants from taking things any further.
ALL OF THE FOLLOWING ARE PRESENT IN THE NORMAL WORKING ENVIRONMENT
EXPOSURE TO ALL TYPES OF WEATHER. Exposure to the weather is constant, from freezing cold and wet conditions to dusty and dry, and working in the heat of the sun. In the summer there is risk of sunburn, and in winter blisters, falls and respiratory problems.
HAZARDOUS EQUIPMENT. Constant use of hazardous equipment. Examples are mowers, strimmers, hedge cutters, saws, etc.
TOXIC CHEMICALS. Regular work with toxic chemicals such as pesticides, marking fluids, herbicides, etc.
LITTER/WASTE. All litter must be removed from public areas prior to and whilst gardening. NB This may include handling contaminated waste, dirty syringes, animal excrement, etc.
MEMBERS OF THE PUBLIC. Members of the public can also be a potential risk should they become abusive or violent. The possibility of violent or aggressive behaviour.
DOG ATTACK. When working in parks or other open spaces there is always a risk of dog attack.
Stony-faced, he stares at the screen.
No. No, this determined miserabilism does not provid
e a true picture of the normal working environment – which is not an unending nightmare of dogshit and hooded youths, plastic tubs of poison and fatal triple-mower accidents. These things feature occasionally, of course – it would be naive not to understand that. But he has seen council gardeners at work, seen them lazily clipping hedges and mowing lawns unmolested in the sun. The page is obviously a sort of test – and also, of course, a near-hysterical attempt to head off future litigation.
He scrolls down to the final page. This is a table of, in one column ‘essential’ and in another ‘desirable’, experience, qualifications, skills and ‘personal qualities’. First, he looks quickly through the ‘essential’ column. Everything seems to be in order there, with the possible exception of ‘basic horticultural experience and knowledge’. He turns then to ‘desirable’. Here he does not fare so well. ‘Experience of using and maintaining small mechanised plant.’ Unfortunately not. ‘Full driving licence (covering vehicles up to five tonnes).’ No. ‘Horticultural qualifications.’ None to speak of. He hopes, however, that his strong showing on the only other item in the column – ‘Conversant with the geographical area’ – will to some extent offset his weaknesses elsewhere. And with the strong sense that things could have been worse, he starts to fabricate an apt CV.
Doug Woburn, who occupies a position – Paul is not sure what – in the parks and open spaces section of the council environment direct orate, was not initially an intimidating figure. With the shapeless khaki bag of his suit, he wore a burgundy shirt and a turquoise tie, and even Paul thought it a strikingly unsuccessful ensemble. Though probably not much over forty, Woburn’s hair is entirely white, styled like a Roman emperor’s, and his face unusually soft and pink.