Super Short Stories

by Stan Mason

  ‘But what about the work-force needed... and the wages? Do you know, if I had any money I’d take you out to dinner tonight.’

  ‘A factory costing that much would need about eight hundred workers, I suppose. If you multiply the wages of one worker by eight hundred plus the rent - unless you buy the factory - the cost of the cloth, electricity, and delivery charges you’re probably close to the answer. All the management can be done from here. There’s also government grants for new factories, you know. I was typing something the other day about that. Look, I’m only a temporary typist from an agency here with a few days to go. Find an estate agent in the north-east and ask him to find a site. Then get a local architect. They know all the builders in the area. It’s no big deal! Now will you let me get on with my work!’

  ‘Just one more thing,’ related the young clerk, his heart resting in his mouth. ‘Will you sign this recommendation for me? Please!’ He turned to Dekker for confirmation. ‘Don’t you think she’s beautiful? Wouldn’t you take her to dinner if you had the money?’

  The messenger boy looked up at the ceiling not wishing to become involved. As far as he was concerned girls and women were people to avoid at all costs.

  Rosalie looked at Wayne tiredly. ‘O.K., O.K.,’ she told him tiredly. ‘I’ll sign anything to get some peace!’ She picked up a pen from the desk and signed the document quickly. ‘Now will you get out of here!’

  Wayne was euphoric. He put his arm round her and gave her a passionate kiss on the cheek. ‘I mean it... you’re beautiful!’ he said enthusiastically and walked out of the room as though floating on air. Thereafter, he sat at his desk and wrote a note outlining the suggestions made by the temporary typist. When he had finished, he winked at Dekker and moved a thumb in the direction of Ms. Williams’ office. They went inside but the room was empty. Wayne moved behind her desk and sat in her chair, swivelling from side to side, pretending to be an executive. To Dekker’s surprise, his confidence still remained at that audacious level when the prickly-tongued woman returned. ‘What are my chances of promotion, Ms. Williams?’ he asked cheekily, reluctant to move from her seat.

  ‘Get out of my chair, you pint-sized pimple-faced jerk!’ she ordered, allowing him to obey the command at his own speed. ‘You have as much chance of promotion as reaching Mars! Take my word for it!’ She took the report from his grasp and read his hand-written notes. Then her face tightened as she glanced at the last page of the document. ‘You haven’t signed it!’

  ‘I thought you’d notice that,’ he laughed, with an impish smile on his face. ‘It’s a photostat copy. I’ve put the signed original in a very safe place.’

  ‘You little rat!’ she spat, realising his intentions. ‘Blackmail! I knew you were rotten to the core!’

  ‘Don’t take the narrow view, Ms. Williams,’ he returned calmly. ‘Look at the wider situation. I could be very useful to the company if I was promoted to Production.’

  She considered the matter briefly. It was almost possible to see the wheels of her mind in action as she analysed the situation. ‘All right, you worm!’ she agreed. ‘It’s a deal. It’s worth it just to see the back of you!’

  He smiled like the cat that got the cream. ‘Great!’ he whooped excitedly. ‘But you’re going to think very poorly of me. You see, trust is so much better when it’s evident on paper. If you could write a note confirming my promotion... and sign it... I would have some security. Just in case you changed your mind. Not that you would of course! You know in my heart I trust you.’

  The discussion became irate and volatile at that point. Dekker had never heard a lady business executive swear before. But he took the view that he was there to learn... and there was good and bad in everything. Ultimately, the exchange was made, whereby the note relating to Wayne’s promotion and the signed report of the PLC, together with the duplicate copy, moved across the desk in opposite directions simultaneously. Apparently, one of the most important things to be learned in business was never to trust anyone... not even yourself! After the exchange had been made, Ms. Williams dismissed Wayne without delay and pointed a finger at the messenger boy to indicate that she wanted him to stay. Presumably, she regarded him as an independent witness in the proceedings. She wasted no time in calling Brian Cole on the intercom, commanding him to attend her office immediately. He came storming in, holding a handkerchief to his nose to prevent himself from sneezing.

  ‘How dare you command me to come to your office!’ he croaked. ‘I’m your senior manager. I’m the one who gives orders to you, not the other way around!’

  ‘Never mind that!’ she retorted acidly. ‘I want to discuss my promotion as Personal Assistant to the Marketing Director.’

  ‘Personal Assistant to...’ his voice failed as a look of amazement crossed his face. ‘Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘I’m a reasonable candidate. You know that. All you have to do is to recommend me for the appointment.’

  She handed him the report which he recognised instantly. Without hesitating, he turned and left the room, glancing at her contemptuously as he chuckled to himself with the prize in his hand. ‘Promotion as Personal Assistant to the Marketing Director,’ he laughed. ‘No chance!’ Ms. Williams remained unperturbed and waited calmly in the short silence that prevailed. Then there was a mighty roar and the door burst open as Brian Cole returned in fury.

  ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he demanded. ‘This recommendation isn’t signed!’

  ‘The document in your possession is only a copy. The original, duly signed, has been reposited in a safe place. But if you want to do a deal... .’ she tailed off, hardly needing to explain any further.

  ‘I was warned about women like you!’ he muttered unhappily. ‘My mother warned me! I suppose if you don’t get the PA job in Marketing I don’t get the signed recommendation. Do you know I could fire you for this!’ He pointed the index finger of his right hand directly at Dekker. ‘And there’s my witness!’

  ‘O.K. Fire me!’ she bluffed. ‘Then you’ll have to sign the recommendation yourself. No one else is going to put their neck on the line for you. It’s your decision entirely.’

  He shrugged his shoulders defeatedly. ‘I’ll do my best for you,’ he said insincerely, before being plagued by an attack of coughing, raising his eyebrows in surprise as she thrust a sheet of paper in front of him.

  ‘I know you’ll think poorly of me,’ she began, ‘but trust is so much better when it’s evident on paper. If you sign a note confirming my promotion you’ll get the signed recommendation. It’s a fair exchange. I mean, you know in my heart I trust you.’

  The air went blue again, this time embellished with coughs, sneezes, wheezes, and croaks. Eventually, when anger had been expended and the protests faded away, Brian Cole wrote the note and left with the signed PLC, and the photocopy, in his possession. He beckoned to Dekker before he left the room who followed him diligently to his uncle’s office. With great aplomb, Cole placed the copy document on the desk in front of the Managing Director. ‘Before I release this recommendation,’ he spluttered in a ham-fisted manner, ‘I want to throw my hat into the ring for the appointment of Senior Executive of the U.K. Division.

  Reed stared at him blankly. ‘Didn’t you read the last policy memo on personnel and promotion?’ he challenged.

  ‘Of course I did!’ boasted Cole. ‘I was the one who wrote it!’

  ‘Sometimes Brian you’re not for real. You write a memo to tell employees that the company has placed a ‘freeze’ on promotion and then you apply for promotion yourself. Don’t you think tactics like that are a little sneaky?’ Reed picked up the report and glanced at the last page. ‘This hasn’t been signed,’ he added.

  ‘That’s right,’ came the reply. ‘What you have is a copy. The signed original is in a safe place.’

  Reed’s face turned bright red and the hackle
s on his neck began to rise. ‘If this is blackmail, Brian, you’ll be out of this company before your feet can touch the ground!’ He paused to consider for a moment. ‘No... I know it isn’t anything ugly like that. So here’s your copy back. Now... if you’ll let me have the original... PDQ... I’ll take it in to HM!’ He stared at his assistant who seemed rooted to the chair. ‘Is something wrong?’

  Cole shook his head in disbelief. ‘Strange!’ he muttered almost incoherently. ‘It seemed to work for everyone else!’

  And there it was! A PLC signed off by Rosalie Thompson, the temporary typist, on its way to the office of the Chief Executive. Unbelievably, no one seemed concerned as long as there was a signature at the foot of the project document... and someone to blame!

  Ten minutes later, Dekker accompanied his uncle to the Chief Executive’s office and watched him place the report on the old man’s desk. ‘All signed, sealed and delivered, HM,’ he crowed. ‘The project is recommended and it’s signed off.’

  ‘Fantastic!’ interjected Suzie. She was sitting on a chair poised to take dictation and her skirt had risen to her thighs. Three pairs of eyes gazed intently at her long, slender attractive legs. ‘As it’s such a big project, we ought to throw a party to celebrate the birth of the new factory.’

  ‘A great idea!’ concurred Hardwick Mayer III. ‘Suzie, I don’t know how you come up with all these ideas! We’ll throw an office party tomorrow to celebrate. Invite all the directors, the executives, their secretaries, the clerks and the typists.’

  ‘What about the temporary typists?’ asked Suzie.

  ‘There’s only one,’ replied Reed. ‘Rosalie Thompson, from the agency. She’s only employed here until the end of the week.’

  The old man pulled a wry face and shrugged. ‘Aw well,’ he commented uncharitably. ‘Don’t bother to invite her. She’s not involved. She wouldn’t know what it was all about anyway.’

  Dekker left the company three months later. Somehow he never felt he fitted in. Perhaps there was the burden of a sense of nepotism because his uncle held a senior position; or maybe it was the plethora of American principles which caused such confusion within the organisation; or it could have been the conflict of attitudes; or a multitude of other reasons. He didn’t care to analyse the problem in depth. In his last hour, he tore off a sheet off the day-to-day calendar which, on that particular day, reflected a Japanese proverb: ‘If you understand everything, you must have been misinformed.’ Dekker thought about it for a while and then decided that... yes... he had been well and truly misinformed.

  Switchback

  At first I thought I’d lost my mind... that perhaps I was dreaming... or I had suffered a stroke which cut off the oxygen to my brain causing delusions or hallucinations... but it was not the case. The phenomenon that took place was real... at least it was to me... but I couldn’t understand how or why it happened and, worst of all, it wasn’t possible to explain it to anyone else. If I told my story to another person they would think I was either joking or insane. I recognised there were some fears or knowledge an individual had to live with in life which were so private they could not tell another soul. Often it was the proverbial skeleton in the family cupboard... but now it had happened to me! When I recovered from the shock, the most horrifying realisation struck me. I could change the course of the lives of people... and incidents... even of history itself. I was sitting at the right hand of God. The power in my possession was an instrument which could be wielded like an axe to amend the errors of the past and reap the reward of a new future. A second chance to redress all the misery and sorrow that had taken place. I wasn’t too sure how I should react. Least of all, I was hardly prepared to make any important decisions at all. Nor did I want to be there, but there was nothing I could do about it!

  Opening the drawer of my desk, I removed a photograph of Ellie, my first wife, and read her words scrawled across the bottom. ‘To my loving husband, the salesman of the year. From your adoring wife, Ellie.’ My mind drifted back to the previous evening, just before the sudden change of events. It was best to go back to the beginning to see whether I could fathom out a reason. That was the best thing to do. Go back to the start and recall everything as it happened.

  It was June 1998 and Harry Middleton had flown in from New York on one of his annual visits. Angela, my second wife, was entertaining him in a stylish manner on the grand piano in the lounge. Yes, that’s how it started! I had a flash of inspiration for the next chapter of the novel I was writing and excused myself to work on the computer in my study. Angela had been a concert pianist for some years and the exquisite music poured from her fingers to flow through the house like golden honey. Ellie, my first wife, and I had bought the house thirty-five years’ ago when I was a salesman for a shoe manufacturer. My move into banking didn’t happen until some time after her death. About a year after the car accident in which she died, I married Angela and we renovated the house and added two extensions. Eventually, it was furnished in grand style, fitted with plush carpets and crystal chandeliers. It now bristled with expensive bric-a-brac. We ran two cars and boasted we were able to enjoy every kind of modern household appliance. There was even a swimming pool outside in the garden. A life of hard work and Angela’s inheritance meant we could live in luxury. In due course, I returned to the lounge and poured myself a drink, apologising for my absence.

  ‘It’s not often inspiration comes so vividly these days,’ I told them lamely. ‘It’s like a dream. Let it go for a moment and it’s gone for ever. Anyhow, it’s on the computer now. So tell me all about New York, Harry.’

  He laughed. ‘I’m on the thirty-third floor of a sky-scraper giving my expert opinion on marketing matters. You know what an expert is, don’t you? It’s a person who’s one page ahead of the client in the marketing manual. I’m only kidding. I don’t deal with people any more but with potential mass media consumers, socio-economic groups, and organisations seeking larger market shares.’

  ‘Tomorrow will be thirty years to the day since you emigrated,’ I reminded him. ‘You had your farewell dinner here the night before.’

  He moved slightly in his wheelchair. ‘Yes... I had legs then,’ he related sorrowfully to Angela. ‘And yet I couldn’t believe my luck. As a result of that plane crashing prior to landing in New York I was showered with executive appointments and a fortune from an insurance company. My life would never have been quite so successful if it hadn’t crashed. Thirty years! How time flies!’

  We spent an amiable evening, enjoying excellent food and wine, and then Harry smoked a few cigars and finished half a bottle of whisky before leaving to return to his hotel by taxi. After he had gone, Angela expressed her fury at my lack of tact and diplomacy. ‘Fancy reminding him about the accident thirty years ago. Of all the cold-blooded things to do! We all know it was also the same day Ellie was killed. I don’t know how you had the gall to mention it. Oh, it was so embarrassing! You made it difficult for all of us!’

  She stormed off to bed and turned her back on me. I felt extremely tired and unwilling to argue so I switched off the light and dozed off to sleep. My friendship with Harry went back to our childhood. We could say the most awful things to each other but neither of us would take offence. We knew each other too well. As far as Ellie was concerned, Angela had no reason to become jealous. Ellie was long dead. Naturally, a man could never forget the joy and passion of his first love... especially when she had been snatched from him in her prime... but life had to go on! A shaft of moonlight peeking through a slit in the curtains crossed my face as I lay back against the pillow. Then I yawned and buried myself into the blankets. The sleep that came was very disturbed. I twisted and turned experiencing agonising pain, and I could hear my heartbeats drumming in my ears. When it was fully light, I opened my eyes sleepily, pulled back the covers and climbed out of bed, almost as tired as I had been the previous evening. As I entered the kitchen I realised
that something was very much amiss. I looked around the room in utter confusion. The extension we had built on the house was no longer there. Everything in the room was different! The fitted kitchen was gone and all the modern appliances had vanished! I hurried into the lounge. It had changed there too! An ugly horse-hair sofa rested where the grand piano had been the evening before, the crystal chandeliers were gone, and the cocktail cabinet was missing. None of the paintings were there, nor the expensive bric-a-brac. I touched the wall to check it was really there, and then touched myself to check I was fully awake. Trembling with confusion in my sleepy state, I ran into the bedroom to complain about the situation to my wife.

  ‘Angela, wake up!’ I called out. ‘Wake up! There’s something you’ve got to see!’

  I leaned over and shook her gently. She stirred and muttered before turning towards me. As the shaft of light between the curtains fell across her face I recoiled in horror. It wasn’t Angela who lay there but Ellie, my first wife who had been dead for thirty years!

  ‘What’s the matter, sweetheart?’ she asked dreamily. ‘Is something wrong? You must have had a nightmare.’ She sat up in bed with a frown on her face. ‘Hey! Who the hell is Angela?’

  ‘Ellie!’ I gasped. ‘Ellie!’

  ‘What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you all right?’

  I leaned against the bedroom wall with fear on my face and perspiration forming on my brow. My breathing became shallow and, for a moment, I thought I was going to suffer a heart attack but the feeling passed without incident. I went into the lounge and sat on the sofa to collect my wits. I didn’t understand what was happening. Angela was angry with me, we went to bed, and I woke up... with Ellie. But she had been dead for thirty years! There was the fatal car accident for which I had never forgiven myself. My God! I went to her funeral... buried her in the ground! It was a nightmare! There was a noise at the front door and I lumbered forward to discover a newspaper on the mat. When I fell asleep it had been the twenty-eighth of June 1998. The paper was dated exactly thirty years earlier. I heard a slight noise and turned to see Ellie enter the room.