Super Short Stories

by Stan Mason

  ‘What’s your name?’ seethed the senior executive, his ginger moustache bristling with anger.

  P-Price, sir.’ He was starting to stutter like his secretary.

  ‘Right, Price!’ continued Hawkins, as the flames of anger burned brightly. ‘I’ll remember your name and your face in the future. And God help you if we ever meet again. Can’t you read?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course I can read.’

  Hawkins pointed to the door and the young executive took two steps backwards to note a small red light fixed to the lintel which intermittently flashed the word ‘Engaged - Do Not Enter’. Price had been so annoyed with Davy Jones he hadn’t noticed it. Worse still, he had to admit to himself that his feeble apology sounded terribly weak.

  After a brief pause to recover, as he waited for his heartbeat to return to normality, he knocked on the door of T.E.A. Kennedy. ‘Come in, old chap!’ invited the executive cordially, as Price poked his head round the door. ‘Sit down and relax. You look a bit peaky. I’ve been meaning to contact you to ask whether there are any special activities in which you’d like to participate now you’ve been appointed an executive.’

  ‘Well,’ replied Price, calming down a little. ‘I’ve really come to tell you that Mr. Bulstrode... ’ He was forced to tail off as the other man interrupted him.

  ‘Ah, yes, I understand. You want to take up golf so you can play with The Bull. Good idea! Helps you to get on in the organisation if you play with the top men. That’s smart! I play with him occasionally, you know... ’

  The torrent of pointless comment was endless. It streamed from his mouth like water cascading from a gargoyle set in a fountain. Any interruptions were totally misconstrued and Price began to despair he would never be able to deliver the vital message. But all things, good and bad, eventually come to an end and his opportunity finally arrived. As T.E.A.K. began to dry up, he reached for a glass of water. At that moment, the junior executive rose, blurted out the message, and left with a brief excuse accompanied by a great rush for the door. It may have been considered a highly indelicate move... but it was a very wise one.

  To his surprise, the tide began to turn in his favour and he worked swiftly and successfully through the next two offices. Then he came to the door of Jerome Jerome. How that man’s parents must have hated him from birth to baptise him with a double appellation. Jerome Jerome! He would never know whether people were calling him by his first or second name. What a predicament!

  ‘In!’ muttered the senior executive laconically as Price rapped on the door.

  ‘In?’ echoed Price inquisitively on entering the office.

  ‘Can’t waste time on words! Too busy!’ He stared down at the sheet of paper in front of him on the desk. ‘The NIESR predicts that the RPI will rise faster than the DCPC expects. Did you know that?’

  ‘NIESR?’

  ‘National Institute of Economic and Scientific Research.’

  ‘What’s RPI?’

  ‘The Retail Price Index of course. Wake up man! PBSR will outstrip growth in GDP and GNP with a soaring Sterling M3 and a rocketing DCE to pay for the PLP’s spending programme.’

  ‘PBSR?’ asked Price, regretting he had ever uttered the letters after they had tumbled from his lips.

  ‘Public Sector Borrowing Requirement! The PM will need help from the CBI and the TUC and maybe loans from the OECD, the EC, and the IMF. The cost of the DSS and the DES, including losses from the old BL, BR, BSC, and grants promised to the RECs will amount to far more than the taxable profits of ICI, BP, GEC, BTR and BATS. Even OPEC, BA, BAA and BT couldn’t provide the necessary LSD, so HMG will have to do something ASAP or else the PM might have to resign PDQ. How are things in GPA?’

  ‘GPA?’

  ‘General Product Administration. That’s where you work, isn’t it?’

  In all his life Price had never been more confused. The man was so overpowering he had caused him to fail to recognise the initials of his own department. The office rang with alphabetical digits redistributed in a new language form, to be understood only if a person was tuned-in to that kind of brevity. Well, there was only one way to get through to this executive... one had to fight fire with fire and direct his own weapons against him. The junior executive concentrated his mind on the message he had to deliver and then blurted it out, hoping it would be expressed in the right order. ‘DC... Departmental Communication... three-line critical status. RGB. His office. Eleven hundred hours!’

  Clearly, from the expression on Jerome Jerome’s face he had hit the target right on the button. ‘Wow! AOK, new exec!’ he returned with delight. ‘Keep fit, no booze! Lots of PT and no DTs. H.A.N.D.!’

  H.A.N.D.?’

  ‘Have a nice day!’

  Price puffed out his cheeks with relief when he reached the corridor again. That was an experience he wouldn’t wish to repeat! Can’t waste time on words! What a load of rubbish! He had never read that one before in any management manual. He stared bleakly at the next door which was the office of Ms. D.U.K. Keating. Rumour had it that she had some awful experiences with members of the male sex in the dim and distant past. Someone said she had been left at the steps of a church on her wedding day by a suitor who had second thoughts about the marriage at the last possible moment. Then, five years later, she was engaged to a good-looking gigolo who left her to live with a sixteen year old student in Manchester. Eventually, she married a most charming man who died a day after the wedding from a severe heart attack, only to discover he had left all his money to his three children in his Will. Subsequently, it was not surprising that ‘Dukky’ resented men in the strongest possible terms.

  ‘Come in!’ she called out, as Price rapped sharply on the door. ‘You can’t see me because I’m behind the screen.’

  The junior executive entered and looked round the room with admiration. ‘What a lovely office you have,’ he told her. ‘Soft lighting, background music, tapestries on the walls, flowers... ...’

  ‘Take a pew! I won’t be a moment. Just doing my hair. Had to stand on the station platform this morning because the train was late and there was a strong breeze. You don’t know what we women have to suffer!’ She emerged from behind the screen and stared at Price closely. ‘Your face is familiar. Where have I seen you before?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied the young man sincerely. ‘I’m delivering a message from Mr. Bulstrode. He wants to see all the senior executives in his office at eleven o’clock.’

  ‘Did he ask for me personally... by my actual name? Did he say what he wanted me for?’

  ‘It’s a three-line critical status meeting.’

  ‘Oh, one of those. Well, it makes a change sending a man instead of a woman to deliver the message. It’s nearly always a female secretary, you know. Men just don’t seem to understand that the majority of women they employ as secretaries are married. Unlike men, working in an office, shop or factory is only one part of their many duties. They’re expected to take care of the home, bear children, look after everyone in the family, wash and dry all the clothes, do the cleaning, and everything else with the exception of major repairs. They’re also expected to take a major role in buying furniture, washing-machines, refrigerators, television, clothing, preparing for holidays, and so on and so forth. Not only that, but the amount of money provided for housekeeping is always kept down to the very bare minimum. What sort of a life is it for a woman... especially in a man’s world?’

  Price decided to intervene, much to his own cost. ‘Mr. Bulstrode... ...’

  ‘Dukky’ lunged across the table talking to him vehemently. ‘Do you know how much the average housewife has to manage on in Britain today? A mere pittance! I tell you something that’s a fact... a man couldn’t manage on it, that’s for sure! And as far as anyone else can gather, it’s more often than not the woman who ends up with all the worry of the financia
l side as well. Men don’t seem to care at all. Tell me, what’s your honest personal opinion?’

  ‘Terrible! Terrible!’ agreed the young executive swallowing hard, adopting an expression of concern.

  ‘Glad you’ve got the ability to comprehend the problem rationally,’ she went on, producing a clipboard containing a wad of pages which she pushed towards him at chest height. ‘Then you won’t mind signing this petition to support those aims, will you?’

  Price took the list and signed on the appropriate line underneath the other signatures. ‘Mr. Bulstrode at eleven o’clock,’ he reminded her, returning the clipboard with haste and hurrying out of the door. He couldn’t remember whether he had told her it was a three-line critical status or not, but he had no intention of returning to find out.

  It was just before ten-thirty when he completed the tour. He was perspiring profusely, his legs ached, and there was still the problem of removing the repulsive odour of plasticine which adhered to his fingers. He staggered back to his office and flopped exhaustedly into his executive chair, emitting a huge sigh of relief.

  ‘D...Don’t sit down,’ stuttered his secretary, with a degree of urgency. ‘M...Mr. Bulstrode’s been ringing for you... for ... for... for... ... ’

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ shouted Price, lifting himself out of the chair tiredly. ‘What does he want me for now?’

  He went to the door and closed his eyes briefly, before retracing his steps to the twenty-fifth floor. There was no fear in his eyes this time. Consequently, his entry to The Bull’s office was far less delicate. After knocking briefly, he blundered into the senior executive’s room to stare at the senior man wearily.

  ‘Where on earth have you been, Price?’ challenged Bulstrode, silencing the stutter of the junior executive with a wave of his hand. ‘Never mind! Bad news! I want you to cancel the order I gave earlier. As it was a three-line critical status you’ll have to go round and tell every executive in person the meeting’s off. Repeat... every executive in person! Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes. I understand,’ returned the young man, managing to restrain himself from further comment. The Bull kept emphasising the need not to waste time but he was wasting time all the time. There were no words to express the true way Price felt. He figured it could be explained as resting between a mixture of murder, suicide and anarchy. After composing himself, he took a deep breath and left the office. Within a short while he stood outside the door of W.R.Y.T. Pomeroy once more. Before he knew it, he had entered the room. Pomeroy was still dictating but he didn’t falter for a second as he continued to rant on to his attractive secretary who always managed to sit with her skirt crawling above her knee to expose the beginning of a beautiful thigh...

  For Better, For Worse

  Marcus Townsend was not an eminent archaeologist. However, although he was relatively young, his name was well-known among the experts in his field. For one thing, he had written a book entitled: ‘Archaeology and the Ancients’ which the critics had commented that it was worthy of note and, furthermore, he had penned a plethora of essays on his subject for a number of well-known magazines. But of greater importance to him was his superb family pedigree. His father had been an extremely high-ranking officer in the army while his mother’s family was listed in Debrett’s peerage... recording in detail a remote association with the royal family. Indeed, on one occasion, he had even been invited to attend a luncheon at Buckingham Palace although the reigning monarch was absent on a trip abroad at the time.

  It was the usual custom for the children of such elite marriages to attend Harrow and Oxford, and Marcus was accorded the privilege. In due course, as expected, he graduated with honours and then toured the world for a short while to fulfil his destiny during which time, by strict orders of his father, he had to make up his mind on the career he intended to follow in life. Ignoring the old man’s eager wish for him to follow in his footsteps and join the army, he decided to choose his favoured profession of archaeology even though he knew very little about it. After taking a substantial course of study, he joined a number of groups which travelled to different parts of the globe, albeit they concentrated most of their efforts in Greece and Italy. It was their undeniable aspiration to find specific remains of the Greeks and Romans of repute and they channelled their activities in those countries. However, despite his greatest wish... to personally find something of importance from the past on which he could register his claim to fame... he continually faced monotonous disappointment. It appeared that destiny made certain success would elude him wherever he went. However, he was more than fortunate in a way because his livelihood was protected by a generous grant from his parents and grandparents, therefore he had no financial worries to plague him but, more than anything else, he wanted them to be proud of him by uncovering something of great importance which would also show his proficiency in his field.

  The vein of ill-luck continued to dog him incessantly until one day when he travelled on a casual visit to the Palestinian area of Israel. There was no real reason for him to go there but a colleague had purchased an airline ticket to Ben Gurion airport and had fallen ill, so he contacted Townsend to offer him the flight. The archaeologist decided to take a short break and on arrival he went to a well-known restaurant for dinner. He was enjoying the meal when a complete stranger approached his table.

  ‘You’re Marcus Townsend, the archaeologist,’ he greeted warmly. ‘I recognise your photograph fromt the Today magazine. You wrote an article.’

  Townsend was embarrassed but the man appeared quite excited at finding him. ‘I’m always reading archaeology,’ he continued, completely oblivious of the other man’s feelings. ‘And I’ve got something that might be of real value to you.’

  ‘And what might that be?’ asked Marcus dryly, placing his knife and fork down on the plate to listen to the man.

  ‘There’s an Egyptian guide with some real information on an important site. It’s not here in Tel Aviv but out there in the desert. I can introduce you to him if you want.’

  And that’s exactly how it happened. On the following morning, the man met him at his hotel bringing with him a humble Egyptian guide who told him a story which could not be ignored. Townsend was was informed of an extraordinary battle which took place between the Philistines and the Israelites some two thousand odd years earlier. At first, the details seemed to relate to David before he was made King of the Israelites. However, the way the man weaved his web of the story left the archaeologist rather confused. Nonetheless, the guide was so convincing the matter required further investigation. Thereafter, over some drinks in the bar, the questions came thick and fast. How can you be certain there was a battle in the area? How do you know it was David, King of the Israelites? How did this information come to you? How do you know the exact spot where the battle took place? Why hasn’t any archaeologist worked on this site before? There were always so many questions to ask when someone arrived with a rumour of a battle. The main one was to discover whether the information was true. Did such a battle actually take place or was it mere fiction... another story told in a bar? If it were true there were even more problems to face. The armies of the past were often so small any remains of those killed would almost certainly be centred on a fragment of land. For example, it had come to light in recent times that the city of Troy which Homer recorded in his tales had been proved to be almost miniature. Yet the Greek army had been unable to penetrate its walls and had to resort to producing a Trojan Horse in order to gain entry. This created major difficulties for archaeologists who might dig a hundred yards away from the site to find absolutely nothing. For Townsend, the task of undertaking this dig was one not to be considered lightly. It needed a team of people ranging from manual diggers to a variety of experts. It was also essential to obtain a host of equipment of varying kinds. Serious planning was necessary with some kind of surety to prove that the project was viable, and it needed
a staunch amount of finance to fund the operation. In fact the longer it took to find anything of value... if indeed there was anything to be found... the more costly the project would become. Ultimately, he had to determine the length of time accorded to the activities because one of the major considerations incurred the wages of the crew and the cost of leasing equipment. Even if something was discovered, they would then be obliged to report it to the authorities in the country where it took place, who might, or might not, allow him to export any artefacts found from the country. However, he could gain credence and reputation if someone of serious value was found. Nonetheless, if he decided to trust the story told to him by the Egyptian guide, he had a daunting task on his hands.

  Townsend stood on a hill overlooking a valley where some patches of green grass grew on the mass of sandy ground. If only he could have been blessed with X-ray eyes to determine what lay underneath. If only! Before anything could be done, however, he was faced with an eternal problem facing all archaeologists. What was the credibility of the informant? Could his word be relied upon? Was he telling the truth or simply passing on an old wive’s tale? It was common knowledge that there was a very high proportion of wasted time and money on guides who passed on rumours of great finds and notorious battles or camp-sites which never amounted to anything. The archaeologist stared at the informant, scanning his face and he shook his head slowly. How much could he trust this man? Not at all, came the answer in his mind. The guide was about forty-five years old, a short dark ugly-looking Egyptian with matted raven black hair and a short beard. He was dressed extremely shabbily in loose ragged clothes which consisted of an old shirt and a well-worn skirt. On his feet he wore open sandals which had seen far better days. He looked very much like a poor tramp. Certainly not a man who word could be relied on.