by Ron Butlin
‘Thank you, Katherine.’ You pressed for line two.
Pencil and paper at the ready. You almost laughed aloud, but managed not to.
‘Good morning, Dan,’ you greeted him.
‘Morning, Morris.’
You drew a line across the page: words above, illustrations below, as per usual.
‘A good weekend?’ you asked, knowing quite well he would want to get straight to the biscuit-talk.
‘Yes, thank you, Morris. Yourself?’
You smiled to yourself at this little victory won for the real world. A small vertical line in the centre of the illustration section. The side of a house? The trunk of a tree?
‘Very pleasant, but quiet you understand. We needed a chance to get the feet up after that “Best of British” knees-up, you might say,’ you replied with a laugh.
You were ready for some party gossip about one of the publicity-biscuits when—
‘Sorry to start ripples so early in the day,’ interrupted Lowestoft.
Another vertical line, then a few horizontals – rippley ones of course.
‘But I think we should get together before the wrapper conference this afternoon,’ he continued.
‘Something up?’ you asked, shifting to anxiety-tone.
To the two verticals you added a horizontal base, joining them and extending a little on either side. A biscuit-box being loaded on to the top of a lorry to suggest a touch of social view-out-of-the-window realism? Or maybe a topless top hat?
‘Well, Morris. I’ve got a short report in front of me from Bowen.’
‘Yes?’ Interest-tone.
‘According to him, Bateman’s department have got it all wrong as far as orange is concerned. Also,’ he continued, ‘he says that the typeface is too “squeamish”, whatever that means.’
He paused for you, for the affirmative half-laugh. Dutifully you filled the gap, then dropped a couple of diagonals from the horizontal. It was coming clear now: a ship, a small yacht perhaps.
Lowestoft continued: ‘And is quite out of the question. “Out of the question” underlined.’
Right enough – and you joined the two diagonals to give the base of the ship.
‘Underlined twice. Are you with me, Morris?’
Not twice, not really – unless you made it into a catamaran. Instead you added a couple of seagull ticks before beginning on the sails.
‘Yes,’ you responded firmly. Deliberation-tone. ‘Sounds like big trouble.’
‘You said it, Morris. Big trouble.’
He paused again. You half-laughed for him once more, and added a small pennant to each mast. It was coming along rather nicely – a two-masted schooner, oceangoing. You sketched in the sun, and the shadow of the ship wavering artistically under the hull.
A lorry started up outside.
‘So we’d better have a chat and get ourselves sorted out,’ urged Lowestoft.
‘I agree,’ you responded with conviction, while outlining an island, or a small whale perhaps, in the left-hand corner.
‘Lunch?’
You settled for a whale, and converted the start of a palm-tree into a water-spout.
‘Fine,’ you answered. ‘In the exec?’
‘Twelve-thirty suit?’
‘Should do; I’ll check with Katherine and if need be get back to you; but it’s all right as far as I remember.’
You wanted to put yourself somewhere in the picture now – on board if possible. But the sails were rather large. A problem.
‘Right you are then, Morris. Goodbye.’
‘Bye.’ You put down the phone.
Maybe you could have just gone for a swim. But the whale? They’re plankton-eaters, you thought, but weren’t sure. Better to be on the safe side, so you drew yourself close to the side of the ship. You picked up the phone and replaced it again so the wire wasn’t tangling all over the desk.
‘Wrappers,’ you thought aloud.
Something that Turner, the former Head of Sales, had once said occurred to you: ‘We are selling biscuits, and we must never lose sight of that fact. Biscuits.’ Everyone at the meeting had nodded. You had nodded too; in fact you had been rather moved by his simple declaration.
Were you close enough to the boat? You wished you could rub out the small figure and position it even nearer. Perhaps if it became another whale, a smaller, strictly vegetarian one, then you could—
A knock on the door, and Katherine entered.
‘Good morning, Mr Magellan.’
‘Good morning, Katherine.’
You smiled at each other, then she took her seat beside your desk. A light blue summer’s dress; a silver bracelet and chain; the slightest eye-shadow.
‘A good weekend?’ you asked her.
‘So-so,’ she shrugged. ‘You know how it is.’ She put down the mail and diary next to your boat, then continued: ‘Only I’m so tired on Monday mornings I sometimes wonder if it’s worth it – and broke!’ she added, laughing.
Very deliberately you kept your attention on her and didn’t glance once at the letters, but edged them along casually with your hand to cover your seascape. It’s good to be able to chat with her like this – for although she is your secretary, professionally speaking, nevertheless you get on well with each other. She knows she can confide in you, if she needs to.
She told you about her weekend: a girlfriend round for dinner on Friday; shopping on Saturday – after rather a late start, she admitted with a laugh; the pub and then dancing on Saturday night. She has been your secretary for just over a year now; a very bright girl.
Definitely a unique friendship. It’s hardly the same with the others, those in the typing pool. When you go there they stop chatting and laughing among themselves. They talk to you of course – but it feels different, unequal. Like a teacher with his pupils, except that they’re always on their best behaviour. You do the best you can to make things easier for them, more relaxed. Although you are their boss you try to have a chat and a laugh with them whenever possible.
‘And I suppose you’ll be burning it up at the weekend, Barbara?’ you had asked one of them on the Friday before the ‘Best of British’ do. You didn’t know where the phrase ‘burning it up’ had come from, but it sounded appropriate. The girl, a redhead who was sitting two machines along from where you stood, looked up and smiled slightly.
You tried again. A double-entendre to ease the teacher-pupil politeness. ‘I mean, Barbara,’ you hesitated briefly, ‘I’m sure you’ll be burning it at both ends!’
The girl glanced around nervously; she’d stopped smiling. You were about to repeat the question with a jocular ‘You there! Girl in the third row,’ the memory of which would bring out a cold sweat on you now – when she spoke: ‘A bit, I suppose, but . . .’ then she added uncertainly: ‘But my name’s not Barbara.’
You could almost hear the unspoken ‘sir’, before she added as though to help you, ‘That’s Barbara over there,’ and she pointed to a girl in the next aisle who also had red hair.
‘I’m Mary,’ she explained. Embarrassed.
There was silence for a moment. You salvaged the situation for her as best you could by remarking that your wife was also called Mary. Quite a coincidence. But her only response was a pupil-polite: ‘Really?’
Right from the very start, however, it has been different with Katherine. Paternal almost.
‘And you, Mr Magellan?’ she asked. ‘Did you have a good weekend?’
‘Fine, thank you, Katherine,’ you smiled. ‘Probably a little less exhausting than yours,’ you laughed. ‘Rather quiet, in fact. The “Best of British” do on Saturday night pretty much took care of Sunday!’ You laughed again, and she laughed.
‘You didn’t miss much there, Katherine, I can tell you. The same old faces and the same old wives. Then Sunday in the garden just taking our time and pleasing ourselves.’
You paused for a moment, remembering how pleasant it had been having a family breakfast on the lawn before strolling
with Elise for the papers, then some light gardening.
‘Yes,’ you continued, ‘it’s a rule I make for myself: the office is the office and home is home.’ You smiled at her. She smiled back.
‘Yes,’ you relaxed back in the executive swivel. ‘Six days shalt thou labour and then rest upon the seventh. Remember? Only it’s usually the sixth and seventh day now. That’s progress!’ You laughed again. Katherine smiled.
‘No,’ you resumed after a short pause. ‘Come the weekend I leave the work behind; shut up shop Friday at four, and sometimes a little earlier!’ you laughed. Then continued a moment later: ‘And shut up shop, as I said. Then home, and forget about it until Monday.’
Katherine continued looking at you. She had said nothing.
‘Which is today, I’m afraid. So let’s see what it has brought us.’ You indicated the papers on the desk.
She picked up the letters and began to summarise them, then went through the diary of the day’s appointments. To do this more clearly she got up and stood quite close to your desk, at the side.
‘You could mark down, just to keep the record straight, that I’m lunching with Mr Lowestoft at twelve-thirty.’
‘Yes, Mr Magellan.’
Sometimes, as she handed you a letter, your fingertips touched, but you continued talking quite naturally.
‘Thank you, Katherine,’ you’d say as you studied its contents.
You decided that once she’d gone you would give the entire wrapper scenario a quick once-over. You’d ask her to bring the necessary files just before she left.
There was brandy in the desk. Not that you needed any, of course, but still, it was good to know that it was there. At least you’re sociable. It’s only politeness. Colleagues know that if there’s to be a meeting in your office you’ll do the courtesy of offering them a drink. Brandy usually, but you have some whisky and sherry. Gin is too fiddly, what with the lemon, tonic, ice-cubes and so on. You’re not a cocktail bar, after all.
Brandy’s the best – and simplest. Courvoisier. A name to be spoken slowly, to be enunciated, letting the syllables slide languorously around inside your mouth. Courvoisier, you repeated into yourself like an incantation, a blessing.
Sunday: not only had you lost the key to the drinks cupboard, you remembered suddenly, but you had to force the lock, and cut yourself – all for a post-prandial digestif, as the French so charmingly call it, for yourself and Mary. You needed a stiff drink after that, a medicinal one. The glass had cut deep. You still felt a bit dicky, in fact. A kind of delayed shock – you nearly fainted at the time, but not quite. You would shortly have to deal with the wrapper report for that afternoon – and weren’t really yet back to A1. You still didn’t feel a hundred per cent. A quick tonic to clear the brain. No point trying to do the job half-arsed and half-asleep. And so, once Katherine had gone . . .
The thing about drink is knowing how to use it – and not letting it use you. One drink’ll charge the system, get it in gear; but a second could be too much. Knowing when to drink and when to stop – that’s the trick.
‘Some wine with lunch?’
‘Not for me, Morris, thank you,’ said Lowestoft.
‘A beer then?’ you suggested.
‘No.’
He’d hesitated. You looked at him and smiled. And kept smiling.
‘Okay,’ he relented. ‘Make it a lager.’ You relaxed and considered the menu. Executives eat well – and not a biscuit in sight. After some careful reflection you ordered duck, with chocolate mousse to follow. When the drinks arrived Lowestoft said: ‘Cheers!’
‘And here’s to wrapping up the wrapper conference this afternoon,’ you added.
The beer tasted thin after the brandy.
‘Now,’ you began, having put down your glass, ‘what’s all this about the orange wrapper and the “squeamish” typeface?’
Yes, maybe you do have a drink now and again, but no one could ever say it affected your work. No chance. You’re good. Bloody good. One of the youngest executives in the business. On the ball. Always.
Lowestoft was still talking, and you noticed your glass was almost empty. The food had not arrived and you were getting hungry.
‘God, they’re taking their time, aren’t they?’ you observed.
He nodded, and was about to continue his wrapper story when you pointed to his glass and gestured to ask if he wanted another. He shook his head.
The wrapper story proceeded one word at a time. You glanced over at the waitress, indicating your empty glass. Then turned back to Lowestoft and his wrapper-words.
When your drink arrived you took a sip, then put down your glass, and, neatly interrupting Lowestoft, made the comment: ‘So, it’s the Heinz Baked Bean story all over again. Change the wrapper from orange to blue, and Bowen reckons sales will be up thirty per cent. Is that it?’
Not a bad summary of Lowestoft’s rambling analysis. On the ball as ever.
‘More or less,’ he answered. ‘According to Bowen, it’s . . .’
Bowen. The Gospel according to Bowen. A sideways promotion if there ever was one. And there he was, still trying to get himself in with his ‘squeamish typeface’ and ‘negative customer response to the colour orange’. Some chance.
‘At last!’ you remarked when eventually the food did arrive. ‘That’s one way to sell beer, anyway – starve them into submission!’
Lowestoft didn’t reply, and you ordered another drink.
Majestic meetings are a very dry business – in every sense of the word. One, two, and sometimes even three, very parched hours. Dry as a biscuit. A room full of Batemans and Bowens hard at the biscuit-banter. You, however, have perfected the old ‘papers back at the office’ routine. A classic. A winner every time. Two minutes: the missing pages beside the brandy and glass, filed and ready in the top drawer. A life-saver. A half-time oasis-halt. Then it’s back to the desert wastes: the shifting graphs, the trends and counter-trends, the biro-clicks and calculator-bleeps.
After the meeting Lowestoft walked back with you along the corridor, saying he didn’t know how you did it. A few beers at lunchtime and he would have been flat out. ‘But you,’ he declared, ‘pulled us all through. Quite brilliant.’ His very words. Brilliant.
Into your office at last. You sat down and swivelled briefly, then stood up and looked out of the window. The vast biscuit tins as usual: the loaders were still loading, the lorries were still leaving, and the sky remained a clear, immaculate and oceanic blue.
Lowestoft was right: that was a great meeting. No doubt about it. And it was all at your fingertips: facts, figures, and examples. Bowen’s report and Bateman’s proposals dealt with in a couple of sentences. Death sentences. Then those theories about colour and emotion, from Goethe to NASA reports, that you suddenly remembered from goodness knows where. The confidence, the style, the jokes, the seriousness – playing one executive-biscuit against another, then arbitrating at exactly the right moment and in exactly the right tone of voice. Like a conductor who knows in advance the sound he wants from his players, you knew exactly what you wanted – and got it!
You surely deserved a drink after that – and no mistake! Courvoisier. Then you poured one for Courvoisier, for Monsieur Courvoisier himself. He deserved it. You got them through, and he got you through – not really, of course, but you needed that little something extra, that oasis-halt. A little inspiration.
Anyway, you took a drink and let the drink take a drink. Then one for the train, then home.
7
And so – it was goodbye to Katherine and out through the open-plan, down the lift, past the potted plants, the low tables. The plate-glass doors, the drive, the Majestic Main Gate. Then along the narrow lane to the station.
You waited on the platform with your ticket and the evening paper.
The train arrived. You got in, sat down, and began reading.
‘Doesn’t have a future?’ the man opposite exclaimed in mock surprise. ‘He doesn’t have a past eit
her, not now. He’s a drunk.’
You glanced up. Two men were sitting opposite you, two men you had never seen before. They must have been talking about someone else. They must have been. Not you. They didn’t know you. You didn’t look drunk. You weren’t drunk – you were reading the evening paper. One of them noticed you were watching them – and so, back to your paper. You were reading. You couldn’t be drunk. Not if you were reading.
‘Doesn’t have a future, doesn’t have a past either – he’s a drunk,’ the man had said. No future, no past – that left only the present, you thought to yourself. But there are two kinds of present, aren’t there: the one with a drink, and the one without. Hardly a difficult choice. For you.
Also, you thought, there are only two places in the world: where there is a drink, and where there isn’t. Somewhere – and nowhere. But you know where you are with it. You know it will get you through. You know when to stop. No slurring and falling over for you. You know exactly what you’re doing: enough, or too much. That’s your rule – and you know exactly when enough is about to become too much. You’re aware of what’s happening. Your work’s going well. What a meeting you’d just had; ‘Brilliant,’ said Lowestoft, his very words. ‘Brilliant.’ Your family has its ups and downs, of course – but what family doesn’t? No, you were no drunk. Couldn’t be.
Not like Sammy, the old dead-beat who had lived in the flat opposite when you were a student. Now, there was a drunk. You’d come home at night to find him on the stairs – back from a day at the business college to that bundle of clothes and sick blocking up the entrance. You helped him the first few times – stood him on his feet, kept him on his feet, then hauled him, a step at a time, all the way up to his front door. Real life, you thought.
No, you’re no drunk. You work – and work well. Brilliantly, according to some. You’re looked up to. Respected.
That was when you decided: the next time Katherine gave you some letters, you would let your fingers touch hers as they had last time, and then – just the slightest pressure. See what happened. She wasn’t a child. Nothing too obvious, of course. The slightest pressure, a glance. She’s a really good girl – understands you much better than Mary, much better. She listens to you, then has something interesting to say herself. She dresses well.