by Alan Keslian
‘So what is going to happen at this afternoon’s meeting?’
‘While he has been wasting all his energy demanding the impossible, all the main industry sectors have been allocated to other partners. There are two jobs left. One is dealing with an assortment of small clients; the other is to go on loan to the firm we have links with in New York for one to two years. Guess who everyone thinks would benefit from a couple of years’ experience in the States?’
‘Peter… but he gave up a job in the US before joining the firm.’
‘Exactly. He is now desperately trying to find a way out. Maybe he’s accepted that the three senior partners will not give up the Committee, and is hoping he can persuade them to put him forward to the Institute in some sort of computer supremo role.’
‘What will happen to Caroline if they send him to the States?’
‘She will probably go with him. There are plenty of multi-national firms based in New York that would be glad to take on someone with her personnel experience in the UK and Europe. She’s fine, by the way. She asks after you, you know. We’ll have to fix up to have a meal together. You’ll find her good company now.’
No matter how good the paper that Peter intended to present that afternoon, it was unlikely to be well received. In the partners’ eyes the Institute was sacred. To convince them to put such a novel proposal forward would require months of persuasion. To try to push the idea at the quarterly meeting without doing the preparatory work was hopeless.
I had a dozen routine tasks to get through that afternoon, but dread of the summons to the meeting made it difficult to focus my mind on any of them. After half a dozen attempts I gave up trying to contact Tom. Increasing hunger was making me irritable. Why had I not had something more substantial at lunch with Lizetta? I dared not go out again in case Peter sent for me; one or two people who might have been asked to go out to the sandwich bar for me as a favour were engaged on tasks that could not easily be set aside. I would have to starve.
Suddenly I remembered the car. It had been in the side street for hours and might easily have been stolen or vandalised. The breakdown service was engaged twice when I tried to ring, but I got through the third time and hurriedly explained the problem, no doubt sounding like a complete buffoon. They repeated back the details of where to find it and, with understandable annoyance, promised to make collecting it a priority, ‘since all your appointments have prevented you from letting us know about the accident before now, sir.’ Reporting the crash to the office manager would have to wait until Monday; by then her disapproval might be easier to bear.
The call to the quarterly meeting did not come until four o’clock. I was as nervous as I had been at my first ever job interview. In the board room there was one free chair, more or less opposite Peter. The chairman waved me towards it, thanked me for coming to help with what he called Peter’s ‘submission’, and asked him to begin.
Copies of the paper refined from my hurried drafts were passed around the table. Peter could have had little more than an hour to work on it, but had turned my rag-bag of extracts into a three-page well ordered document. He spoke for ten minutes, rehearsing the main arguments in the paper, sounding more and more enthusiastic as he went along, expanding on the benefits that would flow when the Institute became the leading influence on new computer technology throughout the profession.
He said that recent progress with the firm’s own systems put it in a unique position to help the Institute take on the key role of helping the whole profession obtain better value from computer suppliers.
Listening to him I almost began to think that he might win the partners over. The old codgers’ faces expressed nothing, but that was normal. On the table, too far away for me to reach, was a plateful of biscuits. No coffee had been offered me, and it would have been impertinent to ask, but the chocolate bourbons and jam creams looked mouth-watering. After finishing his peroration Peter turned to me and said, ‘Have I given a reasonably accurate summary, Mark? Anything you’d like to add?’
He had put the case so comprehensively there was little for me to say. ‘I think you’ve effectively covered the ground. I might mention one specific thing, the improved level of security now available for high speed transmission of data over telephone networks. This does extend the scope for co-operation with other organisations. I could provide more detailed information on any of the topics mentioned if you,’ I looked at the expressionless faces around me, ‘have any questions.’ I wished a couple of strong new arguments had come to me; what I said was better than speechless embarrassment, but not much.
The chairman, concealing the nastiness of what he was about to do behind a smooth civilised tone, said, ‘Forgive me if I show ignorance of computer science, but this latest software that you’re implementing – am I using the right technical terms?’
‘Yes.’
‘This new software, I am sure it is a wonderful advance, but how big a difference will it make to our firm, or to the other firms which Peter believes might benefit from it? Will there be, for instance, major cost savings, or some great attraction to our clients? Should we look forward to it bringing us substantial new business?’
‘I can’t say that, no. Some things will take less time to do under the new system, so there will be some savings… ’
‘But not major savings?’
‘The main advantages are qualitative: some things can be done in a more straightforward way, there are additional facilities, presentation is better. The broad sweep of what Peter is saying does not depend on these particular enhancements, they would be a sort of starting point… ’
‘Thank you, Mark, that’s been extremely helpful. I think I can speak for us all when I say that we have come to expect no less from you. Would you all agree with me there?’ He was evidently deriving pleasure from making me look small. He looked around the table, raising his eyebrows to encourage nods and smiles of agreement. ‘I hope we haven’t kept you away for too long from your other pressing duties.’
‘No, not at all.’ I stood up, took a last longing glance at the plate of biscuits, and left Peter on his own, defenceless. Hearing the chairman’s patronising dismissal of me he must have realised that none of the old codgers, or even the younger more progressive partners, was in the least interested in his new initiative. He was sure now to be forced into ‘submission’, to use the word with which the chairman had so contemptuously described his proposals.
At half past five, after the meeting disbanded, he walked into my office. ‘Couldn’t make them see sense, the old fools. I thought we put up a nigh on irrefutable case. Didn’t succeed, but we can’t be accused of not trying. Thanks for your support.’
‘Maybe if we’d had more time. The chairman completely threw me with that question. I’m sorry, I was struggling.’
‘No, no. You put up a good show. Wasn’t your fault their ears are stuffed with cotton wool. Cotton wool in their heads too, most of them. We may have lost today, but the issue won’t go away; what I was saying makes sense, we both know that.’
‘Is it going to make a big difference? In terms of what happens here, I mean.’
‘To me personally it will. Hard as it is to believe, the old codgers have somehow managed to run rings around me. What annoys me is that clients were drifting elsewhere before I joined the firm and shook things up! If they think that they’ve got away with today’s little exercise in crushing my ideas they’re in for a few surprises. What I could do with now is a pint. Expect you could too. You deserve one.’
Severely battered by the events of the day, what I wanted to do was to go home for a simple meal, and go on to meet Tom as usual on a Friday night. Given the extent of the disaster which had befallen Peter, his request was impossible to refuse.
We met at reception at six-thirty and walked out into one of those powerful winds that sends papers and food packaging flying up into the air between tall City buildings. He marched me past three pubs, doubtless wanting to be far enou
gh away from the office to reduce the risk of bumping into anyone we knew.
Eventually we headed for the run-down dingy little pub where I had been taken ages ago to see the female stripper. A handwritten notice told us this form of entertainment continued, but fortunately it had finished at three o’clock. There were perhaps half a dozen people in the bar, drinking and talking quietly in the half-light. He bought the first round and we sat at a small square table against a wall, squinting at each other past yellow wall lights set too low down.
‘Fancy the old codgers getting the better of me like that. A couple of them encouraged me, probably leading me on for their own devious reasons. That merger has done some good, but evidently it wasn’t enough to shake most of them out of their usual do nothing attitude.’
‘They stuck together, when the crucial moment came.’
‘Damn right they did. Nothing to be done about it now. Bloody firm. Whenever you try to achieve something there are always a dozen buggers trying to hold you back. Easiest thing is to let them all go to ruin in their own chosen way. Not only have they thrown out my ideas for the Institute but they’re trying to ship me off to the States. You know I had a spell there some time ago?’
‘Yes, you told me about it. How long would it be for?’
‘At least a year. Have to get used to the idea, I suppose, try to see it as an opportunity. Right now it seems more like a punishment. They’re an ungrateful lot of bastards. I don’t suppose any of them has a clue how much effort and sheer determination were needed to pull off that merger. I gave everything I’d got to achieve that. Honestly thought I’d begun to make a difference. They won’t get the best of me that easily. Time is on my side, they can’t cling to their lackadaisical old ways forever.’
Drinking so early in the evening on an almost empty stomach began to affect my head. Peter’s need to unburden himself was understandable, but he showed no concern for my situation. Friendship with him was always friendship on his terms. In this ritual commiseration over pints of beer it fell to me to buy the next round whether I wanted another drink or not. Up at the bar I asked for a packet of crisps and a packet of peanuts, hoping that food would prevent my head from becoming worse.
‘We’re out of stock.’
‘Do you have any food at all?’
‘None. We’re having trouble with our supplier. I should have some in on Monday or Tuesday.’
‘I’m starving,’ I said, paying for the beers.
Peter overheard this exchange. ‘People like that make me sick,’ he said when I returned to the table. ‘They don’t deserve to be in business. They could easily go to a supermarket and buy half a dozen packets of nuts and crisps, how much initiative does that take?’
We consumed our second pints at a much more comfortable pace, while he speculated about the effect of his new job on Caroline, saying that she ought to have a good chance of finding work in New York. I listened and nodded, encouraging him to do most of the talking. After about an hour he was less agitated, and my hopes of escape rose when he seemed to be running out of things to say.
‘What a way to start the weekend! That’s enough of my troubles. What about you? What’s happening to you these days?’
‘Oh, nothing much.’
‘Still living in Chiswick, on your own?’
‘Yes, I’m still on my own.’
‘Anyone special at the moment?’
What would he think of my relationship with Tom, so utterly different from his socially approved marital status? ‘There is someone, a boyfriend. We’re doing all right.’ If he knew what Tom did for a living he was bound to sneer. Instead I talked about Andrew, how he was building up his business in Ferns and Foliage, about the nursery in Buckinghamshire and how he was hoping to expand onto land adjoining the site.
‘I admire his type. They’re resourceful and energetic. What he does is small scale, they’re living above the shop types of business, but he has the satisfaction of being his own man. Nobody is going to be able to pack him off to the States when he doesn’t want to go.’
All this time I was watching the level of beer in Peter’s glass, matching my speed of drinking to his, hoping that soon we would finish our drinks and I would be able to go home. When his glass was empty, before I could stop him he was on his feet and at the bar ordering refills. On his return he said he was awfully sorry but he would have to go soon and we would have to make these the last beers, as though our being there had been at my instigation, not his.
Finally we left, a stomach too full of beer doing nothing to ease my hunger. The rush hour was over, but my train was full and I had to stand all the way back to Chiswick. My mind churned over all the events of the day, the alcohol jumbling everything up. Peter’s support had helped my progress in the firm so much, his rapid downfall made me wonder about my own future. I had climbed to a level from which it would be difficult to go higher. Should I start looking for a better paid job elsewhere? Had the time come for me to make a complete change to something where I would no longer be vulnerable to humiliation by elderly accountants who considered themselves my superiors?
Having left the flat that morning feeling nauseous, I returned to it with a headache. If Tom and I went as usual to the Beckford Arms I would have to avoid drinking more alcohol. In the hope of mitigating the effects of the beer I made myself two thick slices of toast, liberally spread them with jam and washed this inadequate meal down with instant coffee.
A shower made me feel much better, and refreshed I noticed for the first time that there were two messages on the answering machine. Both were from Tom, the first asking me to call him back, the second saying: ‘Hello Mark, been trying to reach you. Expect you’ve been out wining and dining in expensive restaurants all day as usual. I’ve got bad news: Andrew’s been taken ill, he’s had a blackout. It’s quite serious, they’ve taken him into hospital. I went in to see him but they only let me stay a few minutes. About to get myself something to eat. See you in the Beckford Arms later. Bye.’
Chapter 6
Andrew’s ‘blackout’ had been caused by a subarachnoid haemorrhage, a leakage of blood from one of the small arteries which supply the brain. He had been helping to lift a large container of plants at Ferns and Foliage when he collapsed. The garden centre’s manager was summoned and, unable to bring him back to consciousness, called an ambulance. Andrew had come round to some extent by the time the ambulance arrived, but was dazed and unable to stand, and was taken into hospital for tests and observation.
On Saturday morning Tom took him a few personal things from Biddulph Mansions and some business papers, while I spent the morning in Chiswick looking after domestic essentials. In the late afternoon I went to the hospital, finding my way to Andrew’s ward under the many signs for medical departments such as paediatrics and haematology. I looked nervously at the beds on either side in the open part of the ward but could not spot him and began to wonder if he had been moved; then I found him in a partitioned corner at the far end where he had a little more privacy than most. He looked weak and vulnerable, but showed no other signs of illness or injury. Hearing my deliberate cough he looked up, and after saying hello made me smile at my own awkwardness by asking me how I was.
‘Sorry, I’m not used to these places. Tom told me a bit about what happened – you had a blackout.’
‘They’ve diagnosed a subarachnoid haemorrhage. I had one before, a couple of years ago. A small blood vessel here,’ he pointed to the back of his head, ‘has burst. It’s not something that’s associated with age particularly, they’re puzzled by it. Bring that chair over. Sit down.’ His eyes were clear but he was slurring his words slightly.
‘Are they looking after you in here?’
‘I think so. They’re busy all the time, but no doubt they give me as much attention as my case requires.’
Two hospital consultants had talked to him about the possibility of an operation to close off the small artery which had haemorrhaged. They were waiting for tes
t results before deciding whether to go ahead. ‘Perhaps my age will make them decide against it. Take my advice, Mark, never be ill. Tell me, how is everything? You look tired.’
‘Tough day at work yesterday.’ This was hardly the time to tell him my troubles. On his bedside table was a card with the message Hope You Are Feeling Better Soon, and beside it a small amber bottle with a fancy label. ‘You’ve had a card already.’
‘Yes, have a look.’
The picture showed a thatched cottage with a front garden full of flowers, a little over cute, and inside written with a green felt tip pen was the message: Rub in a little of the sandalwood oil from time to time and think of me - or someone better!
‘The bottle came with it?’
‘Aromatherapy oil. Smell it.’
I carefully unscrewed the cap and sniffed the contents. ‘That is nice, a lovely smell. I’m afraid I haven’t brought anything. Who sent you this? A secret lover?’
‘If only. You’re not so very far out though – why shouldn’t you know. I’ve had a regular weekly appointment with a masseur for quite a while. He does offer aromatherapy, but my motives for seeing him were rather more basic. Don’t look so shocked.’
‘I wasn’t. Surprised, that’s all, you’ve never mentioned him.’
‘Perhaps not, but I wasn’t intending to make a secret of it. Paying for sex… but what are the options, at my age, if you still have the urge? Any sort of outlet, let alone a relationship, involves time, effort, and money. The arrangement was honest and straightforward, more so than a lot of supposedly respectable marriages are. It suited us both, there was mutual respect. I rang him to say that I would miss this week’s appointment and that the illness was likely to prevent me seeing him for some time. So he came to visit and brought the card and the bottle of oil. Tell me what’s wrong with that.’
‘Nothing. You assume I’m prudish. I’m not. I’ve done things I wouldn’t boast about, far more dubious than going to a masseur. What counts is how you thought of each other. Such a nice gift, he must like you a lot. Have you tried the oil?’