“I must admit the fascination is rather lost on me.”
“You obviously don’t have the soul of a collector.”
“I do accumulate objects. Possessions. By accident, mostly.”
“And then, without realising it, you find your possessions have come to possess you?” It is more of a statement than a query.
“I try to keep things in perspective.”
“Then you aren’t a collector,” says Moyle. “A collector’s perspective is entirely skewed. He sees only that which obsesses him. Everything else is relegated to the background. I speak from experience.” He sighs the resigned sigh of a man too set in his ways to change. “But I mustn’t keep you. I know your job prohibits you from fraternising at length with other employees. Thank you again, Mr Hubble. I am in your debt, and if there is any way I can repay the favour, I will. I mean it. If I ever have the chance to do something for you, I’ll do it. Anything you need, anything at all.”
“Just keep a closer watch on your stock,” says Frank.
13
Seven: in the Bible, indicative of “many sons”, for instance in I Samuel, ii, 5 – “The barren has borne seven, but she who has many children is forlorn.”
9.26 a.m.
UP IN THE Boardroom, Thurston has been rattling through the day’s admin with characteristic efficiency, typing notes and e-memos into the terminal at the same time as he talks.
Currently he and his brothers are discussing a fire which broke out at one of the Days depositories the previous week. Thurston can reveal that an exhaustive internal investigation has traced the culprit: a sacked forklift operator nursing a grudge. However, since the fire was discovered and extinguished by a night watchman before it could do much damage, and the destroyed stock was insured anyway, the brothers vote as one not to prosecute the arsonist – a decision which has nothing to do with magnanimity and everything to do with the brothers’ aversion to dealing with the courts of the land. Days, they like to think, is a nation within a nation, a law unto itself, and resorting to common legal procedures would tarnish, and perhaps diminish, the store’s scrupulously cultivated aura of sovereignty.
Next on the agenda is the possibility of a new and even lower grade of account. This idea has been put forward by Fred, who, as he is only too keen to remind everyone, was responsible for initiating the Aluminium scheme that rescued them during that bad spell a couple of years back when the monthly figures dropped into the red for the first time ever. Now, with sales falling again – though still healthy enough, Fred hastens to add – it might be a good idea to allow another stratum of the population in through the doors of Days.
Wensley wants to know what Fred would call the new grade. Tin? Lead? Rusty Iron?
Fred thinks Copper has a nice ring to it.
Thurston wonders whether an account which will be available to just about anybody might not fatally compromise the exclusivity that Days relies upon to attract and keep its clientele. Why not, he says, if the store is going to go that downmarket, simply throw the doors wide open and let the whole world in?
Mungo concurs. For all the extra income that another grade of account will bring in, wealthier customers and regulars of some years’ standing might decide that the world’s first and (naturally) foremost gigastore has let its standards slip a shade too far and transfer their custom to another gigastore in protest – the EuroMart in Brussels springs to mind as a likely candidate, confusingly laid-out and ill-organised though it is. Besides, the effort it takes to become an account-holder is precisely what makes Days so alluring to so many. You don’t value highly what you haven’t had to struggle for.
Fred concedes the point, and in the ensuing show of hands votes against his own proposal, which is defeated six to none.
Thurston then lists the latest appeals that have been made to the brothers for charitable donations. Each is voted on in turn. Human rights campaigns are summarily dismissed. The countries that supply the store with the cheapest raw materials and manufactured goods tend, by uncanny coincidence, to be those whose governments most loosely interpret the meaning of the term “democracy”, and the brothers are reluctant to be seen to be censuring the dictatorships and military juntas that help fatten their profit margins. Animal rights groups, conservationists, and disarmament lobbyists are also deemed too politically sensitive. Which leaves societies for the disabled, arts funding, and a scheme for providing inner-city children with two-week holidays in the countryside as the least controversial recipients of tax-deductible gifts from Days, and at the same time the most likely to enhance the store’s prestige.
Thurston mentions in passing that the cost of maintaining Days Scholarships in Retail Studies at the nation’s two oldest universities is due to increase as a consequence of fresh government education cuts, and that they should give serious consideration to scrapping at least one of the endowments. Since all of the brothers attended one of the universities and not the other, their natural inclination is to favour their alma mater at the expense of its rival. However, as Sato slyly points out, since the other university can’t boast the Day brothers among its distinguished alumni, it, surely, is more deserving of their beneficence. The vote is split, three to three, and since Sonny is not on hand to cast a deciding vote, Thurston resolves that both scholarships will remain in place for the time being.
Then there are the numerous requests for television and newspaper interviews to be dealt with. These the reclusive brothers turn down without exception, but it is always a pleasure to read the letters from editors and producers forwarded to them by the Public Relations people in the Basement. They find the tone of the letters – a syrupy cocktail of flattery and extreme unctuousness – amusing.
Likewise, it is customary for invitations to attend this or that prestigious dinner or art gallery opening or film première to be read out by the day’s chairman, and then equally customary for them to be consigned with lofty disdain to the rejection pile. The brothers take great pleasure in confounding all efforts to popularise and demystify them. There is always speculation, of course. Almost daily the electronic and print media run stories attributing bizarre illnesses, manias, and eccentricities to the sons of Septimus Day, and at Thurston’s request Fred, the brothers’ self-elected media monitor, reads aloud a list of the latest, gleaned from the tabloids and the TV gossip shows.
1) Sato has taken to walking naked around the Violet Floor all day long;
2) Wensley’s weight has ballooned to two hundred kilos;
3) Thurston has contracted a wasting disease;
4) Thurston is going blind in his left eye (a story headlined, “Their Father’s Disfigurement Is A Curse!”);
5) Fred is dependent on barbiturates and can’t sleep at night unless he is sharing a bed with Mungo;
6) Mungo has so overdeveloped the muscles in his arms and thighs that he can no longer straighten his limbs fully;
7) Chas has had plastic surgery to correct a minor defect in the cleft in his chin; and
8) Sonny has cleaned up his act and has subscribed to a phone-in alcoholics support group – anonymously, of course.
If only (the brothers wish) that last story had any basis in the truth. As for the other fictions, they laugh them off. Let the world believe what it wants to believe about them. Let it ridicule them, turn them into cartoon figures. Nothing anyone can say can affect them. Over a hundred metres above the ground in their self-contained Violet Floor eyrie, insulated from the sweat, fuss and filth of the city, why should they care what people think of them? As long as customers keep coming to Days, what difference can a few tall tales make?
Further points of business are raised and tackled, and then Thurston comes to the matter of a territorial dispute between two departments.
“This one’s been pending for quite a while,” he says. “I came across it yesterday evening while going through the files in preparation for this morning. Something we’ve all been overlooking.”
“Probably with good
reason,” mutters Fred.
“The e-memo comes from both sections of Security,” Thurston continues. “E-memos plural, actually. The first reads, ‘The Heads of Strategic and Tactical Security would be grateful if the administration would investigate the present hostilities between the Books Department and the Computers Department and deliver a binding judgement to resolve the situation.’” He taps keys, reading selections from the texts of the subsequent e-memos. “‘The ongoing “state of siege” that exists between Books and Computers shows no signs of improving and every indication of impending deterioration.’ ‘Numerous customers have been caught in the “crossfire” of acts of aggression and intimidation...’ ‘Possibility of fatalities arising as a consequence of the state of mutual intimidation...’ ‘Violence and sabotage...’” He looks around at his brothers. “Has anyone heard anything about this before?”
Heads are shaken.
“Apparently it’s been going on for well over a year, ever since we authorised Computers to expand into floorspace occupied by Books.”
“A sensible decision,” says Sato. “Computers has a larger turnover of product and therefore demands a greater amount of display area. Books has been consistently running at a loss, so it seemed logical that it should surrender floorspace to its immediate neighbour. We told Computers to annex a strip of floorspace one metre wide and ten long. Ten square metres of Books.”
“And the Bookworms don’t like it,” says Wensley. “Well, we made our decision. They’re just going to have to learn to live with it.”
“The trouble is,” says Thurston, “they haven’t. In a series of what the memos call ‘guerrilla raids’, the Bookworms have systematically been throwing out whatever merchandise the Computers Department employees set out in this ten-metre strip and replacing it with their own merchandise. And the Computers employees –”
“Technoids, I believe they call themselves,” Chas offers helpfully, keen to show off his knowledge of shop-floor jargon.
“The Technoids,” says Thurston, using the nickname with some distaste, “haven’t been taking it lying down. Fights have been breaking out and sales assistants on both sides have been getting hurt.” He pulls up another e-memo on the terminal: “‘Three sales assistants had to be hospitalised today as a result of a skirmish on the strip of floorspace between Books and Computers, the latest and bloodiest episode in this rapidly escalating conflict. This matter now demands the administration’s most urgent attention.’”
Sato winces. “Sick-leave. Sick-pay.”
“Worse,” says Mungo, “stock has been damaged. Why didn’t anyone draw our attention to this sooner?”
“As I said, it was on the files,” says Thurston. “Security has put in a total of seventeen e-memos, but the first was filed under Employee Disputes and all the subsequent memos were automatically routed the same way.”
That explains it. Every once in a while a head of department will single out one of his subordinates for a hard time or a floor-walker will be accused of claiming others’ commissions as his own, but the arguments almost always resolve themselves by the time the reports reach the Boardroom, and so the brothers have taken to ignoring Employee Dispute e-memos. Why bother?
“But still we should have noticed,” says Chas, “because Employee Dispute e-memos usually come from Personnel and these ones came from Security.”
There are murmurs of agreement.
“So it’s an oversight,” says Wensley, shrugging. “It’s not too late to rectify it.”
“Quite,” says Sato. “But in the light of our apparent inefficiency, instead of issuing our decision electronically it would be more politic if one of us actually went down there and dealt with the matter in person. The personal touch may make all the difference.”
“And we all know who that someone’s going to be,” says Chas, with feigned rancour. As though he never has any choice in the matter.
“Oh, Chas,” says Fred, clasping his hands together beseechingly. “Please. None of us wants to go down there, and you’re the best at dealing with, you know, ordinary people. Oh, please say you’ll do it for us. Please. I’ll get down on my hands and knees and kiss your patent leather brogues if I have to. Anything. Just say you’ll go.”
“Chas, would you mind?” says Thurston. “It’s simply a question of getting the heads of both departments together and giving them a good talking-to.”
“Threaten them with their jobs if you have to,” says Mungo. “That’s what I’d do.”
“Just get them to stop damaging our property,” says Wensley.
Chas is about to raise his hands in surrender and agree to do as his brothers ask, at the same time declining Fred’s generous offer for fear that his brother’s lips will ruin the shine on his shoes, when one of the Boardroom doors is flung open.
A moment later a head appears round the other door, followed by a body. The hair on the head shows signs of having recently been towelled dry, while the body is clad in wrinkled jeans and a checked shirt that has been buttoned incorrectly.
The new arrival comes tottering into the Boardroom, a hand clamped to one side of his forehead as though to keep his brains from spilling out through a fissure in his cranium. He shuffles across the floor, each step seeming to cost him a world of effort, until he reaches the table. There he stops, steadying himself against its edge, and, swaying slightly, stares around at the faces of the six brothers, who look back at him with expressions ranging from mild concern to thinly-veiled contempt. He takes his hand from his forehead and examines the palm as though genuinely expecting to find it smeared with grey matter. Then he returns his gaze to the brothers.
His brothers.
“Morning, all,” he says, then lets out a short, abrupt laugh, as though he has cracked the funniest joke of all time.
“Good morning, Sonny,” says Thurston, icily. “We were wondering where you’d got to.”
14
Benten: one of the Shichi Fukijin, the seven Japanese gods of luck, and the only female among them, she brings good fortune in matters pertaining to wealth, feminine beauty, and the fine arts.
9.58 a.m.
A GLANCE AT a wall clock reminds Frank that a lightning sale is about to take place.
Having memorised the order of the day’s sales while Mr Bloom was running through them during the morning briefing, he doesn’t have to check his Sphinx for the location. First on the list is Dolls. Four departments away, and therefore close enough for him to feel obliged to attend.
Since collaring the shoplifter, Frank has been wandering the Blue Floor, mulling over his conversation with Moyle. Moyle is right about him not having the soul of a collector. But how to account for the objects and gadgets that cram his apartment? All the artworks and items of furniture he has accumulated over the years almost without being aware of it, all the possessions purchased on a whim, all the things he has surrounded himself with and barely notices – what absence in him do these fill?
The root of the problem lies, he thinks, in his time at the Academy. In his Ghost Training.
Frank was eighteen and fresh out of school, a young man with high hopes and low self-esteem, when he applied for a job at Days. He had no idea what aptitude he might have for working at the store. His exam results had been good, but they alone would not guarantee him employment even as a sales assistant, and anything higher than a sales assistant – anything at the administrative level, for instance – was barred to all but university graduates with good degrees. He filled in the relevant forms and sent them off simply because that was what everyone else was doing, and while he waited for the response to his application to come through, he found work as a night porter in a medium-grade hotel, a nice, unobtrusive job that gave him plenty of time to read, think, and generally be by himself.
Months went by, and every once in a while he would ring Days Personnel to enquire whether his application had even been received. More often than not he listened to a recorded message informing him that all the lines
were busy. On those rare occasions when he got through to a human being, he was assured that job applications were being processed as fast as humanly possible and that his would doubtless be got round to eventually.
He was beginning to lose hope, and considering reapplying, when the reply came. Inside a fat brown envelope watermarked with Days logos was a vast questionnaire dozens of pages long that covered over a thousand topics, some as innocuous as Frank’s favourite foodstuffs, television programmes, and newspapers, others as prurient as his religious inclinations, his sexual feelings (if any) for children under the age of consent, and his relationship with his parents (which was almost nonexistent, seeing as his father had passed away several years ago and his mother was surviving on state benefit and a diet of prescription tranquillisers). The questionnaire took hours to fill in, but he persevered, suspecting that it was intended as a kind of first hurdle for prospective employees, there to winnow out the half-hearted.
He sent it back, and expected to have to wait several months more before learning if he had earned an interview or not. The form letter accompanying the questionnaire had warned him that interviews were being booked as far as two years in advance. He resigned himself to a long wait, and continued working nights at the hotel.
But the response from Days was surprisingly swift. Barely weeks passed before a letter arrived asking him if he could come in for an interview that autumn.
The interview, in a chamber in Personnel in the Basement, lasted three hours. Senior Personnel administrators went over many of the same topics that had been covered by the questionnare, interrogating Frank closely in order to ascertain whether he had been telling the truth or not.
He was an only child?
That was correct, he told them.
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