by Pat Young
The girl or her mother, probably both, lost their nerve when the police became involved. The fabricated allegations were withdrawn, Marty was re-instated and everyone was expected to carry on as normal.
There was no hint of an apology from Smeaton. ‘As you were,’ was all she got, in an e-mail.
She’d phoned HQ, got Carole to put her through to his desk without saying who was on the line.
The moment he picked up, she’d let fly. ‘“As you were?” What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means what it says. I expect you back at your desk in the morning.’
‘As if nothing ever happened?’
‘You claim nothing did happen.’
Marty had refused to back down. ‘What about an apology?’
Smeaton had sighed, as if he hadn’t the time or the patience. ‘As a senior officer of this council, my priority was fulfilling my duty of care to the child concerned. As per standard procedure, you were relieved of your duties pending investigation. That investigation having been concluded, you are now formally re-instated and invited to return to work.’
‘And what about my reputation? I heard two women talking about me over the tomatoes in Sainsbury’s last week. How do you think that felt?’
He’d had the nerve to laugh. ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Marty. Yummy Mummies gossiping in the posh supermarket? Where’s the harm in that? Act your age.’
She had gone back to work, but it couldn’t ever be ‘as you were’. Her self-confidence, her vision, her energy were gone. When the heads of department disagreed with a new policy she wanted to introduce, she’d burst into tears and fled the meeting. That was the day she knew it was over. Hoping to make a stand, she’d threatened Smeaton with her resignation, which he’d accepted before she could change her mind. She’d been seething with rage and regret ever since, dying to fight back in some way.
Marty checked her watch. Twenty past five. The stream of departing workforce had dwindled to a trickle. It should be safe to go in now. She got to her feet, put on her coat and pulled the collar up round her face.
The first thing she noticed was a new reception desk which straddled the foyer and effectively blocked access to the building. A bored-looking young man sat behind a glass panel, checking his smartphone. He looked up as Marty approached and said, ‘Welcome to Logiemuir Council. How may I help you?’ In his local accent the phrase sounded alien and artificial.
‘I’m here to see Mr Smeaton.’
‘Is Mr Smeaton expecting you?’
She had to get past this guy so she smiled and tried to sound relaxed. ‘No, it’s just an informal visit. Mr Smeaton and I go back a long way. He’s happy for me to drop in anytime.’
‘So, you don’t have an appointment?’
‘Not as such.’ She hadn’t expected to face an inquisition and her courage was seeping away like charge from a battery. Then she had an idea. ‘Tell you what. Why don’t you give Wee Carole a ring and check with her? She’ll vouch for me.’ Marty smiled again.
He pressed a few buttons on a phone, looking like he’d rather be elsewhere, then replaced the handset. He shook his head and Marty’s heart sank.
‘Carole’s not at her desk; it’s nearly half-five. Listen, I’m not supposed to do this, so please don’t tell anybody.’ He lowered his voice. ‘If you step up to the barrier, I’ll buzz you through. Just this once, okay?’
She was in.
It felt weird to be back. The place smelt exactly the same, a corporate mix of photocopying and cleaning products that reminded her of the last time she had set foot in HQ. Marty shuddered at the memory. Today she was determined to do what she ought to have done months ago. Never mind the Union, the lawyer, the mousy little woman from Human Resources. Marty should have taken matters into her own hands at the time. Maybe she’d be feeling better by now. Having had her wee bit of revenge, maybe she’d have moved on with her life.
Inhaling an enormous breath, she followed a shiny new sign marked Libraries, Leisure, Education and Culture. Smeaton’s empire was growing. Bracing herself for the drama to come, she strode towards the inner sanctum. Carole’s desk was empty, maybe a good thing. No one to talk her out of it.
Marty hesitated outside the door that said ‘T. Smeaton. Director’. What if he was in a meeting? She couldn’t just burst in and make a fool of herself. Besides, she didn’t want witnesses. Maybe she should wait till he came out.
A pressing need to pee gave her the chance to avoid a decision. She’d have a think about this in the Ladies.
The first cubicle was engaged. As Marty stepped into the second she heard someone crying. Full-on, heart-broken weeping. Marty felt sorry for whoever it was, but wasn’t sure what she could do under the circumstances. She wasn’t even supposed to be in the building.
She was drying her hands on a paper towel when the crying stopped and the cubicle door opened. Smeaton’s secretary peeped out, her tear-damaged face registering shock that she wasn’t alone.
‘Oh, Marty, it’s you.’ Carole’s face crumpled like a child’s. Marty took her hand, led her over to a chair beside the wash basins and handed her a tissue. ‘Sit down,’ she said gently. ‘Can you tell me what’s wrong?’
This suggestion set Carole off on another bout of sobbing. Each time she opened her mouth, it distorted into a perfect square. Carole poked the tissue into the corner of her eyes ‘See that man? I could swing for him.’
Marty shook her head. Her former boss was still at it.
Marty waited till Carole became a little calmer then whispered, ‘If you think it would help to talk, I’m a good listener. I can’t promise I’ll have any answers, but you know what they say about a problem shared.’
Seeing Carole’s worried glance at the door, Marty rose and took a hazard warning sign from the corner. She placed it outside in the corridor.
‘There now, no one will bother us for a while. Unless the cleaner comes along and wonders why the toilets are closed for cleaning.’
Carole managed to give her a feeble smile, but when she took a deep breath, it caught on a sob. ‘It’s Mr Smeaton. I hate him.’
‘Join the club. But hey, I always thought you could handle him. I used to wonder what your secret was.’
‘Most of the time I don’t let him get to me, but he’s a horrible man.’ Wiping her eyes, she said, ‘I used to love my job.’
‘What did Smeaton do to get you in this state?’
Carole gave her nose a loud blow. ‘You know John and I have been trying for a baby? For ten years?’
‘Mmm, I did hear you’d had a few miscarriages, Carole, and I was awful sorry for you. I admire the way you always seemed to bounce back.’
‘That’s because I had no choice. Mr Smeaton phoned me up and told me if I didn’t get back to my desk soon, he’d be looking for another secretary. “It’s not as if you’re ill.” That’s what he said.’
‘That’s shocking. He’s not allowed to say that kind of thing.’
Carole looked at her with a grim smile. ‘Try telling him that. You know what he’s like. Oh Marty, I wish I could quit. All I want is a baby and then I’d give up this crappy job and be a full-time mum.’
‘I’m sure that will happen soon,’ said Marty, patting Carole’s back, aware of how mundane and patronising her words sounded.
Carole didn’t seem to notice. ‘It’s not that simple. We’ve used up the three cycles of IVF we’re allowed on the NHS. We’ve also had one private cycle that cost us five thousand pounds. Every year that passes makes it less likely we’ll ever have a child.’
‘You’re young, Carole. You must have time on your side?’
‘Not according to the statistics. But we do have one last cha…’ The word was lost as Carole’s voice rose in a tragic howl.
Marty gave her a hug, as she’d had to do with many a female employee in her time. ‘One last chance, did you say?’
Carole nodded and sniffed. ‘We were told we might be suitable candidates for a new fertil
ity program that’s being tested in the States.’
‘And,’
‘And we’ve been accepted.’
‘Congratulations, that’s great news.’
When Carole didn’t respond, Marty asked, ‘Isn’t it?’
‘It would be, if we could go.’
‘Is it too expensive?’
‘No, the program’s free to us, because it’s still in the trial stages. And I’ve been saving for the air fare.’
‘What’s the problem, then?’
‘Smeaton won’t let me go. Says he’s not sanctioning a jaunt to Florida. Says that’s what holidays are for and I should have thought about it before I used up all my annual leave.’
‘That’s unforgiveable. Can’t you go over his head?’
‘No. I need his permission to apply for special leave and he won’t grant it. Told me the last thing he needs is a pregnant secretary throwing up in the toilets all day long, or running off to ante-natal appointments right, left and centre.’
Marty didn’t know what to say. All she could come up with was, ‘He’s a despicable man, but Carole, no boss should reduce you to this state. It’s atrocious. You have to do something about it.’
‘What can I do? Look what happened to you.’ As if she had just realised, Carole said, ‘What are you doing here, Marty? Did they give you your job back?’
Marty laughed, ‘It doesn’t quite work that way, Carole. No, I came to punch Smeaton in his smug, pompous face.’
Carole giggled. Sensing it was a good time to leave, Marty helped Carole to her feet and edged her towards the door. ‘Come on, let’s get you out of here.’
Carole glanced in the mirror. ‘Look at the state of me.’ She ran her hands through her hair and pulled a sad face. ‘Now I have to go home and explain to John why we can’t go to America. He’ll be gutted. I swear to God, Marty, I could kill that man.’
***
CHAPTER 3
In a distant corridor a cleaner was singing at the top of her lungs, accompanied by the whine of a vacuum. Marty stood outside Smeaton’s office, her hand trembling as she reached for the handle.
Suddenly the door opened and she and Smeaton came face to face. He gasped and stepped back. When he’d regained his composure, he held out his hand. Programmed by some code of behaviour, she took it. Her skin crawled at the touch of his small, delicate fingers that barely made contact with her own. She withdrew her hand and, without thinking, wiped it on her hip.
‘What can I do for you, Marty?’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Oh? Well, I’m sure that would be nice, but, much though I’d love to catch up with you, I don’t have the time.’
‘It won’t take long,’ said Marty. Do it. Do it now, while you’ve got the element of surprise.
To her disgust, Smeaton put his hand on the small of her back, as if he were escorting her into dinner.
‘Take your hand off me.’
The smile slid like slime from his face. He made a show of removing his hand from her back. All joviality gone from his voice, he said, ‘Very well. May I assume you are in the building without authorisation?’
Marty ignored the question. She could feel her fingernails pressing into the palm of her hand. Surely she could do this one thing. How hard could it be? Men did it all the time, didn’t they? Smeaton was a bantam-weight at best and barely matched her in height. One good thump would knock him over. It would be a pathetic little scrap of revenge but better than nothing.
‘I take it, from your silence, that I’ve guessed correctly. Therefore, I invite you to leave.’ He indicated the exit and waited for her to go.
‘Aren’t you even a tiny bit curious to know why I’m here?’
He sniffed, his nostrils flaring. ‘To be honest, I’d almost forgotten you existed. You’ll have to enlighten me.’
Marty knew this was one of his power-play tactics, she’d seen it before. But still, she suddenly questioned herself. What had she hoped to achieve, barging in like this? She’d imagined the scene countless times. Take him by surprise, on his own, tell him what she thought of him, hit him one good, hard whack and walk away.
She’d reasoned that he wouldn’t try to have her charged, not after his last attempt at involving the police in her life. His word against hers and all that. And if she was charged, it would be with a minor offence, like breach of the peace. Worth a court appearance and a fine to strike a blow for herself, literally, and all the others Smeaton had damaged.
The vacuum cleaner droned on in the background. It was now or never. She raised her fist and took aim. Fast as a snake, Smeaton lunged towards her, grabbing her forearm. He squeezed it hard, his skinny fingers and sharp nails pushing into her flesh.
‘I think you’d better go, Marty,’ he said, his face level with hers, ‘before you do something you might regret.’
Marty held his gaze, staring into his small dark eyes. Reptilian eyes, mean with malice, she thought as she wrenched her arm from his grip.
He patted down his jacket as if he’d been soiled by touching her. ‘I’m not a vindictive man,’ he said, ‘and so I may, under the circumstances, be prepared to forget this little contretemps.’
Marty stared him down, refusing to give him the upper hand.
‘Or,’ he whispered, his face so close Marty could feel his breath on her cheek, ‘You might have a visit from the police this evening.’
***
CHAPTER 4
Joe checked his watch. Quarter to ten. He’d been told to be here at ten thirty prompt. Typical of the man to make him wait. When the buzzer sounded, Joe looked at Carole, who nodded and whispered, ‘Good luck.’
Joe wondered what Carole knew that he didn’t, but had no time to ask. The heavy wooden door behind him swung open and a familiar voice boomed, ‘Joe! Come in, come in.’
As he stepped over the threshold, Joe held out his hand but Thomas Smeaton had already turned his back and was walking towards his desk. ‘I think you know Councillor Cooper, Chair of the Education Committee?’
‘And Vice-Chair of Finance,’ added the woman, patting her hair with the flat of her hand. Her perfectly coiffed head looked as out of place on her huge body as a cherry on a dumpling.
Joe knew her from a previous meeting. She had sat there like an oversized troll, contributing nothing but a vague sense of threat. She was not on Joe’s side and his heart sank at the very sight of her. With a stiff smile on his lips, he inclined his head towards her, acknowledging her presence, if not her power.
‘Right then, Joe. What is it you wanted to see me about?’
‘I sent you a paper, laying out the points I wanted to discuss. Did you have a chance to read it?’
Smeaton gestured to the expanse of empty desk that lay like a desert between them. ‘Don’t seem to have it to hand. Remind us what it was about. Briefly, if you will.’
This too was typical of Smeaton. He knew exactly what the meeting was about.
‘I was hoping you’d had a chance to re-consider.’
Smeaton and the councillor exchanged a look that said, ‘Not this again.’
Joe pushed on, keen to get his argument in before one of them could say anything. ‘I understand we’re in a recession and I know the council has to make cuts, but,’
‘But you’d like us to make them elsewhere, correct?’
‘I feel I can put up a very good case for keeping the bothy open.’
‘Didn’t we hear all this last time, Tom?’ said Cooper. Although she was leaning close to Smeaton’s ear, she made no attempt to lower her voice.
‘We did, Councillor, but perhaps Joe has new information he wishes to share with us. Joe?’
Joe rubbed at his chin, felt the afternoon stubble on his face and said, ‘Not really, but,’
‘In that case, I’m not sure I understand why you requested this meeting, Joe. We’re all very busy people. At least, those of us who run the service are.’
Joe ignored the implied insult and s
aid, ‘I know we have fewer kids involved in Outdoor Education than we used to, but,’
‘There you are,’ interrupted Smeaton with a smug look at his companion. ‘You’ve put your finger right on it. I remember when we had hundreds of kids involved. How many instructors had we when Matt Harvey was in charge? Six, was it? Or seven?’
Joe nodded, ‘Seven.’
‘And now it’s just you, Joe, and a handful of boys.’
‘No girls?’ asked Cooper.
‘No, Councillor. No girls. Just Joe and a bunch of boys, all on their own up at a secluded bothy in the hills.’
Joe felt his ears go hot, knew they would be burning bright as beacons. He fought to keep his temper under control. Losing it would play right into their hands.
‘The boys who use the service are from the Bankside estate. Getting them out on the hills, away from that drug-infested, gang-run environment, shows them alternative choices. Some of my boys are heading for the armed forces and they’ll do well there. I know they will, because they’re good lads. They just don’t have a chance, living where they do.’
Smeaton reached across the huge desk, holding the flat of his hand out towards Joe’s face. ‘Let me stop you there, Joe, before you have us both in tears.’
Cooper sniggered like a besotted teenager, the sound incongruous with her large, matronly appearance.
‘No. Sorry. I can’t stop,’ said Joe. ‘Kids in Bankside have nothing. No chances, no choices. With Outdoor Education we can save a few. Maybe not all of them, but some. You must have read about the great work Glasgow City Council are doing with their anti-violence initiative?’
‘Glasgow City has a lot more money in their coffers than our wee council in Logiemuir,’ said Cooper, obviously needled by the comparison.
‘I get that, Councillor, but can you think of anything more worth the money than saving young lives?’
Smeaton shook his head, a look of pity on his face, ‘Oh Joe, you’re so naïve. Do you really think Logiemuir Council can afford to keep you and a bunch of neds running about in a minibus, canoeing here, hill-walking there? Grow up, man.’