by Maeve Binchy
‘Don’t go out to any parties or occasions now, if you have flu.’
There was something about the way his mother used the work ‘occasions’ that brought a prickle of tears to Adam’s eyes. It was as moving as Elsie being disappointed not to see Miss Heather’s pleasure at the fire in her bedroom. Mother thought that bank clerks and shopgirls were good worthy people in service industries . . . but she thought of her son Adam as being ‘in banking’ and she assumed that his nice friend Heather was a young lady who would indeed be invited to glittering functions.
‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ he said.
‘Adam my dear, you can’t help having influenza,’ said Mother, and he could hear Louise in the background saying: ‘Oh no, you don’t mean after all this they’re not coming. It’s too bad.’
Fiercely he told himself that it was better this small hurt than two days of misunderstanding and misery. Then Heather came swinging easily along the platform.
‘Any news on the train?’ she asked.
He told her about his sudden call, his mother’s flu, her deep regrets, he added that there had been a fire in her bedroom. Heather looked at him levelly.
‘Yes, really, a fire in your bedroom, Mother had got the sweep to come in and do the chimney specially during the week,’ he said, desperate that she should understand how much welcome had been prepared. After Elsie and Mother’s pain he couldn’t bear it if Heather were flippant.
‘I see,’ she said at last.
‘So, we can just go back, back to London, we can cross the footbridge there,’ he said reading the sign aloud.
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said Heather.
‘And we’re really only losing the cost of the ticket,’ he said eagerly looking at her. ‘That’s all we’re losing.’
‘Sure Adam,’ she said, but he knew from her voice that he was losing a great deal more. He had known that from Mother’s voice too. For once in his life, Adam wondered if there were a danger that he might never grow up.
KING’S CROSS
Eve looked around the office with a practical eye. There was a shabby and rather hastily put together steel shelving system for books and brochures. There were boxes of paper still on the floor. There was a dead plant on the window, and another plant with a Good Luck in Your New Job label dying slowly beside it. The venetian blind was black – there was so much clutter on the window ledge it looked like a major undertaking to try and free the blind. One of the telephones was actually hidden under a pile of literature on the desk. In the corner was a small, cheap and rather nasty-looking table . . . which would be Eve’s if she were to take the job.
And that’s what she was doing now, as she sat in the unappealing room . . . deciding if she would take the job of secretary to Sara Gray. Sara had rushed off to find somebody who knew about holidays and luncheon vouchers and overtime. She had never had a secretary before and had never thought of enquiring about these details before she interviewed Eve. She had pushed the hair out of her eyes and gone galloping off to personnel, which would undoubtedly think her very foolish. Eve sat calmly in the room waiting and deliberating, by the time Sara had bounded back with the information, Eve had already decided to take on Sara Gray. She looked like being the most challenging so far.
Sara heaved a great sigh of relief when she heard that Eve would stay and work with her. She had big kind brown eyes, the kind of eyes you often see shown close up in a movie or a television play to illustrate that someone is a trusting, vulnerable character and therefore likely to be hurt. She looked vague and bewildered, and snowed-under. She sounded as if she needed a personal manager rather than a secretary – and this is where Sara Gray had hit very lucky because that’s what Eve was.
From the outset she was extraordinarily respectful to Sara. She never referred to her as anything but Miss Gray, she called her Miss Gray to her face despite a dozen expostulations from Sara.
‘This is a friendly office,’ Sara cried. ‘I can’t stand you not calling me by my name. It makes me look so snooty. We’re all friends here.’
Eve had replied firmly that it was not a friendly office. It was a very cut-throat company indeed. Eve had asked Sara how many of the women secretaries called their male bosses by their first names. Sara couldn’t work it out. Eve could. None of them. Sara agreed reluctantly that this might be so. Eve pressed home her point. Even the managers and assistant managers on Sara’s level were not going to escape, they all called Sara by her first name because she was a woman, but she felt the need to call many of them Mr. After two days Sara decided that Eve must be heavily into Women’s Lib.
‘There’s no need to fight any battles on my behalf, Eve,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Look at how far I’ve got, and I’m a woman. Nobody held me back just because I’m a downtrodden put-upon female. Did they? I’ve done very well here, and I get recognition for all I do.’
‘Oh no, Miss Gray, you are quite wrong,’ said Eve. ‘You do not get recognition. You are the assistant promotions manager. Everyone knows that you are far better and brighter and work much harder than Mr Edwards. You should be the promotions manager not the assistant.’
Sara looked upset. ‘I thought I could say I’d done rather well,’ she said.
‘Only what you deserve, Miss Gray,’ said Eve who seemed to have acquired a thorough familiarity with the huge travel agency and its tour operations in two days. ‘You should have Mr Edwards’ job. We all know that. You must have it. It’s only fair.’
Sara looked at her, embarrassed.
‘Gosh Eve, it’s awfully nice of you, and don’t think I don’t appreciate it. You’re amazingly loyal. But you really don’t know the score here.’
‘With great respect, Miss Gray, I think it’s you who doesn’t know the score,’ said Eve calmly. ‘It is absolutely possible for you to have Mr Edwards’ job this time next year, I’ll be very glad to help you towards that if you like. I have a little experience in this sort of thing.’
Sara stared at her, not knowing what to say.
‘Miss Gray, I’m going for my lunch now, but can I suggest you do something while I’m gone? Can you telephone one or two of the people on the list of references I gave you? You will notice they are all women; I’ve never worked for men. Ask any one of them whether she thinks it’s a good idea to trust me to help. Then perhaps you might add that you will keep all this very much in confidence . . .’
‘Eve,’ interrupted Sara, her good-natured face looking puzzled, ‘Eve, honestly, this sounds like the mafia or something. I’m not into power struggles, and office back-stabbing . . . I’m just delighted to have someone as bright and helpful as you in the office . . . I don’t want to start a war.’
‘Who said anything about a war, Miss Gray? It’s very subtle, and very gradual and – honestly the best thing is to telephone anyone on that list, it’s there in the file marked Personal.’
‘But won’t they think it rather odd. I mean, I can’t ring up and ask them what do they think of Eve trying to knock Mr Edwards sideways so that I can get his job.’ Sara sounded very distressed.
‘Miss Gray, I have worked in five jobs, for five women, I chose them, they thought they chose me. At the very beginning I told them how a good assistant could help them get where they wanted. Not one of them believed me, I managed in a conversation like this to convince them to let me.’
‘And . . . what happened?’ asked Sara.
‘Ask them, Miss Gray,’ replied Eve, gathering her gloves and bag.
They won’t think I’m er . . .’
‘No, all of them – except the first one, of course – rang someone else to check things out too.’ Eve was gone.
Sara wondered.
You often heard of women becoming a bit strange, perhaps Eve was a bit odd. Far too young to be menopausal or anything, heavens Eve wasn’t even thirty, but it did seem an odd sort of thing to suggest after two days.
Was there a wild possibility that she might have had a secret vendetta for years against Garry E
dwards, the plausible head of promotions, who indeed did not deserve his job, his title, his salary or his influence, since all of these had been made possible only by Sara’s devoted work?
Sara reached for the phone.
‘Sure I know Eve,’ said the pleasant American woman in the big banking group. ‘You are so lucky, Sara, to have her. I offered her any money to stay but she wouldn’t hear of it. She said her job was done. She acts a bit like Superman or the Lone Ranger, she comes in and solves a problem and then sort of zooms off. A really incredible woman.’
‘Can I . . . er . . . ask you what problem she . . . er . . .’ Sara felt very embarrassed.
‘Sure. I wanted to be loans manager, they didn’t take me seriously. Eve showed me how they would, and they did, and now I’m loans manager.’
‘Heavens,’ said Sara. ‘It’s a teeny bit like that here.’
‘Well naturally it is, otherwise Eve wouldn’t have picked you,’ said the loans manager of a distant bank.
‘And how did she . . . um . . . do it?’ persisted Sara.
‘Now this is where I become a little vague,’ the pleasant voice said. ‘It’s simply impossible to explain. In my case there was a whole lot of stuff about my not getting to meet the right people in the bank. Eve noticed that, she got me to play golf.’
‘Golf?’ screamed Sara.
‘I know, I know, I guess I shouldn’t even have told you that much . . . listen, the point is that Eve can see with uncanny vision where women hold themselves back, and work within the system without playing the system properly so – she kinda points out where the system could work for us, and honestly honey, it worked for me, and it sure as hell worked for the woman who Eve worked on before me, she’s practically running industry in this country nowadays. In her case it had something to do with having dinner parties at home.’
‘What?’ said Sara.
‘I know, it sounded crazy to me too, and I got real uneasy, but apparently she needed to show people that she could sort of impress foreign contacts by having them to a meal with grace and style and all pizzazz in her country home. Eve sort of set it up for her with outside caterers and it worked a dream. You see, it’s different for everyone.’
Sara was puzzled. She walked down to the local snack bar and bought a salami sandwich. She ate it thoughtfully on the road coming back to the building. In the lift she heard that Garry Edwards was going to a conference in the Seychelles next week. It was a conference for people who brought out travel brochures, a significant part of promotions for any travel firm. Sara had done all the imaginative travel brochures, Garry Edwards had okayed them. Yet he was going to the Seychelles and she was eating a tired salami sandwich. When she opened her office door Eve was sitting there typing.
‘I’ll do it,’ she said. ‘Whatever it is, play golf, give foolish dinner parties . . . I’ll do it. I want his job. It’s utterly unjust that he’s going to that conference, it’s the most unjust thing I’ve ever known.’
‘He won’t be going to it next year,’ said Eve. ‘Right, Miss Gray, I have a few points ready to discuss with you, shall we put this sign on the door?’
‘What is it?’ Sara asked fearfully.
‘It merely says, “Engaged in Conference”, I made it last night.’ Eve produced a neat card which she then fixed on the outside of the office door.
‘Why are we doing that?’ whispered Sara.
‘Because it is absolutely intolerable the way that people think they can come barging in here, taking advantage of your good nature and picking your brains, interrupting us and disturbing you from whatever you are doing. We need a couple of hours to plan the office design, and it’s no harm to let them see immediately that you are going to regard your job as important. It may only be half the job they should have given you, but don’t worry, you’ll have the right job very soon.’
‘Suppose that the really big brass come along, or Mr Edwards or you know, someone important.’ Sara was still unsure.
‘We are having a conference, about the redesign of your office.’
‘But there isn’t any money to redesign it . . . even if they’d let me.’
‘Yes there is, I’ve been up to the requisition department, in fact they looked you up on the book, and wondered why you hadn’t applied. Whenever you’re ready Miss Gray, we can start.’
Together they worked out how the office should look. It was a big room, but it was in no way impressive; apart from the inferior furniture, its design was all wrong. Eve explained, that a separate cubicle should be built for her near the door. Eve should act as a kind of reception area for Sara, she should call through to announce visitors, even though it was only a distance of a few yards.
‘They’ll walk past and come straight on in,’ said Sara.
‘Not if I walk after them and ask can I help them. They won’t do it twice, Miss Gray,’ said Eve and Sara realised that most of them wouldn’t even do it once.
The costing of the partition was not enormous, and it left a reasonable amount for the rest of the furnishings.
‘We’ll have the filing section in my part since you shouldn’t really have to be looking things up yourself, Miss Gray, but it will of course be kept in a very meticulous way so you can always find anything.’
‘What will I have in my part of the office then?’ asked Sara humbly.
Eve stood up and walked around. ‘I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, Miss Gray. You are really the ideas woman here. I’m sorry, I know it’s jargon, but that’s what you do for the promotions department. You thought up that whole idea about choosing a holiday from your stars in the zodiac and that worked, you thought of having a travel agents’ conference in that railway station which suited them all since they had to come from all over the country and go back again by train. You thought up the scheme of having children write the section for children’s holidays, so I think that this is what you should be doing really. Thinking. And let me handle the routine things, you know, the letters about “Can you trace what we did about Portugal two years ago?” If the filing system works properly then anyone will be able to do that for you. I’ll set it up so that at least four-fifths of your incoming mail can be handled by any competent secretary. That should give you a great deal more time to do what you are really good at.’
Sara looked hopeful but not convinced.
‘Me just sit in here with a chair?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think it’s on Eve, I really don’t. You know they’d think I’d gone mad.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting a chair. I was going to suggest a long narrow conference table. Something in nice wood, we could look at auctions or in an antique shop. And about six chairs. Then, for you a small writing desk. Again something from an old house possibly, with your telephone and your own big diary and notebook, a few periodicals and trade magazines or directories you need, that’s all.’
‘Eve, in God’s name, what is the long conference table for. Eve, I am the assistant promotions manager, not the chairman of the board. I don’t give conferences, call meetings, ask my superiors to come in here with the hope of blinding them about policy.’
‘You should,’ said Eve simply. ‘Listen,’ she went on. ‘Remember that children writing the brochure idea? It was marvellous. I’ve been looking through the files, you got not one word of credit, no letter, no mention, no thanks even. I would not be at all surprised if you, Mr Edwards and I are the only people who know you thought it up, and the only reason I know is that I see entries in your diary about going to schools and talking to children and spending a lot of your free time working on it. Edwards got the praise, the thanks and the job, for not only that but for everything you did. Because you didn’t do it right.’
‘It worked, though,’ said Sara defensively.
‘Miss Gray, of course the idea worked, it was brilliant, I remember seeing those brochures long before I ever knew you, and I thought they were inspired. What I mean is that it didn’t work for you, here within the company. Next time,
I suggest you invite Mr Edwards and his boss and the marketing director and one or two others to drop in quite casually – don’t dream of saying you are calling a meeting, just suggest that they might all like to come into your office one afternoon. And then, at a nice table where there is plenty of room and plenty of style, put forward your plans. That way they’ll remember you.’
‘Yes, I know, in theory you’re right, Eve . . . but honestly, I’m not the type. I’m jolly old Sara Gray, with a nice, jolly, hopeless lover who comes and goes at home – and who is gone at the moment. And they all say to themselves, “poor Sara, not a bad old thing” – none of them would take me at a rosewood conference table for one minute Eve, they’d either corpse themselves laughing or else they’d think I was having a breakdown, they’d fire me. And you.’
Eve didn’t look at all put out. ‘I wasn’t suggesting calling a conference tomorrow, I was suggesting having the furniture right. If you are someone who is valuable to the company for her ideas, you should have a space to think up these ideas, a platform to present them on, and the just recognition for them.’
‘You’re right,’ Sara said suddenly. ‘What else?’
‘I think you should get into the habit of having Mr Edwards and others coming to this office, by appointment of course, rather than you rushing to theirs. It makes you more important. That’s why we need the right furniture. Mr Edwards has an office like an aeroplane hangar, and very well laid out, I’ve inspected it. But yours could have a charm, it could become the place where ideas were discussed say on one particular evening a week, a Thursday, before people left. It would be relaxing, and pleasant, and you would be in control.’
As they talked on, it got darker outside, and they switched on the bright neon overhead light.
‘That’ll have to go for a start,’ said Eve. ‘It’s far too harsh, there’s no style, no warmth.’
A few times the door had been half-opened, but whenever people saw the two heads bent over the desk and lists, they muttered apologies and backed out.