Читать книгу The Earlier Trials of Alan Mewling - A.C. Bland - Страница 10

He stopped by the lavatories on his way to the lifts and was thankful not to encounter anyone seeking secrets or sympathy. Two floors above, he wasn’t required to wait. The executive assistant showed him straight into Brian Gulliver’s office, where Alan’s always sensitive nose detected the citrus and spicy lavender notes of Eau Savage.

“Have a seat,” said the first assistant secretary, gesturing grandly towards a pair of chairs in front of a desk considerably larger than Marcus Mecklenburg’s.

While Gulliver read something on his screen, Alan looked at the diplomas, awards and photographs on the walls and thought about the embarrassingly ordinary training certificates he’d have been forced to arrange around his lone testamur if promoted to high office.

The fact that he’d not been awarded any secretary’s commendations for individual achievement, had never received team awards for completing important projects and hadn’t been seconded to elite task forces of any sort (let alone to foreign civil services or international administrative bodies) caused him to conclude with certainty that he wasn’t about to be quizzed about his readiness for honours.

The undeniable truth – that he’d never been photographed receiving a plaque or a statuette from a dignitary, had never been granted a departmental scholarship for post-graduate study and had never been invited by relevant institutes or think tanks to share his thoughts on the future of public administration – also dashed his hopes of mercy measures to spare him redundancy.

“All of that’s just ephemera,” said Gulliver, dropping into the chair beside Alan and peering through his horn-rimmed bifocals at a younger, blonder version of himself receiving something framed from a very important personage. “It’s relationships that are the crucial things.”

“I suppose so,” said Alan, wondering whether Gulliver’s remark had been about the importance of family and friendships, or about the need for mentors, networks and alliances in the struggle for advancement. Either way, it seemed to him that he had precious little to boast about.

“Anyway, how are you?” said the division head, flicking something invisible off one of his shoes.

Alan wondered whether it was appropriate to admit his fears about the future. “I’m shaken, of course, by this morning’s announcements,” he replied.

“You’ll find something to do with yourself, if matters can’t be fixed.”

It was now clear to Alan that no special arrangements were to be made for him.

“And not everything can be fixed. You know that.”

“Yes,” said Alan.

“And this is a great opportunity to rethink your life, find something you’re more suited for and take on new challenges.”

Alan wanted to remind his one-time subordinate that public administration, as practised at the lower levels, was awash with challenges… and that, even at the outset of his career (with a second-class honours degree in classics and no ideas of his own) there was nothing he was more suited to or for. “I suppose so,” he said.

“Truth be known, I envy you the opportunity to clear the decks and start afresh. I’d swap with you tomorrow.”

But tomorrow, Alan mused, was always a day away.

“And if, as I understand is the case, there have been changes to your domestic arrangements …”

How news of the Monst’s escape had come to the attention of Gulliver was a mystery to Alan. First assistant secretaries were usually too busy for frivolous talk, other than with other senior officers or ministers and ministerial advisers.

“… and, uh, your wife ─ what’s her name, again?”

“Eleanor,” said Alan.

“Yes, Elena, of course… and now that she is … now that you’ve gone your separate ways…”

“Yes,” said Alan, attempting to establish from the look on Gulliver’s face, whether the true circumstances of Eleanor’s departure – that she had left him for another woman – were yet known to others. He saw no sly amusement and no thinly veiled contempt, so deduced that his secret was still safe.

“You have the perfect opportunity,” said Gulliver, “to make change your friend and do something audacious or adventurous: something entirely out of character.”

On the last occasion on which change had been numbered among Alan’s acquaintances, he’d grown a modest moustache, which, according to Morton, made him look shifty, rather than distinguished. As for “audacious” and “adventurous”, these were not terms with any tenure in Alan’s vocabulary, except as descriptors of imprudent government initiatives.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Alan said (meaning in fact “you couldn’t be more wrong”), “but I think it’s a pity that things should come to an end with the advisory committee.”

“Oh, I don’t know that the government has made any decisions on that front,” said Gulliver.

The fact that the public service seemed to no longer value the qualities he embodied was disappointing to Alan. But the possibility that his committee – for that’s how he tended to think of it – could, after all the work he’d done to place it on the right procedural and strategic footing, be taken over by someone else – someone not familiar with the shortcomings of the members and with the traps into which they would surely fall without the right guidance – was something more disturbing than dispiriting. The fact that someone else – anyone else – might be thought suitable for the many and arduous duties which Alan had discharged over the years, demonstrated just how little his role was understood and appreciated by those in charge.

“But we shouldn’t dally,” said Gulliver, looking at his watch. “We need to talk about the particular problem I’d like your assistance with.”

Alan could only think about the ease with which others now seemed to categorise him as a man whose sun had set, whose moment had come and gone, and whose passing was worthy of no special valediction.

“I have a minor difficulty,” said Gulliver, “which has come to me in my capacity as the senior executive responsible for the departmental social committee.”

Alan forced himself to focus. Even at this late hour in the drama, though his colleagues and committee might be lost, there could still, surely, be an opportunity to impress others with his strategic skills, his attention to detail and his diligence … and thereby cause himself to be spared.

“The lady quilters – and I think that in the privacy of this office we can refer to them by that once revered name – have, sadly, given up the struggle.”

Alan had never thought of quilting as a particularly combative or dangerous activity but was prepared to turn his mind to an organisational eulogy, if that was all Brian Gulliver required of him.

“Their membership has fallen below the number necessary to retain their subsidy and keep their weekly amenities room booking, and they have, accordingly, notified the social committee convener of their intention to hold their last meeting on the day before Christmas.”

Alan noted that the final meeting day of the lady quilters and his own final day at work were likely to be one and the same.

“Confidentially, I can inform you that the quilters’ decline was brought to our attention a while ago by another subsidised organisation, to which a number of quilting persons had previously defected. It wasn’t easy, though, to get the quilting office holders to come clean.”

Alan believed he knew the identity of the other subsidised organisation, for the quilters and the cross-stitchers had been subgroups of the same Women’s Craft Association until a falling out – the original cause now long forgotten – had resulted in an irreparable rift.

“Within minutes of the vacancy becoming official, the Christian Fellowship─”

“–currently meeting on Mondays.”

“─indicated they were keen to swap to Fridays, when attendances are higher and there are fewer public holidays.”

“Understandable,” said Alan.

“Until they heard that the Muslims were trying to get Friday, in addition to the Tuesday they already have.”

“The Muslims wanted two days?” said Alan, trying not to appear irrationally concerned.

“They never indicated as much until they mistakenly thought that the Christians were determined to have days at both the beginning and end of the week.”

“Dear me,” exclaimed Alan.

“─at which point, of course, the Christians did indicate a keenness to have both Mondays and Fridays.

“I see,” said Alan.

“But when the belly dancers and cross-stitchers ─”

“─sharing Wednesdays.”

“─and the meditaters and lip readers─”

“─on Thursdays.”

“─found out that the two religious groups both expected a second day…”

“They wanted two, too,” said Alan, “as in, two as well.”

“Or at least one day to themselves, by themselves.”

“Most unfortunate,” said Alan.

“And soon after that, the public speakers, who currently meet off-site, owing to a shortage of venues, registered interest in the spare day.”

“They do have a case,” said Alan.

“As did the bonsai people, who we all thought had disbanded, but had apparently been operating… well… underground, under a different name.”

“That's a surprise,” said Alan, recalling the campaign against the bonsai club a decade before by a group of women passionately opposed to plant torture. He recalled hunger strikes, petitions for and against, threats and counter threats, melees, bra burning (for no obvious reason) police intervention and, finally, removal of the club (in the cause of peace) from the amenities room roster.

“The Christians have indicated they are not prepared to turn the other cheek vis-a-vis the Moslems and, might I say, vice versa.”

Alan tut-tutted.

“Both have stated that they’ll claim discrimination should the other be granted a second day.”

Alan gave silent thanks for the willingness of Hindus, Buddhists, Confucians, Sikhs, animists and devil worshippers to perform their rituals at sites away from the workplace. He was especially pleased that persons engaged in the worship of fertility gods (whose statuary often seemed to feature impossibly distended body parts) had not joined the department in significant numbers.

“The meditaters,” Gulliver continued, “have said all manner of intemperate things and one of the belly dancers made me an offer of an intimate nature that would not have amused Mrs Gulliver, even though, of course, we have been married for many years and are no longer interested in those sorts of activities. As for the crossstitchers – did I mention them earlier?”

“Only in passing,” said Alan.

“They claim their share arrangement with the belly dancers – which came about because the meditaters, Moslems and Christians couldn’t abide chatter during their rites – has run its course.”

“They’ve also got a point,” said Alan.

“And last Thursday morning…” Gulliver shook his head.

“There’s more?” Alan enquired.

“Yes. Last Thursday morning the social committee received an application for the vacancy from a new group calling itself Departmental Embroiderers, which has the same office holders and members as the Cross-Stitch Society: a pathetically transparent attempt to secure a second day under a different banner. Do these people think we are idiots?”

Alan thought it best to treat this question as a rhetorical one.

“If all of that wasn’t bad enough, on Friday I received expressions of interest from a Budgerigar Appreciation Society – I can’t begin to imagine what the cleaners’ union will have say about their gatherings – from a group of highland dancers (do we really want people on-site with swords and a tendency to obstreperousness?) and finally – wait for it – from a wine appreciation group, whose members seem to think that the secretary would be perfectly happy to have a bunch of soaks – proponents, I dare say, of the liquid lunch – staggering around, causing all manner of trouble on departmental premises on Friday afternoons.”

Alan could appreciate the likely problem with budgerigars; the thought of lice, droppings and encephalitis filled him with revulsion. He readily understood, too, the danger in allowing persons with Scottish tendencies to wander about the department in possession of long, sharp objects, and would have owned, if questioned, to an abhorrence of music produced with an instrument that needed to be inflated, squeezed and fingered.

He was mystified, however, by Gulliver’s objection to post-prandial drunkenness because, although he rarely indulged in more than a single glass of claret at a lunchtime celebration, he’d observed that others weren’t so abstemious when presented with an excuse (or any excuse) for excess. Indeed, there had even been occasions in the distant past when he’d observed Gulliver to be incoherent, flushed and feckless while sporting a loosened necktie after the luncheon break.

“And this morning there were still more applications. So, we need a solution to this mess,” said Gulliver, “by the time we all head off for Christmas.”

“One that, presumably, gives them all hope … but no cause for later criticism.”

“Something beyond a “name from hat” exercise,” said Gulliver.

“Of course,” said Alan, thinking that almost any chance-reliant process was likely to unite the contenders in contempt for the social committee, Gulliver and the department.

“Are you willing to take the problem on?” said the first assistant secretary, leaning forward to pick up the only file on his desk.

It occurred to Alan that the task was being allocated to him because he was “for the chop” and because, in a situation where there was likely to be widespread dissatisfaction with any outcome, there was organisational advantage in the person responsible having left the department.

He was also aware that he had at his disposal credible excuses not to be involved, including his final committee meeting for the year, the need to devise and deliver the blitzkrieg filing workshops, and the need to prepare hand-over materials for whoever was being given custody of his committee. And his capacity to complete even these tasks would be constrained if industrial action was taken by clerical union members, or if he was caught up in an investigation of the toilet incident.

He knew, too, that most of his colleagues would have felt no obligation to work on a fiendishly complex issue, once they’d been earmarked for redundancy. They’d have claimed to owe their employer nothing or would have concluded that, if they weren’t skilled, experienced and talented enough to be kept in harness, they obviously weren’t skilled, experienced and talented enough to take on an intractable problem.

But Alan still harboured hope for a stay of vocational execution and briefly imagined himself presenting an ingenious proposal to Gulliver that not only solved the Friday amenities room problem but earned him a retrenchment reprieve and assorted honours: perhaps a departmental scholarship or speaking invitations from professional bodies or even a public service medal or two.

“I’ll do my best with it,” he said.

“Good,” said Gulliver. “But in secret.”

This last requirement made Alan even more keen to take on the task.

“Any preliminary brainwaves?” Gulliver enquired.

“Merit selection would be first on my list.”

“Anything else?”

Alan was a bit hard pressed for more brilliant ideas off the top of his head. “I’d also consider slotting in an activity that is more germane to the role and functions of the department,” he answered, too brightly. “Something to fill the Friday spot and thereby make the problem go away.”

“Such as?” asked Gulliver, puzzled.

“Perhaps a weekly meeting of departmental history enthusiasts.”

“People interested in the history of the department, rather than history enthusiasts on staff?”

“Yes,” said Alan, beaming.

“Do you think you’ll be able to drum up the necessary 20 members?”

“You don’t think people would find the subject fascinating?”

“I have my doubts.”

“Then what about a study group, rather than a recreational club, minimum numbers unnecessary: Great Achievements in Public Administration. That’s bound to be popular.”

“Can you think of any?’

“Any?

“Any great achievements?”

Alan could recall quite a few but, sensing a want of enthusiasm on Gulliver’s part, pressed on with an alternative.

“Then, something a bit meatier like great moments in the history of record keeping.”

“Even if you can find someone who’s interested in the subject, it seems unlikely, doesn’t it, that you’d have enough material to take you past Easter.”

Alan was undeterred. “Or public administration through the ages, commencing with the Sumerians. By Easter we’d be barely into the post-classical period.”

“Well, give the problem some thought,” said Gulliver, seemingly unconvinced by any of Alan’s suggestions, “and report back to me by the end of the week.”

They stood up and the Alan took receipt of the file.

“I know you’re the man for this,” said the first assistant secretary.

For the third time that day, Alan’s chest swelled with pride, even though he knew, instinctively, that flattery was no antidote to the poisoned chalice, and that praise from someone unwilling to save his career was probably no praise at all.