Читать книгу The Earlier Trials of Alan Mewling - A.C. Bland - Страница 9

Six of the real directors and the Business Unit Manager were waiting outside Miserable Mecklenburg’s office when Alan arrived.

“He’s on the phone to Brian,” said Peaches, for Alan’s benefit, “but he won’t be long.”

“Perhaps we should come back later,” said one of the directors.

“Yes, things don’t stop happening because we are being abolished,” said another.

“He does know you’re here,” said Peaches.

“In fact, I’m busier,” said a third director, “because we are being abolished.”

“If he wanted to reschedule, I’m sure he’d have told me,” said Peaches, as the branch head’s door opened.

“Sorry to have kept you all,” said Miserable. “Come in.”

The table seated eight, comfortably. Alan as the ninth, last and lowest ranking attendee, took one of the two vacant seats against the wall.

“Still no Lorrae?” asked Miserable, looking at Alan.

This might have been an opportunity for him to announce, in a jocular tone, that he was impersonating his absent leader. However, the events of the morning – topped off by the message about the staff freeze and the assault on Hemingway – disinclined him to make light of matters.

“She sends her apologies,” he lied.

“I think I’ll dispatch one of my minions to cover for me next week,” said one of the directors, in a voice just loud enough to be heard by the rest.

“Me, too,” said a second.

“Now, now,” said Miserable. “I think we’re aware that Lorrae hasn’t been herself. And it would be a pity, wouldn’t it, to deny her our empathy and compassion at this late stage in the piece?”

No one seemed much impressed by this plea.

“Or to be discarding our collective sense of purpose, unity and mutual respect.”

Alan had little doubt that this last line had been perfected in the course of repeated earlier use in the offices of the various disgraced ministers. The directors around the table looked to be unmoved by it.

“And I’m sure we all welcome Alan.”

Alan smiled and looked along the twin rows of attendees. No one smiled back.

“Now, I’ve been, as you probably know, on the phone to Brian, trying to get some understanding of what this staff freeze means for us and for our redeployment prospects … and I think it’s fair to say that at the moment, the situation isn’t exactly clear.”

“When do you think it will become clear?” asked one of the directors.

“I can’t honestly say,” said Miserable.

“If not clear, then what about, say, a bit limpid or pellucid?” asked a second director, straight-faced.

Miserable looked the enquirer in the eye, probably trying to discern whether the question was a joke or not. “I don’t think I’m currently in a position to speculate on a specific time when all will be certain,” he answered, seeming to give the enquirer the benefit of the doubt.

“If ‘clear’ is too hard to predict,” said a third director, getting into the spirit of things, “what about a date by which things might be intermittently opaque, assuming, of course, that “translucent’, ‘diaphanous’ and ‘see-through’ are all states too difficult to envisage.”

This enquiry confirmed Alan’s suspicion that any previous sense of propriety concomitant with courtesy, custom or a concern for promotion had been made superfluous by the prospect of redundancy.

“Are these serious questions?” said Miserable in his best Principal Media Adviser’s voice.

“Most certainly,” answered the initial enquirer. “I have people who want to know where they stand: long-term staff who’ll want to scale-up Christmas, if they are to be awash with redundancy cash, and short-term staff who will want to scale down, if they’re going to be at the dole office in the new year.”

“People need to have some idea of what the future holds for them,” said the second enquirer.

“And it isn’t just a matter,” said the third, “of whether they’ll be having chicken nuggets for Christmas lunch or—”

“— the whole turkey,” said a fourth.

The hybrid, nonsensical expression “chicken nuggets or the whole turkey” was repeated in approving tones around the table but Alan resisted the temptation to make a note of it in his workbook.

“I take all of that on board,” said Miserable. “And I want you to know that Brian and I are doing all we can to resolve matters. We certainly hope for some clarity by the end of the week or early next week.”

“Will that include finding out why we are being abolished in the first place?” said a heretofore silent director.

“I want an explanation as much as you do,” said Miserable.

“People need closure,” said the chicken nugget director. “They demand and deserve it.”

Alan wrote “All deserve closure” in his notebook, while wondering what people did to achieve a sense of finality in times before it had been identified, named and regarded as a right.

“Closure,” said Miserable. “Of course.” He wrote a note in his own workbook. “Now, before we each report on upcoming meetings and work in hand, there are a few matters I need to make brief mention of.”

Alan settled himself into his seat. Reference to a ‘brief mention’ was a sure sign that they were in for a long session.

“The first matter is one of some sensitivity and concerns an incident which some of you will know took place in the photocopy room last week.”

Around the table directors tried to disguise happy faces at the recollection of Quentin Quist being taught a thing or two about the gentlemanly arts by Azure Faraday, following a flagrant unsolicited bum fondle: him of hers while she was bending over to refill an empty paper tray.

“While neither of the individuals concerned has elected to take the matter further and no formal complaint has been made, Personnel arranged, last week, for one of the individuals to be temporarily transferred to another branch.”

“And good riddance, too,” said the whole turkey director. “The man is a disgrace.”

“Hear, hear,” said his chicken nugget equivalent.

Even the special projects director – who was usually silent at their meetings, lest he let slip something about the secret work he was engaged in – joined the murmurs of agreement. Quentin Quist had clearly made no friends in the weeks he’d insisted on attending directors’ meetings in Lorrae’s place.

“For my part,” Miserable continued, “I want you to know that I will not abide fisticuffs in the workplace and will not tolerate sexual harassment of any sort.”

Alan wrote “M: no affrays or advances” in his workbook and thought about Quist’s attack on Hemingway, before wondering briefly about (a) the banana left by persons unknown on his desk the previous week; (b) Hemingway’s ogling of his crotch earlier that morning; and (c) the undertaking given by Hemingway, just minutes before, not to peek too long in the event of a shared tinkle.

“Consistent with my zero-tolerance policy and notwithstanding the brief time we may yet spend together as a branch, I have asked our Sexual Harassment Contact Officer, Ms Wheelwright, to make appointments with all section heads – and, of course, Alan – to discuss further preventive actions.”

Alan’s sensitive antennae picked up silent groans in all quarters.

“Any questions?”

Alan wrote the words “pre-holiday harassment harangues” in his workbook.

“Only one,” said the Business Unit Manager. “Has Quentin managed–“

“–I’d rather we didn’t use the names of people involved in the incident,” said Miserable.

Anonymity seemed pointless to Alan, as the identities of harasser and victim had been known to everyone on the floor within minutes of Azure’s tiny fist making contact with Quentin’s left eye. A highly efficient gossip network had ensured as much; so had the heightened observational skills of Peaches Trefusis, who’d approached the copy room just as Quentin Quist’s trembling hand reached out to one of the irresistible cheeks.

The Business Unit Manager attempted to put her question to Miserable a second time.

“Has the redeployed officer, whose name we all know but are not permitted to mention, escaped redundancy by being redeployed?”

This possibility hadn’t occurred to Alan. Groans from the various directors indicated that they, too, hadn’t foreseen such an outcome.

“I don’t think we’re talking about any forced redundancies just yet,” said Miserable.

“But you agree,” said the chicken nugget director, “that it wouldn’t be a good look if we ended up without employment simply because we weren’t badly behaved enough to be transferred away from the branch.”

Everyone took a moment to sort out the intent of this seemingly impenetrable statement. Alan then wrote “perverse indecency incentive” in his notebook. He anticipated that Morton, who was usually a step ahead of events, would soon enough be raising the same issue.

“I take issue with a number of elements of your question,” said Miserable, “but am, at the same time, quite aware of the various ways in which the situation you mention might be viewed by others, should it transpire.”

Alan wrote “QQ sidesteps sack?” in his notebook.

“If there are no more questions…?” said Miserable.

There were none.

“Good. The other matter I wanted to speak to you about concerns redundancies, more generally.”

Alan readied himself for more notes.

“We know from past experience that there will be some staff members who, to press their claims for retrenchment, will now behave in peculiar ways.”

Alan thought about previous redundancy rounds and the strategies employed by individuals to create the impression of mental instability, so as to secure places on the list of departing officers. A few nudists were always to be expected, as were figures from popular culture, history and literature – all appropriately costumed, except for the naturists – as well as persons entitled to wear uniforms of various sorts, including members of the constabulary and the military. His personal favourites, though, were always colleagues who pretended to be less exuberant members of the animal kingdom. He recalled a Clerk Class 11 who’d assumed the persona of a wombat, spending the day (excluding the lunch-time grocery-shopping opportunity) silent and under his desk. He recalled, too, a Clerical Assistant Grade 9 mountain goat who’d wandered amiably around the office, chewing on pot plants and unattended shoes, and, finally, a Murray Cod Typist Supervisor who’d forsaken conversation for occasional open-mouthed tongue-clicking noises intended to approximate the sound of bubbles either leaving the fish-mouth or reaching the water’s surface.

“We will doubtless have the usual range of the unclothed, of exotic indigenes, of historical figures and so forth: people from the branch who are determined to be made redundant if it transpires that we are not to be completely abolished. There may also be officers from the broader department who want to be at the top of the list, if all of our positions are to go and the usual job-swap arrangements are in place.”

While Miserable took a big gulp from his mug, Alan started to assemble a list of assistant directors who might be keen to swap with him.

“There will always be officers who want to be certain of a golden handshake,” said Miserable, before taking an even bigger swig of coffee. “But I want you to know – and I want your people to know – that I will not be rewarding bad behaviour this time around. Indeed, I refuse to entertain expressions of interest in redundancy from anyone acting strangely, unless of course they happen to have been ‘a screw loose’ for quite some time.”

In Alan’s experience, such principled statements of intention rarely resulted in a happy outcome. He wrote “no farewell funds for phonies” in his workbook, before crossing the text out in favour of “no pecuniary prizes for pretenders”.

“And anyone who is at any point naked in the workplace – even if they are disrobing at their desk and getting dressed, again, before moving about the office – will not be considered for redundancy in any circumstances. Indeed, they can expect to be referred to the Commonwealth Medical Officer for the most exhaustive psychological testing, with disciplinary action to follow, if found not to be loopy.”

Alan wrote “nude to Dr and disciplined if not deranged” in his notebook, while a few of the directors sighed and the remainder sniggered.

“How likely is it that anyone working here would be found to be normal?” scoffed the chicken nuggets director.

Alan thought himself to be almost abnormally normal but decided not to cavil with the proposition. Miserable, too, seemed to think it undeserving of attention.

“I have nothing against nudity at the right time and place – when bathing or at the doctor’s, or perhaps on the occasion of a same-sex sauna with Finnish familiars – but the appropriate time is not now or any time soon, and the appropriate place is certainly not here or – now I think about it – anywhere remotely near here.”

Alan wrote “no undress except ablutions, medical or Scandinavia” in his workbook.

“And I refuse – yes, refuse – to spend my days responding to complaints from the clothed about the unclothed, as I was required to do during previous redundancy rounds. That said, though, I don’t want you remonstrating with anyone who is naked. I think we’ve had quite enough workplace violence in recent times, don’t you?”

Alan wrote “no admonish unclad” in his workbook and thought guiltily about the violence visited upon Ernest Hemingway by Quentin Quist. Miserable refilled his mug.

“What I require of you until further notice is a weekly list of staff in your sections who are behaving strangely.”

“That will be all of them,” said the chicken nuggets director.

“The same for me,” said his whole turkey counterpart.

Miserable ignored the murmurs of agreement around the table.

“And a daily update on the birthday suit brigade – who, what where and when – so that I can keep Brian fully apprised of developments.”

“As if we haven’t got enough to do,” said one of the other directors.

“But I want you to otherwise pay as little attention as you can to naked individuals.”

Alan wrote “report nude daily but ignore” in his workbook.

“We all know that attention only encourages them,” said the special projects director, to everyone’s surprise.

“Quite so,” said Miserable. “Otherwise, in the current circumstances, our mantra needs to be ‘business as usual’. Well, actually, ‘business as usual plus a lot more filing.’”

“Filing,” exclaimed a number of the directors as Alan wrote “b as u” in his notebook.

“Yes,” said Miserable, “filing, in case we don’t have January to get all of the paper off people’s desks and out of their trays.”

“Some of my people will need assistance with this,” said a director to Miserable’s right.

“Because of the volume of unfiled material?” asked the Business Unit Manager.

“Because they don’t understand the fundamentals.”

“How hard is it,” asked Miserable, “to whip a hole into a piece of paper and then bung it onto a file?”

Alan wanted to pipe up and say, in a respectful but firm tone, that he believed there to be a good deal more to filing than hole ‘whipping’ and file ‘bunging’, but the Business Unit Manager had issues of her own to raise.

“How can public servants not know about filing?” she asked.

“We were journalists before we were public servants,” said another of the directors.

“And the rest of us didn’t have other lives?” said the Business Unit Manager.

Alan certainly didn’t think of himself as having a previous life – at least not one of any substance – but, again, kept his own counsel.

“We’ll sort this out later,” said Miserable. “Perhaps Alan, who is reputed to have expertise in this area, could deliver some lightning filing workshops to get your people up to speed.”

Alan liked to think of himself as the filer nonpareil and, for the second time that day, felt a rush of pride at being selected for an ‘out of the ordinary’ assignment. He wrote “Einreichung Blitzkriegs” in his notebook.

“In the meantime, though,” said Miserable, “is everybody clear on my requirements as regards the redundancy try-ons?”

The directors all nodded reluctant agreement.

“Peaches will distribute forms for your reports.”

The directors all made notations in their workbooks.

Had Peaches not popped her head through the door, Alan would then have sat through the usual summary of the work being done in each section (except by the special project director).

“Brian is free,” Peaches said, “to see Alan about that other matter.”

Alan flinched. Why would his first assistant secretary - or any first assistant secretary, for that matter – want to see him?

The lavatory encounter between Quist and Hemingway, even if promptly reported by one or both, couldn’t already be known of by such a senior officer. After all, there were protocols to be complied with and procedures to be worked through.

And, anyway, Quist surely wouldn’t have acted so precipitately to place his reputation at further risk … and Hemingway couldn’t have recanted so quickly his decision to not notify the appropriate authorities. But even if one or both had decided to bring their version(s) of the incident to the attention of Personnel and/or a Sexual Harassment Contact Officer, how could the matter have been reported, and then been discussed by Miserable and Brian Gulliver, in the brief time between Quist making good his escape and the commencement of the section heads’ meeting?

Still further, why would anyone want to involve him, bearing in mind that he hadn’t actually seen anything, other than the aftermath of the alleged fracas?

What, accordingly, could the first assistant secretary – who’d once been Alan’s (not very satisfactory) graduate assistant – want from him? None of the work done by Alan, in his capacity as a mere assistant director would normally have warranted discussion with anybody above the rank of assistant secretary, at best. And the catering arrangements for Gulliver’s annual “Senior Executive Only” Christmas party were usually communicated to Alan by an executive assistant; they hadn’t necessitated the direct involvement of the host, himself, for years.

Maybe, though, Alan’s section was to be secretly quarantined from retrenchments, and Brian didn’t want the rest of the branch – meaning the journalists, with their ignorance of the filing essentials – to know. But if that was the case, surely Miserable, who evidently knew something about the reason for Alan’s summons, could have kept him back after the directors’ gathering to give him the news (and not have taken up Gulliver’s valuable time with such a trivial matter).

Then a startling thought occurred to him: one so bizarre that he almost dismissed it from further consideration. He flipped it gently away to the periphery of his consciousness, as many as three additional times, before he accepted that resistance was futile and that he had no option but to think it possible that, in his final days – and as a way of softening the blow of early retirement – he was to be granted his heart’s most secret and cherished wish: he was, at last, to receive the Public Service Medal he’d so long thought himself deserving of.

And hadn’t stranger things happened? Hadn’t so many of the unworthy been rewarded before him? Common sense told him, however, that the various approvals could not have been obtained in such a short time and that Gulliver’s reasons for seeing him were unlikely to be altruistic. Indeed, he was more likely to have been summoned so the first assistant secretary could witness the pain he (Alan) felt at the prospect of redundancy and at the orphaning of his committee. If that wasn't the case, his presence was probably required in the hope that he would shame himself by breaking down and begging for his job.

“Yes, Alan,” said Miserable, “Brian requires your help with a little task.”

Alan smiled wanly.

“Off you go.”

“You won’t be coming with me?” said Alan.

Officers in the lower ranks, if involved in meetings with first assistant secretaries, were invariably silent onlookers or note takers, and never unchaperoned.

“No, I’ve been fully briefed,” said Miserable, pointing towards the door. “Don’t keep Brian waiting.”

All eyes were on Alan as he rose from the table. He left much as a junior boarder, summoned unexpectedly to the headmaster’s study at afternoon tea time, did i.e. with hopes of reward (perhaps a cup of tea and a Chelsea bun) but more realistic expectations of punishment (at least detention and certainly a thrashing).

The directors watched him go and not one of them wished him – as someone momentarily in the spotlight – any good fortune.