The Husband's Story (7 page)

‘I know what it says,' she reminded him, being careful to keep her own voice low this time. ‘I told you. And it's no use just going on about it like. We've got to do something, haven't we?'

‘Like what?'

‘Like going to see Mr Winters, like he asks,' she told him. ‘Like telling Mr Winters about the new job. Once he knows your salary's going up, he'll stop worrying.'

‘But I haven't got the job yet,' he reminded her. ‘It's only the interview, remember.'

‘Well, it's the same thing, isn't it?' she asked. ‘You as good as told me. Mr Winters doesn't expect to be paid back tomorrow. All he wants to do is to make sure.'

She gave a little laugh as she said it because everything suddenly seemed so much better. The old, awful feeling of misery merging into despair had gone completely. In its place a new, placid confidence had settled in. She felt relieved, even carefree. And, because Stan was still wearing his dumb, hopeless expression, she tried to reassure him.

‘After all, that's what a bank's for, isn't it?' she added, ‘to lend money like.'

If there was one thing on which she could legitimately pride herself, Beryl had often reflected, it was that she never bore anyone a grudge. Not even Stan. She wanted everything to be all right for him; all right for all of them, that is. And she could guess how awful he must still be feeling because of the way he had been so horrible to her about her overdraft. She decided, therefore, that, in her own way, she would show that she had forgiven him. Frankfurters, the small kind, with Sauerkraut and spaghetti, had always been a favourite meal of Stan's: she could have gone along to the High Street and picked the right tins off the shelf, blindfolded. If that was what he found waiting for him when he got back home, he would know that everything was warm and loving again.

What spoilt it for her, however, was that when Stan did get back, she hardly recognized him. And this was a pity because he had only been trying to make the best of himself. Not wishing to appear shaggy and unkempt at tomorrow's interview, he had gone along to Dan's Gent's Saloon in Hammersmith and asked for a general clean-up. The mistake, he had realized immediately afterwards, was to have bought a copy of the mid-day
Standard
, and to have sat reading it, while Dan's assistant worked on him. The man had certainly been nothing if not thorough. Leaving the quiff untouched, even deliberately brushing it up a bit, he had reduced everything else to stubble. And he had finished off enthusiastically with the electric clippers. Across the nape of Stan's neck there now ran a sharp, hard line, bristly brown above, and raw, naked pink beneath.

It made him look all of ten years younger, Beryl reckoned. Like a newly-graduated Boy Scout. And Cliff, she couldn't help remembering, had taken to wearing his hair rather longer just lately; at the sides, especially.

There was worse to come, too, on the morning of the Appointments Board. There was Stan's tie. She wasn't for a moment saying that he didn't need one. It was just that particular one that he didn't need.
Plain blue, it was; and rather a bright blue at that. It looked as if it had been meant to go with some kind of uniform, like hospital staff or a railway guard. Left to herself she would have bought him something in silk, dark with a contrasting stripe; or one of the new flowery kind; even Paisley, possibly.

But it was too late now to do anything about it. Besides, she didn't want to mention it for fear of upsetting him; when you were dealing with anyone like Stan the last thing that you would want would be to undermine his confidence. All that she said when she kissed him goodbye on the doorstep was: ‘Well, good luck, Stan. I'll be thinking of you. And remember to keep your coat buttoned up, won't you. It looks so much more businesslike that way.'

Now he was setting out, Stan was surprised to find how calm he was. It had not been so last night. Far from it. Nothing but doubts and uncertainty until about twelve-fifteen when he dropped off; and then panic verging on despair when he woke up around three and couldn't get off to sleep again. In the ordinary way, he'd have got up and made himself a cup of tea. But he didn't want to risk disturbing Beryl: it had been only since she had forgiven him that she had said that he could move in with her again. It was better sleeping on the Vi-Spring in her room than in the rather hard three-footer in the dressing-room, and he was anxious that she shouldn't regret it. As it was, he had just lain there wondering about the other candidates, and listening to her breathing.

But now, in a corner seat on the eight-ten, he was an entirely different man, confident, unruffled, resolute. He had caught sight of his reflection in the window of the big radio shop up by the station. And what he had seen had looked just right: freshly barbered, and with the knot of his bright blue tie showing clearly above the neat white collar, he did not doubt that the impression that he would make on the interview board would be a pleasing one.

And that was important. There were bound to be some there who hadn't met him before; hadn't worked with him, maybe hadn't even heard of him. They weren't to know how conscientious and hardworking he was. Or how loyal. Filing Contracts wasn't just a job with him. It was a career; something that he had chosen and mapped out for himself. Even while he had still been at school, it was the Civil Service that he had been aiming at. And with his School Certificate showing five subjects with two Credits and one Distinction he reckoned that,
in him, the Commissioners had picked up a bit of a bargain.

In even the largest of modern, purpose-built business premises, the architect always forgets about things like Appointments Boards.

Important as they are, with so much depending on them, they usually take place in somebody else's office, with the furniture rearranged as if for a court martial, and no ashtray for the candidate who is probably feeling a bit nervous and might like a cigarette. In Frobisher House, for instance, there wasn't even a proper waiting-room. Just a row of hardback chairs in the corridor beside the door to office No. 737.

There were two others already waiting there when Stan arrived. One of them, the thick-set, surly one, had come up all the way from Chatham. He wasn't due to be called until three-fifteen. With his legs stuck out in front of him, he kept his chin down onto his chest, and glowered. The other was slight, birdlike and jumpy. He kept looking at his watch and then taking out a small plastic comb to preen himself. They were five minutes late for him already. Then the door opened, and an important, bank-managerial sort of person emerged. He was smiling all over, and still saying goodbye to someone in the room even after he was outside in the corridor along with the rest of them. The width of the smile seemed ominous.

The birdman had already hopped down off his perch and was giving himself a final peck before going in. As the door closed behind him, they were joined by the three-thirty appointment. This one was tall, with a long, sad-looking face and lips pursed together as though he were sucking something.

Stan wondered where, short of a television series, they could have found them. And apparently it had been like that all day. From ten o'clock onwards a steady stream of candidates had been passing through at the rate of four an hour. That meant, he reckoned, that there were anything up to a couple of dozen, all putting in for the job that had practically been promised to him. He straightened his new blue tie, and waited.

But not for long. At the butts inside the interview room it had only taken them ten minutes to bring down the birdman. He came fluttering out, clearly winged. And a bit ruffled. He was already reaching for his pocket-comb as he departed.

‘Mr Stanley Pitts.'

As the senior Personnel Officer's secretary said his name she gave him one of her best professional smiles. It made the fourteenth of them that she had already handed out that day. But it was her job, and she was good at it; the last smile of the day was always every bit as cordial and welcoming as the first. Stan squared his shoulders, gave another tug at his tie and followed.

After the half-gloom of the corridor, the room seemed unnaturally bright. And the chair that they had set aside for him – it was a hardback like the others outside – had been placed so that it exactly faced the window. Stan felt himself screwing up his eyes as he sat there.

It was all a bit more formal, too, than last time. That was because it was such a senior post that was being advertised, he supposed. The members of the board had their names clearly printed out on white cards in front of them – Mr Rawlings, Mr Hunter-Smith, Mr Miller and, at the end of the table, at a right angle to the others, Dr Aynsworth. They all had identical little memo pads and yellow, stationery-issue pencils. Mr Hunter-Smith, because he was chairman, had Stan's file open in front of him. He also had the water carafe.

‘Ah, Mr Pitts,' he began, ‘I believe we've met before, haven't we? You were once thinking of branching out into the Staff Pensions side, I seem to remember.'

It was not a good beginning. Mr Hunter-Smith had wrong-footed him before the game had even got started. Stan wanted the board to recognize him for what he was, a career man in Filing; one of the single-purpose, dedicated kind. And now he had been made to sound more like a common adventurer. But there was nothing that he could do about it. Mr Hunter-Smith was too preoccupied. He had licked his fingertip and was flicking through the pages of the personal file like a bank clerk counting Treasury notes. Then, happy at his discovery, he looked up again.

‘And before that it was Catering Stores. That was back in ‘59, I see.'

The others turned and looked at Mr Hunter-Smith admiringly. His powers of memory were a legend that ran right through the whole Service. Mr Miller caught Stan's eye and winked at him. That was when Stan began to feel better again.

And the rest of the interview didn't seem to be turning out badly at all. There wasn't much point in asking him questions about the Filing job because they knew that he would know all the answers. Even Mr Rawlings, who was Establishment, couldn't find anything to go on
about. Apart for a few days off during the last ‘flu epidemic and an odd tonsillitis or two, Stan's record was constant and unblemished as far back as you cared to go. No matrimonial troubles. No personal loans. No change-of-base difficulties. No special allowance claims. Nothing. Mr Rawlings just gave up.

For a moment, Stan felt apprehensive. At this rate, they'd have him out of the room again faster even than the birdman. But, so far, Dr Aynsworth had not spoken. Dr Aynsworth was a recent addition to these Appointments Boards, and he was by way of a refinement. Industrial psychology was his line, and he had his own skilled approach to staff interviews.

Round-cheeked and spectacled, he lit up like a lantern whenever his turn came round. Stan was conscious that he was now being beamed on.

‘Now if you had the choice,' he began, ‘of being in charge of a small department, say half a dozen in all, or being number two in a big one, thirty or forty if you like, which one would you prefer? Don't think about the money. Just think about the job.'

Stan ran his tongue across his lips. This was one of those googlies that you could see coming at you from a mile off. And he didn't intend to be bowled out by it. He pondered. But already Dr Aynsworth was at him again.

‘It's whichever you like, remember.'

His voice was high and rather squeaky, Stan couldn't help noticing: the more patient he was being, the more impatient he sounded.

‘To be in charge,' Stan told him.

Dr Aynsworth bent down and made a little tick on his memo pad. It was not like all the other memo pads. He had squared his off in the manner of a chessboard.

‘And suppose the small department wasn't doing very important work and the big one was. Would that make you want to change your mind?'

This time Stan was careful not to keep Dr Aynsworth waiting.

‘I'd rather it was important,' he replied.

The beam flickered and went out for a moment. He made another mark on his memo pad. This time it looked like a circle.

‘That isn't quite what I asked you,' he said, reprovingly. ‘But never mind. We can come back to it. Now tell me something else. Which would you rather do – work in a department where everything goes smoothly, or in a department where things keep going wrong and you're the one who has to put them right?'

Stan could see that Mr Miller was watching him.

‘I don't know,' he replied. ‘I've never had to. Things don't go wrong in Contracts Filing. Not usually, they don't.'

Dr Aynsworth drew another of his little circles.

‘Not quite the answer to the question,' he said. ‘But never mind. Now let me ask you something else. Would you rather be in a highly paid job where you didn't like the work or in a less well paid one where the work interested you?'

‘The less well paid one.'

Dr Aynsworth had already begun to make his tick when Stan spoke again.

‘That is, if it isn't too badly paid, I mean. Not too much of a difference.'

Dr Aynsworth's pencil turned the tick into a cross.

‘Would you call yourself an ambitious man, Mr Pitts?' he asked.

‘I suppose so.'

‘Only suppose?'

‘No. I mean ”yes”. I'm very keen to get on.'

‘And if it was a choice between you and your best friend applying for the same job, would you do anything to spoil his chances, make it harder for him?'

Dr Aynsworth was clearly enjoying himself, and the beam had grown brighter. His voice, too, had risen higher, squeakier. And he could hardly wait to hear the answer. He began tapping with his pencil.

‘Well, I wouldn't do anything mean,' Stan told him. ‘Not like… like going behind his back, I wouldn't.'

Dr Aynsworth drew two more of the symbols that only he could understand. One was another circle, and the other a circle with a cross in the middle. He looked down at the result, and nodded. If he had been designing nursery wallpaper, he could not have seemed more pleased. Then he looked up again.