Keith Waterhouse - Office Life

'Depends entirely what you mean by social activities. Coh!' So it was a laugh after all. 'The principal recreation at this establishment is to be observed by feasting one's eyes on the next table.'

As directed, Gryce switched his glance discreetly. A middle-aged man and a middle-aged woman, their food untouched, were deep in an important-seeming discussion. From the woman's miserable expression and the man's haggard one, Gryce deduced a long-running affair that was going sour. That was where a casual glass of wine could lead you if you weren't too careful.

'Love's young dream,' said Pam softly.

'The long-suffering Cargill from Salary Accounts,' murmured Seeds. 'The lady, on the other hand, is definitely not Mrs Cargill, much though her ambitions might lie in that direction.'

'A certain obstacle in the shape of the present Mrs Cargill?' sniggered Gryce. It was good to be privy to office gossip so soon.

'The very substantial shape, from all I gather. Mark you, we can offer you rather more shall we say above-board examples of true love running smooth.'

'Don't be bitchy!' Pam chided, enjoying herself.

'I was thinking of the widow Rashman and a certain gentleman. I gather a date has been set.'

'Twenty-fifth of this month,' Pam confirmed. And for Gryce's benefit: 'You know Mrs Rashman, at least you've met her. At long last she's marrying her admirer from Stationery Stores. Honestly, this place gets more like a matrimonial bureau every day!'

'Exactly the same in my last billet,' said Gryce. A wine-bar romance had blossomed, then: a happy contrast to the sad example at the next table. 'We had four, no five office weddings last year. All colleagues, or former colleagues.'

'And someone coming round with a collecting tin on each occasion,' Seeds said.

'Oh, every time!' He wondered if he'd be asked to poppy up for Mrs Rashman. It would be a cheek if he were. 'And if it wasn't weddings it was retirements, and if it wasn't retirements it was someone leaving.' Which reminded Gryce that Comform had been the first billet he'd left where there'd been no presentation ceremony. Hardly feasible, he supposed, considering it had been not so much a leave-taking as a mass exodus.

'That's one thing you're unlikely to be stung for here,' said Seeds. 'People leaving, that is. Once you've signed on with British Albion you're generally regarded as being here for life.'

'Mrs Rashman's leaving, for one,' said Pam — blurted, almost, and at once looked as if she wished she hadn't.

'Exception proves the rule,' responded Seeds quickly, and quietly. He and Pam exchanged a curious sort of glance. If the subject hadn't been so innocuous, Gryce would have thought he had detected a warning given, and a warning acknowledged. Perhaps there was some skeleton in the cupboard apropos Mrs Rashman and her admirer from Stationery Stores.

It certainly looked that way, for Seeds laboriously changed the subject.

'But you were asking about social activities. There's various clubs of one kind or another. Chess.'

Gryce confessed that he could not play chess and Seeds and Pam admitted that they couldn't either. There followed an over-animated discussion about their failure to understand the game and how, when playing with young nephews or nieces, they had been trounced.

'What else can we offer you?' mused Seeds, looking more relaxed now. 'Squash. Swimming. Tennis. We're affiliated to the City and Guilds Sports Centre out at Acton, so you can get free membership. Or so I'm reliably informed. My own sporting activities are limited to walking to Turnham Green tube station every day.'

'That makes two of us.' Forest Hill Southern Region station in Gryce's case, but Seeds would know what he meant. What a pleasant lunch hour it had turned out to be. The coffee had arrived at long last and the conversation was going with such a swing that there was no opportunity to remark even briefly on how passable it was.

'There's always the Albion Players,' said Pam, with what seemed like diffidence, although what she had to be diffident about Gryce could not guess.

She'd said something out of the ordinary, though, for the effect on Seeds was very odd. 'The membership's closed!' he retorted, as rudely as he dare allow himself in front of a guest. Again Gryce caught the warning glance, now tinged with anger; but this time it was not acknowledged, or anyway it was not conceded.

'I know the membership's closed, ducky, I do happen to be the membership secretary,' said Pam through bared teeth. 'But if we don't find out who's interested and who isn't, we'll never get new blood when we need it, will we?'

Evidence of a temper there, for future reference.

'If Albion Players implies amateur dramatics — ' began Gryce in a throat-clearing voice, with the object of pouring oil on troubled waters. Some internecine warfare here, clearly: some committee squabble that had been left to smoulder by an unwise chairman.

To his surprise Seeds did not so much cut him short as simply talk through his attempted interjection, leaving him to tail off foolishly.

'You know the rules as well as I do, Pamela. All approaches are made after consultation with the full—'

'You can't tell me anything about the rules, Ron, I helped to frame them.'

'— with the full committee, Pamela. After consultation and not before.'

If Seeds could sail blithely on after an interruption, then so could Gryce.

'If we're discussing amateur dramatics, and I could just be allowed a word in edgeways—' This time he chose a joshing voice, and felt even more foolish than before, for he was ignored.

'I'm sorry, Ron, but there is such a thing as being constructive. If I'm not even allowed to sound someone out we might just as well shut up shop.'

'By all means sound him out. By all means sound him out. I'm only trying to remind you—'

'— that the membership is closed. I know that without you telling me. All I was going to say, if you'd let me, was he seems like a suitable candidate.'

'Oh, eminently. I don't doubt that at all. All other things being equal.'

Gryce thought seriously about taking offence at being discussed in his own presence like this. On the other hand, it wasn't as if he were hearing no good of himself: Pam had said that he seemed a suitable candidate for the Albion Players and Seeds had endorsed her approval, all other things being equal, by which he presumably meant when the membership list was open again. They both seemed to be making heavy weather of a trivial issue, but doubtless the protocol of the Albion Players was not trivial to them. Gryce was glad now that they had not allowed him to finish his sentence, which would have been to the effect that amateur dramatics were not in his line. If Pam thought he seemed a suitable candidate, it would be folly not to keep his options open.

He was searching for some innocuous way of insinuating a word to this effect when Pam lightly, and rather deliciously in his opinion, touched his sleeve.

'He must think we're terribly rude.'

'Don't mind me in the least,' said Gryce with hearty gallantry. He would forgive her for apologizing in the third person, it was only a mannerism. 'All I was going to say—'

'I'm afraid passions run high when it comes to the Albion Players,' said Seeds, cutting in again. Gryce did hope this wasn't a habit of his: there were mannerisms and mannerisms. 'As you've probably gathered the bone of contention is that once people have joined they've joined, so we can't be too careful. Nothing personal.'

'Oh, no offence taken, rest assured. In any case I was just going to say that amateur dramatics aren't quite my cup of tea.' Although that wasn't what he had just been going to say at all, pride seemed to demand it. He could wait for some suitable moment to ask Pam why she'd thought him a suitable candidate, and then allow her to win him over.