Keith Waterhouse - Office Life

'I'm still not with you, I'm afraid.'

Pam sighed heavily, as if coping with someone of low intelligence. Quite a characteristic of hers, he was sorry to say.

'How can I put it, in words of one syllable? You've spent a whole week in Stationery Supplies. You must have noticed that we're not exactly over-employed. And believe me, it's like that all the time.'

'I'm relieved to hear it.' He could have added, since she seemed to take him for a half-wit, 'That's not all I've noticed, believe you me,' and mentioned something about his recent browse through the internal telephone directory. But that would have meant confessing that he'd been dipping into Copeland's private filing cabinet. He decided not to pursue that one.

'So it doesn't bother you?'

'Why should it? Take the money and run, that's my motto.'

'It bothers some people, you know. Haven't you ever heard Mrs Rashman chuntering on, for instance?'

'I haven't noticed that Mrs Rashman is what you'd call over-burdened with work,' said Gryce, rather too sarcastically, considering that Mrs Rashman and Pam seemed to be friends, or anyway they were always gossiping in corners.

'No, but she gets quite incensed about it. I think that's why she'll be leaving when she gets married. She doesn't think she's earning her keep.'

'Who is, in this day and age?'

'Then there's our Mr Hakim, he's another. He was quite shocked when he first joined. He couldn't get over it — how little he has to do.'

'He's fortunate to have had a job to come to. As indeed who isn't?' Gryce added this rider quickly in case his retort smacked of racism. He was beginning to suspect Pam of leftish leanings.

'Well, that's one way of looking at it. But from the point of view of an outsider, you have to admit there's a lot of time being wasted, and you know what they say, time is money. Someone has to pay for it.'

Or perhaps right-wing leanings. Gryce shrugged. 'Joe Public, I suppose.' Although there were several aspects of British Albion he was mildly curious about, questions of ethics such as Pam was airing didn't interest him at all. He tried to think of something else to have a conversation about: something rather more in tune with a third glass of Soave in a discreet little wine bar.

He could have saved himself the trouble, for Pam abruptly changed tack again, or seemed to.

'Tell me, are you what they'd call a political animal?'

What an odd question: or not an odd question, if she did have left- or right-wing leanings, and certainly not an odd question if she was in cahoots with Seeds and Seeds was in cahoots with Lucas who had troubled to check out his political affiliations, though goodness knew how he'd gone about it. But if that chain of communication did exist, she would know the answer already, so why was she asking?

'I was a member of the Forest Hill Liberal Club for exactly one year,' he replied carefully, reminding himself of a witness in front of the UnAmerican Activities Committee in an old film clip. 'I joined for social reasons. It was somewhere to go in the evenings. In fact I've no political convictions one way or the other.'

Whatever the reason for this interrogation, he could at least answer with a clear conscience. Gryce traditionally supported either the party that had last lowered his income tax or the one that promised to do so in future.

He had tried to end his brief statement with a 'But why do you ask?' inflection, and Pam obligingly responded.

'No, neither have I. You could call me the original floating voter.' (Gryce begged leave to doubt that.) 'But I did just wonder, because it is after all a political question when you get down to the basics.'

'What is?' She had completely lost him now. Having drunk what must have been a good half bottle of Soave, Gryce was beginning to feel, not drunk but certainly a bit foggy. He wouldn't be surprised if Pam was going the same way.

'This whole question of whatever you want to call it, jobs for the boys. I mean, in an ideal world, is full employment an end in itself? I mean do you deliberately spread out the work to what's the word, accommodate all those who need jobs, or do you say right, it only needs two people to do this work so you, you, you and you can all go home?'

'I don't follow you,' said Gryce, in whom the phrase 'ideal world' had kindled something approaching horror. It was all getting too metaphysical for him.

'Let me spell it out, then,' said Pam, a shade garrulously. Her glass was empty but he judged that if he gave her a fourth one he would have to carry her out. 'Supposing just for the sake of argument, that you're the chairman and managing of British Albion—'

Managing director, she should have said. The woman was as tight as a tick.

'Which mercifully I am not and never will be,' interjected Gryce.

'Which mercifully you're not but do not humour me. I know I've had three glasses wine but this is a serious question. You're the big boss of British Albion, right, and you pay a surprise visit to Stationery Supplies, right, and you see me doing the Evening Standard crossword, Rashman doing her knitting, our little friend Ranjab Hakim selling choccies and sweeties, you with your feet on the desk—'

'I could hardly see myself, now could I?'

'You know exactly what I mean, don't interrupt! The question is would you say right, this department is overmanned, we're getting rid of you, you and you, or would you say oh, well, they don't take up much room and they don't add all that much to the annual budget, and if they didn't work here where the hell would they work?'

The question, insofar as he understood it, was too close to home for Gryce's comfort. It was not all that long ago since he had been thrown on the street by just such a process as Pam had described in the first part of her postulation, and it was not in his view a subject for idle debate in wine bars.

He was beginning to notice that Pam wasn't half as attractive as he'd at first thought. Her skin was too sallow, olivey he'd call it: in fact, in the subdued lighting used in this kind of place and in contrast with the white walls, she looked positively unwashed. She had the faintest trace of a moustache. Nor was that her only masculine trait: when in argumentative mood, she expressed herself like a man. Too opinionated and bossy by half, if you asked Gryce.

'Well, I certainly couldn't bring myself to give anyone their marching orders, if that answers your question. I've been through that all too recently. It's no joke, I can assure you.'

'So you'd keep the whole gang of us in work, even though there wasn't any work for us to do?'

'Yes. I would. All other things being equal.' Gryce wasn't entirely sure what he meant by that qualification but it seemed to satisfy Pam. She seemed, thank goodness, sober again, perhaps she'd just got herself overexcited. But on the negative side, it had to be said that she suddenly appeared to lose all interest in Gryce.

Pushing her glass aside and gathering up her gloves and handbag, Pam said carelessly: 'That's all right then.' Their first, and it very much looked like their last, little get-together was clearly over. It seemed to Gryce, he could have been wrong, that Pam had manoeuvred him down here for a specific purpose. He had been sitting an examination. Whether he had passed, he was sure he could not say.

Rummaging through her handbag in silence — though the cue was there to be taken, Gryce did not feel friendly enough to ask if she was sure she had an adequate supply of the firm's ballpoint pens — Pam presently unearthed a grubby white pamphlet which, to Gryce's disgust, looked like a wretched manifesto or tract. She was probably about to try to enlist him in the Fabian movement.