Keith Waterhouse - Office Life

'Salute,' said Seeds at last, raising his glass. Feeling rather absurd, Gryce found himself participating in what onlookers, had there been any, would have taken for a solemn toast.

'In this building,' began Seeds, presumably referring to Perfidious Albion rather than the Pressings wine bar, 'there are two factions — Them and Us.'

This statement was followed by a dramatic pause. Too dramatic by half, thought Gryce. He abruptly revised his opinion that Seeds looked like Jeremy Thorpe. He looked, in fact, like that television actor, what was his name, who for years had played the part of the interfering neighbour in a situation comedy about a man who had married his teenage daughter's best friend, and who when the series was over had unexpectedly and incongruously turned up as Martin Luther in a historical drama. In other words, completely out of his own league.

Happily, the wind was taken out of Seeds' sails by Pam, who took advantage of the pause for effect by contradicting him.

'Actually, there's three — Them, Us and the Others.'

'Shall I tell this or shall you?' asked Seeds snappishly. Pam sardonically conceded him the floor. He continued.

'By Them, I mean mainly heads of department, certain key personnel — all those who, until they provide evidence to the contrary, can be assumed to be in the know. By We, I mean those of us who have started asking questions.'

'Whereas the Others,' chipped in Pam, 'are the great majority who either don't know there's anything untoward about British Albion, or more likely don't care, so long as they get their salaries in their hot little hands each month.'

Gryce, if they would give him any say in the matter, would have liked to have opted for the latter category. As it was, he seemed to have been brought under the 'Us' umbrella without a by-your-leave.

'Tell me.' Gryce edged into the silence occasioned by Seeds glowering at Pam for interrupting him again. 'How would you classify friend Lucas of Personnel?'

Though addressing himself to Pam, he squinted furtively at Seeds for a reaction. There was none: or you could say, such an absence of reaction that it spoke volumes. A case of the dog that did not bark in the night.

'He's one of Them, very actively so,' said Pam. 'Why do you ask?'

'He put some very odd questions when I came for my interview. He seemed, how shall I put it, very keen on establishing one's personality rather than one's qualifications for the job in hand.'

'Yes. He'd want to make sure you were the passive type.'

'Oh, really? Then how may one ask did you get through the net?' Gryce was blessed if he knew why he was bothering himself with gallantries, even of the barbed variety such as he fancied he had just delivered, when the woman had insulted him to his face. However, he was rewarded with a faint smile, and was surprised at how grateful he was for it.

There remained the impassiveness of Seeds. Gryce was blowed if he knew what to make of him. If Lucas was one of Them, and Seeds was one of Us — ah, but was he?

As had happened once or twice before, Seeds seemed to read his mind. As well he might, considering that he must have been tipped off about Gryce listening-in on his precious phone call from Lucas of Personnel.

'You may find Lucas playing what with no wish to be theatrical can only be described as a double agent role. Once he knows you're one of Us, he'll try to give you the impression he's on your side. Feed you various tit-bits of information, possibly: he's tried that more than once. But be warned. Anything you say to him will get right back.'

That, at a stretch, could be said to answer Gryce's question, he supposed. It would have to, for the time being. Meanwhile, there was another one to be asked.

'"Get right back." To whom?'

'If we knew that,' said Seeds, elaborately pressing the button of his digital watch, 'we wouldn't be sitting here when all our suppers are waiting in the oven. My supper anyway, I don't know about yours.'

Seeds rose and made a performance both of draining his glass and looking at Pam to prompt her to do the same.

'I'll give it a minute,' Pam said. Whether this was a code message to indicate that she wanted a private word with Gryce, or that the three of them had better not be seen leaving the Pressings together, was open to question. But Gryce, for all that there was a risk that she might continue haranguing him when Seeds had gone, felt quite pleased. He had seen friend Seeds off, of that there was no doubt. He would have to fork out for another round of drinks, and he would have to dream up some cock-and-bull yarn about the trains running late for his wife's benefit, but the way he looked at it, you were only young once.

He became aware that Seeds had asked him a question, though for the life of him he couldn't say what it was. Very probably, something on the lines of, 'Well, then, are you for us or agin us? Speak now or forever hold your peace.' An answer seemed to be called for.

'Oh, indeed!' said Gryce as positively and un-passively as he could. It seemed to fit the bill, for Seeds nodded his satisfaction.

'We'll be in touch.' Since Seeds had expressed a wish not to be theatrical, you would have thought he could have selected a less melodramatic exit-line. However, on that note he departed.

Pam and Gryce sat on in silence: an uncomfortable one on his part, what seemed a relaxed one on hers. At length she chalked up quite a milestone by calling him by his first name.

'Poor Clem!'

It was so unexpected that Gryce looked involuntarily behind him to see if she was talking about someone else. Then he smiled wanly: it seemed to be the reaction she wanted.

'Have we given you a hard time?'

'Not in the least! It's all very intriguing, all very stimulating. Mark you, I still don't think I can quite fathom out these two camps of Them and—'

Pam, with a smile that could have been condescending or sympathetic or even sexy, take it as you would, raised the index finger of her right hand and placed it gently on his lips. It was a totally new experience for Gryce. Considering that she had just been holding a cold glass, her touch was remarkably warm.

'I think we've had enough shop-talk for one night, don't you reckon? I was hoping we'd have a drink by ourselves again, but Ron insisted on tagging along.'

That didn't entirely square with her aggressive demeanour at the beginning of the evening, not to mention her subsequent grimaces, asides and general snappishness, but Gryce was not going to argue the toss. He smiled again, somewhat crookedly since her finger was still on his lips. She lowered her hand slowly, and some instinct told him that if he rested his arm casually on the barrel-top table, in just such a position, then there was every chance that their fingers would meet. The possibility became a reality, for all the world as if they had planned it together.

Gryce would have been the first to admit that he was anxiety-prone: a real old worry-guts as a slip of a girl at one of his previous billets had once told him. That had been over the affair of the missing ballpoints. He had been fool enough to accept delivery of the things in his superior's absence, three dozen of them, supposed to last the department a whole month, and every blessed one had walked by tea-time. If there had been an enquiry into the matter, it would have been his signature they found on the docket.

Yes, he did worry, but only about affairs appertaining to the office. If, on the self-same morning, his wife were to say, 'I've had enough and I'm leaving you,' and a colleague were to tip him off, 'The area manager's after your blood personally,' it would be his impending interview with the Big Cheese that would preoccupy him the most. He was very sorry, but there it was.