Keith Waterhouse - Office Life

The house-lights, as he believed they were called, had not been turned down, and Gryce was able to look about him and see who else was present. He recognized several faces from the Buttery and elsewhere. There was a man from Traffic Control who looked like George Formby, and a woman from In-house Mail who always reminded him of a friend of his late mother's, a Mrs Cuthbertson or Culbertson. Fred Astaire, whom he had seen sometimes in the lift, was there, as were the Prime Minister of Rhodesia, Flight-Sergeant Neddyman from the RAF training camp at Bridgnorth in Shropshire, David Niven, Mrs Barbara Castle, the secretary of one of the railway-men's unions, the show-jumper Harvey Smith, the comedian Eric Morecambe, that TV meteorologist whose forecasts were always woefully wrong, a younger version of Lt-General Sir Brian Horrocks, an older version of the singer Petula Clark, and a woman often to be seen in commercials for Cadbury's chocolate. But there was no sign of anyone else from Stationery Supplies.

Gryce turned his attention back to the stage, where Ardagh was down on one knee and making a complete shambles of a proposal scene. He had lost his place in his script and in his efforts to find it could hardly keep his balance. Pam took advantage of the diversion to smile at Gryce and give him a little wave of welcome. He waved feebly back, embarrassed. Vaart dug him in the ribs and chuckled lewdly. 'You givin er one, den? Git in dere Charlie!' That was the kind of gauntlet you had to run if you flaunted your affections in public.

From the side of the stage — there were no wings, much less a door — there strutted forth a grotesquely attired figure in what Gryce would have said was lemon chiffon, with a huge padded bosom, a grey-tinted wig set several degrees askew beneath what looked like an old Salvation Army bonnet, and a good deal of rouge and lipstick visible even through a heavy veil. Gryce guffawed loudly, imagining that a slapstick Charley's Aunt effect was being aimed at. To his mortification nobody else laughed: the character, who must have made an entrance previously, was clearly meant to be taken seriously. If this was the best the Albion Players could do there was hope for Gryce yet.

In a voice that reminded Gryce of a drag-queen he had once seen after allowing himself to be inveigled into an office stag party, the newcomer trilled: 'Mr Worthing! Rise, sir, from this semi-recumbent posture. It is most indecorous.' Since Ardagh's efforts to keep his balance had failed, and he had toppled over on to his side, this comment did more than justice to the author's intention.

'Mama!' cried Pam, who really did get under the skin of her character in Gryce's judgement. 'I must beg you to retire. This is no place for you. Besides, Mr Worthing has not quite — all right? Thank you very much.'

These last few words were spoken, called, rather, in Pam's normal voice. She was addressing, it would appear, Seeds, who had stationed himself in front of the doors at the rear of the hall so that nobody else could get in. Pam, no longer the Edwardian ingйnue but the brisk membership secretary or whatever her title was, clapped her hands. From either side of the stage trooped the remainder of the cast, carrying cane chairs on which they seated themselves in a semi-circle. One of them, got up as a bishop or senior clergyman of some sort, was immediately identifiable as Beazley. The other faces were faintly familiar, no doubt Gryce had seen them around the office but he could not place them. The comic gardener, if that was what he was supposed to be, looked a bit like Sir Richard Attenborough, but that was probably the effect of clever make-up.

Chairs had been fetched for Pam and Ardagh and they too had sat down, but the buffoon playing Lady Bracknell took the centre of the stage. Throwing off bonnet, veil and wig, he revealed himself to be Grant-Peignton. Gryce's low opinion of his characterization was instantly revised. Although he had quickly latched on to the fact that Lady Bracknell was a man, he would never have known it was Grant-Peignton in a thousand years. And how sporting of Copeland's No. 2 to have taken on such a role.

Hitching up his lemon tea-gown to reveal the suede shoes that he wore about the office, Grant-Peignton addressed his audience. 'Ladies and gentlemen, welcome once again, our apologies for having detained you on this occasion but we have several newcomers here tonight and it appears that one or two of them' — here he seemed to glare in Gryce's direction — 'had difficulty in finding their way. For the benefit of newcomers, I should mention that in the event of interruptions by shall we say unwelcome visitors, a signal will be given by our friends the commissionaires and we shall at once resume our rehearsal of The Importance of Being Earnest. Should that contingency arise, I would ask you to do your best to look like an invited audience at a dress rehearsal.'

'Bleedin pennermime, ennit!' observed Vaart with another of his broad winks. Gryce bared his teeth non-committally. A charade, certainly; but that was what he was beginning to expect from all connected with Perfidious Albion.

After adjusting one of his brassiere straps, Grant-Peignton resumed. 'The first business of the evening is the minutes, which I will ask Mr Ardagh to read. Again for the benefit of newcomers, it is customary for the names of proposers and seconders to be omitted from written records. Our principle, as you will quickly learn, is no names no pack drill!'

With this sally Grant-Peignton changed places with Ardagh, giving Vaart the opportunity to lean over to Gryce and murmur, none too softly. 'E looks a right twat in that gear.' Gryce did hope he was not going to keep up a running commentary. One was out of one's depth already, without these constant interruptions.

Ardagh began to read from what Gryce had taken to be his script — indeed it most likely was a script, with the minutes of the meeting cleverly interleaved — in the gabbling monotone of the practised committee secretary.

'Minutes of a meeting of the British Albion Investigation Committee, known as the Albion Players, on the fifteenth of this month. A quorum being present, the minutes were read and agreed to. On matters arising, members were furnished with a list of the board of directors of British Albion, and it was agreed that further enquiries should be made into the backgrounds of these gentlemen. It was reported that of the twenty-three subsidiary companies listed in the guidelines booklet, fifteen had so far been shown to have ceased trading. It was further reported that an investigation into the source of British Albion's domestic supplies and equipment had now been completed, and it had been established that all supplies and equipment, from carbon-paper to furniture, from electric light bulbs and fluorescent tubes to typewriters, copying machines and filing systems, emanated from suppliers with large Government contracts. No invoice or similar document from any such supplier has yet been traced.'

Vaart nudged Gryce heavily with his elbow and said in conversational tones, 'Ad yew there, din I? Ja blieve all that codswallop I give you abaht govmen surplus auctions? I bet chew did!'

With Ardagh pausing at the interruption and looking towards them in a pained manner, Gryce tried simultaneously to frown his disapproval and give a half-smile of acknowledgement.

'Din know you then, did I?' went on Vaart, unabashed. 'Coulda bin anybody, cun chew? Coulda bin onea dem wankers outa Personnel. Avter be careful.'

Grant-Peignton, adjusting his padded bosom, half-rose. 'Can we get on, gentlemen?'

'Sorry, mate. I was jus explainin.'

'Yes, I think we owe all our new members a word of explanation, Mr Vaart, but at the appropriate time. If you'll allow Mr Ardagh to continue the minutes.'