Keith Waterhouse - Office Life

Throwing back his Hitler-like lock of hair, which contrasted strangely with his glued-on whiskers, Ardagh mumbled on.

'There was general discussion about the company's function and the consensus was reached that British Albion was probably a Government or quasi-Government agency, its elaborately organized structure being the module for some unspecified future role. Another view was that the agency was already operative, the activities of a small number of key personnel being masked or camouflaged by the innocuous routine work-pattern of the majority. Among theories advanced was that British Albion was the present or future agency for the compulsory repatriation of immigrants, the issuing of civilian identity cards in the event of a threat to the peace, the collation of mortality statistics relating to fall-out or contamination from nuclear waste, or the accumulation of data for a computer-bank file on all citizens of the United Kingdom. It was also suggested that when the climate of public opinion allows, British Albion may be revealed as an agency of the European Economic Community, with a variety of possible functions too numerous to mention.'

'Bleedin mad as atters, arfovem,' muttered Vaart. 'One geezer even trieder crack on it's the bleedin Russians what's running it. What as? Bleedin state-registered knockin shop? Bet e don read that one aht!'

'Thank you, Mr Vaart!' said Ardagh with an ironic bow. 'If you've quite finished your conversation…? Under any other business, there was general discussion on the advisability or otherwise of a membership drive. It was strongly represented that the membership should remain closed or at least be strictly limited, on the grounds that to widen the net would arouse speculation in management quarters. Against this it was argued by the membership secretary that from a security point of view, anyone known to be curious about the function of British Albion should be invited to join the British Albion Investigation Committee where any information they had could be co-ordinated, rather than leaving them to pursue private investigations that would arouse the suspicions of management. The matter was referred to the executive committee.'

Gryce, so frequently nudged by Vaart during these proceedings, felt like nudging him back. Aha, he might have said, at last we know why friend Seeds was at such loggerheads with Pam in the Buttery that day. Knowing that she had already taken a shine to a certain person, he was in a filthy jealous temper because he knew he was going to be over-ruled by the executive committee on the membership issue, and that that certain person would be admitted to the Albion Players, with all that it implied in the way of snogging up dark alleys.

Gryce did hope that Pam wouldn't expect him to be a leading light. The idea of sitting up there in a frock, like Grant-Peignton, or even in gaiters and dog-collar like Beazley, did not appeal to him at all. Besides, he still couldn't really see what they were all making such a fuss about. If British Albion did prove to be connected with the Government in some way, so what? With experience of the Docks and Inland Waterways under his belt, it would not be his first taste of a nationalized billet. There were worse ways of earning a living.

Ardagh, after summarizing a resolution (defeated) that the Albion Players should have their own tie or lapel badge, closed his minute-book-cum-script. Grant-Peignton, who had removed most of his rouge with a paper tissue and to Gryce's mind now looked every inch the chairman from the neck up, for all that he resembled Widow Twankey from the neck down, rose authoritatively.

'True record?'

There was a murmur of assent.

'Matters arising?'

Gryce saw several hands shoot up. A keen lot, evidently. It was the man who looked like George Formby, directly behind Gryce, who caught Grant-Peignton's eye.

'Mr Chairman, on the question of directors. I can't claim to have got much forrader on these gentlemen's antecedents, in fact I know no more than what we had read out to us at the last meeting, which I gather emanated mainly from the pages of Who's Who.'

'What is the matter arising?' snapped Grant-Peignton. Curious how he could keep order at a public meeting yet be as soft as putty when it came to preventing Vaart, Seeds and Co. from calmly taking a day off.

'The matter arising, Mr Chairman, is as follows. Several of our directors are either retired naval or army officers of high rank, or they are what you might call landed gentry with little or no experience in the commercial sector.'

'We know all that, Mr Aintree. What is the issue you wish to raise?'

'The issue I wish to raise, Mr Chairman, is this. Three of these gentlemen are known to be connected, or I should say known to have been connected, with certain para-military organizations known in the popular parlance as secret armies. General Parkes-Exley, to give you an instance, has received write-ups in the media as the sometime president of the LOL or League of Liberty.'

'We're going over old ground, Mr Aintree,' protested Grant-Peignton. (This was evidently so, for there was a backswell of mutterings and someone was urging the George Formby-looking speaker to put a sock in it.) 'Time is short and I must ask you to make your point, if you have a point to make.'

'I do have a point to make, Mr Chairman. I do have a point to make. The point I would make is this. Has this Committee considered that British Albion may be a front for some undercover organization with the aim of overthrowing our duly elected Parliament?'

From the groans and catcalls Gryce could guess that this suggestion, too, came under the heading of old ground. This time he really could not resist turning the tables on Vaart. Poking his companion's arm, Gryce snickered:

'He should stick to playing his ukulele!'

Vaart, who couldn't have noticed the speaker's extraordinary resemblance to George Formby and so couldn't be expected to appreciate the joke, looked blank. 'Don know baht that, eez fuckin barmy!' said Vaart finally.

Over the interruptions, Grant-Peignton was saying firmly: '… really are going back on our tracks there, Mr Aintree. It has been agreed that British Albion is not a para-military organization, that in all likelihood it is a Government agency, all the evidence at our disposal points in that direction, and I really think we should go forward from there. Any other matters arising?'

Fred Astaire rose.

'What documentary proof have we got that we're working for the Government?'

'That is not a matter arising, it is a question.'

'Very well, then it's a question. What documentary proof have we got that we're working for the Government?'

Grant-Peignton wearily threw up his arms, so that in his yellow chiffon tea-gown with its full sleeves he fleetingly resembled a druid at worship.

'Mr Bellows, you of all people should know that our case rests not on the existence of documents but on their non-existence. You are, I believe, my opposite number in Central Buying?'

'For my sins, yes. As you know.'

'How do you go about buying, Mr Bellows — for example, if you're required to provide Stationery Stores with replenishment stocks of shall we say typewriter ribbons?'

Vaart, for once in his life, addressed himself directly to the chair. "E don do nuffin, that's what e does. We bin waiting for typwrier ribbons for free monf.'

'Let Mr Bellows answer the question, Mr Vaart, he has the floor and you're out of order. Mr Bellows.'

'You know very well what we do, Mr Grant-Peignton. A Purchases Order is drawn up and despatched to the Purchasing Director for authorization and processing.'

'Who is the Purchasing Director, Mr Bellows?'

'It's never been within my province to ask. A member of the board, I've always assumed.'