Keith Waterhouse - Office Life

'Yes? And?'

'I gave him some cock-and-bull story about being interested in wallpaper, which is what they manufacture, and he said to write in, they couldn't deal with telephone enquiries and definitely no retail. I said what address, and he said they were in process of moving premises but I could write to a Post Office box number.'

A murmur of interest went through the hall. Gryce looked towards Seeds, still standing in the aisle, in the hope of seeing him nonplussed. He did not: in fact he looked too dashed smug for Gryce's liking.

'Mr Seeds!' called Grant-Peignton. 'I'd like to get on to the business of the evening but we should really get this cleared up. We seem to have a situation whereby British Albion, where all of us are employed, is not in the telephone directory, while apparently its subsidiary companies, where nobody is employed, are in the telephone directory. Is there any explanation, briefly?'

'There is indeed, Mr Chair. I was coming to that when we were diverted to other matters.' Seeds now moved up the aisle until he was at the foot of the platform, where he turned to face the audience. He was certainly going to milk this particular opportunity for all it was worth; Gryce wondered why he didn't doll himself up as an Edwardian butler and climb up there with the rest of the gang, if he craved attention so desperately.

'It's perfectly true that Cobbs and Co. is still on the telephone. So are all the other firms. We certainly intended to acquaint you with this fact when our dossier was complete…'

'Dossier', indeed! Who did he think he was — MI5?

'Binns Brothers of Rugby is also on the telephone. I rang their number today. Now in each case, the procedure is the same. There is a clicking sound as the call is automatically transferred to another number, and then, as our friend rightly says, one is put through to "a bloke". Sometimes "the bloke" claims to be the sales director, sometimes the manager, sometimes he is even the official receiver. In each case, however, "the bloke" is the same man. And that man, ladies and gentlemen, that "bloke", is Mr Lucas of Personnel. '

There would have been no use Gryce denying that this caused the biggest sensation of the evening so far. Nor had Seeds yet finished. Over the babble of exclamations and cries of ' Good — Lord!' he was raising his voice to add, though only those nearest to him could hear, 'The reason — I say the reason for this charade is obvious. They want to know just how curious we are about these subsidiary companies and our curiosity is being monitored!'

Yes, thought Gryce darkly, it certainly is, and one wonders exactly who else is involved in this monitoring. He could see himself rising on a point of information. And is this Committee aware, he might ask, that Mr Seeds knows better than any of us what Mr Lucas's voice sounds like on the telephone, for the very simple reason that —

Too late. Grant-Peignton had called the meeting to order and, pointing at random into the forest of up-raised arms, had called upon someone near the back. This individual, so far as Gryce could see, did not resemble anyone.

'Mr Chairman, on a matter arising, why are all the SSTs printed in Belgium?'

The question was so absurdly inappropriate that it was greeted first with a puzzled silence and then with a volley of sniggering laughs. 'Tuh!' 'Cuh!' 'Cash!' 'Hurk!' 'Fau!' Gryce joined in. 'Sha!' Obviously the man had not the foggiest grasp of committee procedure.

Grant-Peignton, perhaps he was glad of a chance to relieve the tension after Seeds' disclosures, seemed to welcome the diversion. Indeed, he even went so far as to replace his grey-tinted wig at a jaunty angle, and strut backwards and forwards across the stage like a pantomime dame. This, as it was no doubt meant to, caused more merriment. If anyone wanted to canvass Gryce's opinion, it was that Grant-Peignton knew very well how to handle an audience that had been in danger of becoming overexcited.

'How do we know that the SSTs are printed in Belgium, Mr Armstrong?' asked Grant-Peignton at last, with a straight face.

'Because it says so on the back cover. My question is, why don't we do this printing ourselves?'

Vaart, who was not amused, snarled loudly: 'Cos they've shut dahn all the prinnin works, avenn they?' To Gryce he added: 'Cunt!' Not his usual sunny self by any means.

'Does that answer your question, Mr Armstrong?'

'No, sir, it does not! My question was of a rhetorical nature. They are printed outside this country for one reason and one reason only. If you will all examine your Supplementary Subsistence Tickets' — here he waved a specimen book of SSTs, rather like Mr Chamberlain waving his bit of paper on his return from Munich. (That was who the man looked like: Neville Chamberlain, without the moustache.) — 'you will see that they closely resemble the war-time ration book, except that they are designed for communal feeding rather than individual shopping requirements.'

'What are you suggesting, Mr Armstrong?'

'That Catering (Administration), which is processing these documents far in excess of the needs of employees, is engaged on a pilot scheme for mass feeding of the civilian population. Such a scheme to be put into effect in the event of any future war or uprising, probably the latter. Hence, Mr Chairman, the need for the utmost secrecy.'

This suggestion, perhaps because of its novelty value, caused almost as much commotion as Seeds' recent revelations about Lucas of Personnel, although Gryce noticed that there were some dissenting cries of, 'Oh, come off it' and 'A bit far-fetched, wouldn't you say?' On this occasion Grant-Peignton ignored the clamour from the floor, favouring instead the executive committee on the platform.

'Any comments on that?'

'I suppose it's possible — ' began the comic gardener, speaking for the first time.

'But not probable,' said Beazley firmly, taking over with ease. 'On the other hand, it's noticeable that Catering (Administration) have never been represented at our meetings. One does begin to wonder whether they have something to hide.'

'Mrs Fawce? As membership secretary—?'

'As membership secretary,' said Pam tartly, 'I've been trying as you know to broaden the basis of this Investigation Committee. Now that we've finally made a decision to do so' — she looked witheringly at Seeds, to Gryce's satisfaction — 'I certainly agree that someone from Catering (Administration) should be invited in.'

'Do any of us know anyone from Catering (Administration)?' asked Grant-Peignton, throwing the question to the floor. There was silence, not surprising to Gryce. The denizens of the tenth, eleventh and twelfth floors were notorious for keeping themselves to themselves.

He saw that Pam was smiling in his direction and nodding encouragingly. He couldn't imagine why: she knew perfectly well that he had been given what he believed was called the bum's rush when he made his exploratory foray into the department in question.

Perhaps she wanted him to do something 'for the cause'. Perhaps she wanted to demonstrate to Seeds that he was not the only one capable of pulling his weight, that just because she had accompanied him to Rugby it did not mean she was in his pocket. If so, the proposition was worth thinking about.

Gryce was not one to stand up to be counted but he was almost on the verge of shuffling to his feet when he heard Pam saying, rather mischievously he thought: 'I believe Mr Gryce knows one or two people up there.'

'Mr Gryce?'

Gryce, to the accompaniment of a leering wink from Vaart, rose a few inches from his seat in some confusion. 'Slightly.' He felt obliged to remain in this rather subservient crouching posture until Grant-Peignton had finished with him.