Keith Waterhouse - Office Life

'Then perhaps we could ask you to make diplomatic approaches? Obviously you'd consult with Mrs Fawce on the best way of making representations. One has to be careful.'

Gryce sat down again, rewarded with a big smile from Pam. Grant-Peignton, having straightened his wig and made some adjustments to the bodice of his dress to show that he wished the proceedings to continue in a more business-like manner, stepped forward to face the audience at large and launched on what was evidently a set-piece.

'Thank you Mr Gryce. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Gryce is one of our newcomers, both to British Albion and to this Committee of Investigation, the Albion Players as we prefer to call ourselves. It is to the newcomers, at this point, that I wish to address a few words of welcome and explanation. The rest of you, I know, will bear with me if—'

He got no further. There was a cry, more of a shout really, of 'Mr Chairman!' from the side of the hall. Gryce saw that a famous racing driver, seen often in road safety advertisements, was on his feet.

'On a point of order, Mr Chairman, there was someone looking in at the window!'

The resultant uproar was quelled by Grant-Peignton as abruptly as it had begun. 'Quiet! Ladies and gentlemen, nothing is to be gained by stampeding!' If Grant-Peignton had never seen service as an army officer, probably in quite a senior rank, then all Gryce could say was that it was the army's loss. He was a natural-born leader.

As all but the dozen or so who were trying to peer out of the grime-encrusted windows resumed their seats, and there was comparative quiet, Gryce thought he heard, and was then sure he could hear, the retreating sound of clomping feet on metal — the rungs of a fire escape, he would guess. Only one pair of feet he was acquainted with was capable of making such an almighty din. The silly, foolish girl!

'Mr Seeds. Ask the commissionaires to search round the back of the hall. Quickly! Mr Bellows. Take Mr Seeds' position at the doors. Mr Calloway—' While Grant-Peignton, in his unruffled way, was barking orders, most of the cast of The Importance of Being Earnest were walking off the platform in an orderly manner, carrying their cane chairs. Obviously a set emergency procedure which, if Gryce was any judge, they had got down to a fine art: within seconds, only Grant-Peignton, Pam and Ardagh remained on stage.

'No need for alarm whatsoever!' called Grant-Peignton, securing his bonnet with a hat-pin. And then, without pause, he switched to the falsetto register as he turned to Pam and Ardagh.

'To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune … to lose both seems like carelessness. Who was your father? He was evidently a man of some wealth. Was he born in what the radical papers call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks of the aristocracy?'

He was word-perfect, a man of steel. Pam, her only sign of agitation being that she was fanning herself rapidly, waited for Ardagh to reply, but he couldn't find the place in his minute-book.

Copeland, fictitiously nursing his imaginary Asian flu, did not put in an appearance the next day. But all the partitions were suddenly, magically and unexpectedly in position. When Gryce got to the office — by common consent, there was not much point in turning up on the dot this morning, so he had rolled in at about eleven — the workmen had already been and gone. The two young men with the clipboards and retractable steel rules still lingered, but after measuring everything in sight in the evident hope of finding a partition out of true by a sixteenth of an inch so that they could dismantle the whole apparatus and start again, they too departed.

The view of Stationery Supplies was that it was remarkable how quickly the Design and Maintenance wallahs could get on with the job once it was Friday and the weekend beckoned.

Having inspected the new filing cabinet annexe and Copeland's re-sited cubby-hole by the window, with some derogatory remarks from Vaart about the head of the department now having the choice of two places for his afternoon zizz, they tested the partitions by leaning against them. The Penney twins, in skittish mood, were reminded of yokels leaning against a farmyard gate: they sang, in something approaching close harmony, a snatch of 'Old MacDonald had a farm, ee-i-ee-i-oh'. Others picked up this theme and made jokes of their own. 'Ideally,' cracked Seeds, 'we should all be chewing straws!' Badinage on these lines took them through the coffee break.

At length, however, Grant-Peignton said heavily: 'Well. All we lack now are our desks and chairs!' But he avoided Gryce's eye while saying it. It was very strange. The Grant-Peignton who had been in command of the Albion Players last night would have been very courteous in suggesting that the desk and chairs be found, but the suggestion would have been an order. The Grant-Peignton who was supposedly No. 2 to Copeland seemed incapable of saying boo to a goose. Perhaps it was not so strange after all: he was not being paid an executive's salary, so why should he shoulder the burden of an executive's responsibilities? Since the remark had been addressed to thin air, Gryce felt free to ignore it.

The Albion Players saga of the previous evening was not referred to by anybody, except obliquely by Beazley when he came round selling his raffle tickets — Beazley's Benefit. 'For the cause!' he whispered with an almost Vaart-type wink as Gryce fished in his pocket for small silver. It dawned on Gryce that Beazley's boys' club gymnasium, like British Albion's subsidiary companies, was probably an elaborate fiction. But just as he was about to ask knowingly what cause he was really supporting, Beazley put a finger to his lips and moved on.

Discretion of that order made sense to Gryce. There were enemies at the door, or if not enemies then saboteurs as Pam had dubbed them, resident clowns as Gryce himself would have said. The Penney twins had been conspicuous by their absence from the meeting: one whiff of last night's proceedings and they would have it all round the office.

In the scheme of things, Beazley's Benefit was a day late: he should have done his rounds on Thursday, not Friday. But of course yesterday had been thoroughly disorganized. And it was not as if there were any other diversion to offer him competition: with Mr Hakim sunning himself in the Algarve, the Friday morning sweetstall was badly missed. It was a shame: as Ardagh suggested, in the absence of furniture Mr Hakim could have spread his wares out on the floor and brought a touch of the Eastern bazaar to Stationery Supplies.

There was a lively discussion about the dilemma faced by the department without Mr Hakim. It was agreed that it was too bad of him not to have reminded them last week that he was going on holiday. Grant-Peignton was committed to taking a box of chocolates home to his wife; Ardagh had a nephew's birthday coming up and had been relying on Mr Hakim to furnish him with a cut-price selection box left over from Christmas. Then there was the absent Copeland, who would never get through the week ahead without his supply of toffees.

It emerged that the Penney twins, for a change, had something constructive to contribute. They had been pretty thick with Mrs Rashman and had sometimes accompanied her on her lunch-time shopping expeditions. (Vaart said, 'Aye-aye' upon this being revealed.) They knew of a cut-price sweetstall in Leather Lane market. Although the discount by no means compared favourably with that offered by Mr Hakim, at least a worthwhile saving was there to be had. The suggestion was favourably received by all: a collection was made and Thelma was furnished with a list and instructed to take herself off to Leather Lane. The price of a tin of Copeland's favourite toffees was staked out of his raffle money by Beazley, who asked her to get a separate receipt.