Keith Waterhouse - Office Life

Against that, his admittedly limited knowledge of female physiology told him that it couldn't have been all that simulated. Assuming that the woman wasn't plainly and simply a raving nymphomaniac, Vaart and the rest of them could be jumping to the wrong conclusion.

'I still can't credit it. Have you any actual proof against her?'

'Course we got bleedin proof! Course we got bleedin proof! Ask old Muvver Rashman! From the day she said she was leavin, Pam Fawce wunt geroff er back, would she? "Wot you wanner leave for?" "To get married." "Well why can't you still work ere after your bleedin oneymoon?" "Coss I'm sicker the bleedin place, that's why." "Wotchew mean, you're sicker the place, ave you fahnd sumfin out?" "No, course I ain't fahnd nuffin out, I've just ad a bellyful." "You know sumfin, doncha?" "I don know bleedin nuffin." "You muss do, else why would you wanner leave a cushy job like this?" "Cos isser pain in the arse." "Thass no reason for leavin, you've fahnd summink out, encha?" On an on she went, wunt leave er alone. Then she ropes in Ron Seeds, er bleedin sidekick e is, does what she tells im…'

(Better a sidekick than a mug, reflected Gryce with some bitterness. And the question arose: had Seeds been rewarded on a nest of cardboard somewhere?)

'… An e as a go. "Wotchew wanner leave for?" "To get married." "Well I'm bleedin married as well," says e, "but I still bleedin work ere." An that goes on an on, day after day, till she tells em bof to piss off.'

Gryce remembered how Pam and Seeds had exchanged that curious glance of theirs when the subject of Mrs Rashman's departure had cropped up on his first visit to the Buttery. They had both seemed agitated, but he had never been able to fathom out why.

'I don't see what that proves.'

'Wossit prove, wodyew fink it proves? Why should she give a monkey's wevver anyone leaves or not? I'll tell you why, cos she's wettin erself in case they goes somewhere else an starts blabbin out what goes on at Bri'ish Albion.'

'But that's still conjecture, surely? Purely guesswork,' amended Gryce, unsure of the extent of Vaart's vocabulary.

'It was guesswork, granted! It was guesswork. Till I follered er.'

'You followed Pam?'

'Too bleedin true. Stuck to er like a bleedin leech. Know where she went one nigh, after knockin off time? I'll tellya. Down bleedin White-all, wassen it?'

'Nothing strange about that, she probably went to meet her husband. He's in the Department of the Environment.'

'Thass what she tells bleedin yew, son. E ain't in no Deparmen of no bleedin Environmen, it ain't even in bleedin White-all. E's in the same govmen office as what she works for. An she stayed in that office, lissen because I'm tellinya, she stayed in that office for over an hour, tellin em all what goes on at these wankers' meetins we go to, bleedin Albion Players.'

'How can you possibly know that, after all you weren't a fly on the wall? And which office in Whitehall?'

'Don avver name, does it? Iss jusser number.'

'Then how do you know it's a Government office?'

'If Ten bleedin Downin Street ain't a govmen office,' retorted Vaart, savouring the moment, 'I'm a bleedin Chinaman.'

Three one-armed commissionaires, who might have been transported by time-machine from standing guard over Pam across at Albion Printeries, so interchangeable were they all, took the usual unconscionable time studying Vaart's and Gryce's credentials. Seeds, once again, was on duty at the doors. He became involved in a slight altercation with Vaart, who did not wish to sit where Seeds wanted to put him. While Vaart was telling Seeds that he was a washerwoman and that the job of glorified usherette was just about his mark, Gryce, keeping out of it, looked about the hall. He recognized many of what he supposed could be termed the old regulars: George Formby, Fred Astaire, the Prime Minister of Rhodesia, Flight-Sergeant Neddyman and the rest of the gang.

Eventually Vaart won the day and indicated to Gryce that they should sit in the back row. Gryce bared his teeth obsequiously to Seeds, to apologize for having taken the matter of seating out of his hands. Taking his place, he noticed two newcomers across the aisle: the Jack Lemmon-looking individual from Catering (Administration), and another man whose flushed, angry face also rang a bell. Gryce was pleased that he had made a convert of Jack Lemmon after all, he must have been more persuasive than he'd thought when they'd had that little chat in the Buttery; but he was blowed if he could place his companion who resembled no personality of stage or screen whether living or dead. He began to run through his mental card-index and, by the time Grant-Peignton rose to open the meeting, had the man placed. Of course! If he'd been wearing a chef's hat Gryce would have got him one, you had to think of people in their context. It was the head of Catering (Administration) with whom he had had that altercation, Hatch as his name had turned out to be after an amusing misunderstanding with Jack Lemmon. So Gryce had made a convert of Jack Lemmon and Jack Lemmon had made a convert of Hatch, it was a case of casting one's bread upon the waters.

Grant-Peignton began to speak, somewhat inaudibly. It was funny, reflected Gryce, that without his lemon tea-gown, his padded bosom and his wig, he lacked the presence he had displayed the other night, he was more like the waffling and ineffectual No. 2 who in Copeland's absence had failed to maintain any kind of discipline in Stationery Supplies. Perhaps he needed to don women's clothing before he could begin to assert himself; only a head-shrinker would know the answer to that one.

'… dispense with the usual minutes in the case of an extraordinary meeting,' Grant-Peignton was saying, or mumbling. He looked very nervous to Gryce, on edge he would have said if asked. 'Certain matters having come to light… felt it advisable… committee soon as possible…'

'Speak up, carn earya!' yelled Vaart with gusto, cupping his hands to his mouth like the costermonger he had very probably been at some stage in his career. Grant-Peignton, glaring back at Vaart, seemed to make an effort to pull himself together. He continued in a less shaky but only imperceptibly louder voice.

'Certain matters having come to light, I say, it was felt advisable to bring them to the notice of this Committee, that's to say the British Albion Investigation Committee as a whole and not only the executive committee on this platform, as soon as would be practicable. The facts, speaking without a note—' (he could have done with one, thought Gryce) '— are these. Within the past twenty-four hours, one of our members has reported two discoveries of the utmost importance to the future of all here this evening and indeed to the future of British Albion. The first of these discoveries hinges on irrefutable evidence of the involvement of Government in our affairs — no less than the presence of one of Her Majesty's Secretaries of State at a meeting of the company's directors—'

The fact that Grant-Peignton could still not be heard at the back of the hall produced a ragged reaction. While there was a hubbub of excitement from the front rows, those behind were crying, 'Speak up! Can't hear you at the back, Mr Chairman!' Grant-Peignton tried raising his voice and repeating himself, but by now those who had heard him the first time were buzzing animatedly among themselves, so that he was inaudible to all. Only when Ardagh took it upon himself to bob up and appeal for the chairman to be given a chance was order partly restored.

'Thank you, Mr Ardagh. The second discovery, I say the second discovery if you will bear with me for a moment, is of the existence in the City of a company known as United Products which to all intents and purposes is an exact copy, I should say replica, of British Albion