Keith Waterhouse - Office Life

'Enough to last us till the year two thousand eighty,' said Lucas promptly. 'That doesn't alter the fact, Mr Hatch, that the galley-slaves of Catering Admin don't add a halfpenny piece to the wealth of this country.'

Hatch's rather slobbery mouth dropped open and he seemed at a loss for words. Again he tried to arrest the proceedings while he conferred with Jack Lemmon. But this time Lucas, having made a telling point, was not disposed to wait for him, and eventually the head of Catering (Administration) slid back into his seat, muttering.

'Now I'd like to get away from the ethics of work, ladies and gentlemen, otherwise we'll still be arguing the toss at midnight and I think even Mr Hatch will agree that we've certainly done our whack of overtime this evening! What we have to decide, what you have to decide, is where we go from here. You now know all that there is to know about British Albion. It rests with you whether we continue in business.

'Obviously the danger has always been there that a security leak could blow what we're doing sky-high. For myself, and this is a personal view, I always thought the danger was over-stated and that the establishment of the Albion Players as a safety-valve would be counterproductive — I certainly beg leave to doubt that certain of your members would have been so inquisitive if left to their own devices.'

Was that supposed to be a dig at Gryce? If so, then he begged leave to inform Lucas of Personnel that anything he might have stumbled upon hinged less on the Albion Players than on the disappearance of the office furniture. If Lucas had been more concerned with security than was apparently the case, he would have been well advised to have put a guard on the main door.

'After all, what was the danger? That people would talk? But people always talk, about any organization they work for. Fortunately it's a convention in this country that when you ask someone what he does for a living he'll reply, "As little as possible" or "Run round in ever-decreasing circles" or "Sweet Francis Adams". So any theory that British Albion did do Sweet Francis Adams would always be discounted as exaggeration. Then again, there's the media. Well: they have shown an interest from time to time, but experience shows that the media are highly co-operative on matters of national security, especially if someone waves a D-notice under their noses.

'However, there we are. The damage has been done. We could still, and this is my considered view, continue to fool all of the people all of the time, but only with the co-operation of those "some of the people" who are now in the know. Any one of you could close down British Albion tomorrow, simply by revealing what he knows in the right quarter. The Press, of course, would make a field day of it: they don't like being fooled.

'I mentioned national security. Now national security is at stake here, although not in the way some sections of the media may have been led to believe. We're not secretly preparing ration books, we're not secretly processing identity cards, we're not secretly engaged on a repatriation programme for immigrants, but what we are secretly doing is pretending to the world that this nation has more people in gainful work than is in reality the case. You can imagine the harm that such a revelation would cause. As I said at the beginning it would bring the Government down: and now it is my duty to warn you that it would bring all of you down too.

'I asked what you have in common. Curiosity, was the answer. But you have something else in common, and that is that you are unemployable. Nobody wants you. Your skills, those of you who had any, have been superseded. The trades and industries that once employed you no longer need you: in many cases they don't need anybody, because they don't exist any more. Jobwise, ladies and gentlemen, the world is getting smaller and smaller. I'm sorry to be brutal but it is for the best. British Albion was your last chance, it was your only chance. Now you have to decide whether you mean to throw it away.'

Lucas, on that to Gryce's mind ringing note, turned to Grant-Peignton and bowed. Grant-Peignton, rising at once, started to bring his hands together as if about to lead the audience in applause, then thought better of it and froze them in mid-air, so that he looked like an angler demonstrating the measurements of a fish. In the silence, Gryce glanced at Vaart. His face was a caricature of scorn and contempt.

'I don't know whether you wish me to withdraw at this stage, Mr Chairman—?'

Lucas took a tentative step towards the edge of the platform, presumably as a token indication of his goodwill, since he plainly had no intention of going anywhere. He and Grant-Peignton were joined by Ardagh in a huddled conference, then Lucas sat in the chair that had been reserved for Pam, and Grant-Peignton stepped forward to address the meeting.

'Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sure we're all very grateful indeed to Mr Lucas of Personnel for sparing the time to come here this evening and give us such an interesting talk.'

While Gryce thought a little less banality would have been in order there, he did have the impression that Grant-Peignton had recovered some of the authority that had gone with his blue-rinsed wig and chiffon tea-gown. Doubtless the chairman had been feeling very nervous about how the evening would go and was mightily relieved that the worst was now over.

'I'm equally sure that you would all wish me to thank Mr Lucas on your behalf for spelling out the position so clearly and so frankly.' There being no indication at all that this was the wish of the meeting, Grant-Peignton hurried on. 'Now time is running short and we have to be out of the hall by eight, which gives us rather less than forty minutes for a brief discussion before the main resolution of the evening. Mr Lucas has kindly offered to withdraw during our deliberations, but both your Secretary and I feel it would assist us all in reaching a decision if he were to remain and keep himself available for any points that may come up. I don't know what the feeling of the meeting is about that — perhaps someone would propose it as a motion?'

George Formby rose immediately.

'Are you proposing, Mr Aintree?'

'Point of information, Mr Chairman. Just what is the "main resolution" mentioned by you?'

Grant-Peignton turned to Lucas. Lucas, shifting in his chair, turned to Ardagh. Ardagh, fishing a slip of paper from his inside pocket, rose.

'"That before formally dissolving the British Albion Investigation Committee, all members of that committee should sign the Official Secrets Act."'

Ardagh read out the words defiantly, and in a voice that rose in volume as he got to the end, as if he expected a repetition of the earlier uproar. But there was only a whispering murmur: consternation rather than anger, was how Gryce interpreted it. He could well understand the reaction: he personally had always been very wary about signing his life away on insurance documents and such.

Several members were on their feet. Grant-Peignton, unwisely in Gryce's judgement, selected the woman who looked like Petula Clark, the one who had treated the last meeting to a rambling discourse about mock coalmines down in Aldershot. It could only be that as an impartial chairman, Grant-Peignton felt it was high time the ladies had a look in.

'Yes? Are you proposing the motion?'

'What — about the Official Secrets Act?'

'No, no, that has yet to be debated. The motion I'm looking for is that Mr Lucas do be invited to remain on the platform during our discussion.'

'Oh, I see. Well, I will propose that, most certainly, if someone else will second it. By all means. Only what I really wanted to ask is, why can't we do something for the blind?'