Keith Waterhouse - Office Life

Pam commenced negotiations with the ticket-collecting woman, who quickly assessed the situation as outside her brief and pressed a bell-push to summon someone in authority. Standing to one side with his simulated mahogany tray, Gryce noted that Seeds had commandeered a vacant table and, with outstretched arms, was cradling two chairs in the expectation of Gryce and Pam relieving him so that he could come up for his own meal. He seemed to be growing impatient but there was nothing Gryce could do about that. He could hardly leave Pam to handle the situation on her own, since his plate of salad and rapidly cooling shepherd's pie were evidence in the case, and besides, he wouldn't want to risk her wandering off and joining Grant-Peignton, Beazley and Co. at another table.

A senior-looking woman, wearing a suit in contrast to the lilac smocks of the serving staff, appeared on the scene and listened to Pam's explanations. After briefly examining Gryce she ruled that in the unusual circumstances, and on this occasion only, the potato salad and accompanying radishes and sliced tomato would be classed as vegetables, for which there was no extra charge, but that his shepherd's pie would have to be accounted for by a Main Dish ticket from Pam's own book.

This suited Gryce admirably. It would mean that he owed Pam a lunch. That was an altogether different ball game from owing Seeds a lunch. He thanked the heavens above that the Buttery had been full, so that Seeds had opted to wait for a free table instead of accompanying him to the counter and having to assume responsibility for his food.

'Typical,' said Pam again as they joined Seeds and took up the seats he had been reserving, one on either side of him. 'Not only have they not given him his SSTs or told him where to get them, the poor man didn't even know anything about them!'

SSTs, then, not meal vouchers. 'Supplementary Subsistence Tickets,' Pam explained. More jargon to remember. There was so much to learn in this place, it was like one's first day at school all over again.

'Typical,' agreed Seeds, adding 'Coh!' as he rose and headed for the Salad Bowl. It could either have been an exclamation of disgust or his means of expressing laughter, on the lines of Gryce's own ' Sha!' and that Personnel fellow's, Lucas's, 'Shock!' Time would tell, when they had exchanged an office joke or two.

It came as a surprise to Gryce that Seeds hadn't said 'Let the dog see the rabbit' when he went up for his lunch.

This left him without anything to say to Pam by way of small talk. If Seeds had said 'Let the dog see the rabbit' he could have riposted ' — or the ham and egg pie, as the case may be' and taken it from there. They could have talked about the food.

But Gryce need not have worried about keeping up a conversation. The theme of the SSTs, and the breakdown in communications that had led to the hold-up at the hot meals counter, kept Pam in full flow. It seemed there was a guidelines leaflet, listing all the hundred and one things a new employee ought to know, that should rightly have been placed in Gryce's hands by Lucas of Personnel. But it was likely that the leaflet had been withdrawn for emendations and additions, as happened from time to time. In that event it fell to Grant-Peignton, who as Copeland's number two was responsible for departmental welfare, to show him the ropes, tell him where the first-aid room was for instance, and particularly clue him up on the Supplementary Subsistence Tickets.

They were called supplementary, Gryce was intrigued to learn, because they were originally an optional alternative to the conventional luncheon vouchers which could be used in any cafe or cheap restaurant. But that particular choice was being phased out because the Buttery, which was heavily subsidized, had been losing too much money. Under the old system you had signed for your supplementary tickets or luncheon vouchers up in the Welfare Office on a certain day of the month according to where your surname initial fell in the alphabet. But Pam believed that the Buttery's own administration office, she thought it was on the tenth or twelfth floor, was taking over the chore of issuing SSTs. She would have to find out soon enough on her own account, since she had only a four or five days' supply left. If Gryce liked she could let him know what the new arrangement was.

Gryce could think of nothing he would like more. There was a lot more to learn about the SSTs and the time passed very amiably, with no awkward pauses, before Seeds returned to the table with a plate piled high with tongue and cold chicken.

'One thing worth bearing in mind,' said Seeds, picking up the conversational thread from Pam, 'is that when you surrender a Main Meal ticket you're laying yourself open to paying nearly half as much again as if you'd surrendered a Salad Bowl ticket. Even though the portions are smaller.'

'Which reminds me,' said Pam. 'One shepherd's pie. If you've got twenty-four pee handy?'

'Twenty-four pee? Is that all?'

'That's assuming you'll want coffee. The Main Meal's only twenty pee. Don't forget we're subsidized.'

'And your shepherd's pie's subsidizing my tongue and cold chicken into the bargain,' said Seeds. 'This little lot came to only fifteen pee.'

Gryce's gratified surprise at the cost of the meal, dirt cheap he called it, had the edge taken off it somewhat by Pam's obvious, though quite understandable, keenness to keep the books straight. It meant he wouldn't owe her a lunch after all. But a thought struck him as he put down his knife and fork and meticulously counted out some coins, despite her protest that it would do later.

'But what about the Main Meal ticket you gave up for my lunch? Doesn't that throw you out?'

'Oh, you can owe me that.' So the door was still open. He would be able to say, 'Methinks I'm indebted to you for a Main Meal, or more precisely an SST for same,' and she would have to accompany him to the Buttery. That was assuming the tickets were not valid unless detached by an authorized person, as was probably the case.

'Don't forget,' said Seeds, 'that when you apply for your SSTs, you'll want them back-dated as from today. Otherwise when you refund Pam's ticket you'll find yourself one short at the end of the issuing period, and you'll be wondering where it's got to.'

'That way madness lies,' agreed Gryce.

He liked all this talk about SSTs very much indeed. It reminded him of his Air Force days when there had often been similar detailed discussion of late-meal chitties, issuable to those who had been on guard duty.

The conversation became general, within the parameters of office affairs as they applied to the newcomer. Seeds confirmed what Pam had said about the guidelines leaflet being withdrawn for emendations and additions, but the pair of them, speaking in turn, were able to reconstruct its contents as they could best remember them. Gryce learned about the late-arrivals book that was kept by the three one-armed commissionaires, the drill for collecting his salary on the first Thursday of each month, the holiday roster, the concession whereby he could take up to six separate (but not consecutive) days' compassionate leave a year without producing documentation; and much else. The compassionate leave concession, unheard of in any of his previous billets, interested him a lot. He could see the time coming when he and Pam would scoot off to Brighton for the day, catching the nine-something down and the four-something back. What his wife didn't know about she wouldn't grieve over.

'Any social activities at all?' he asked as Seeds waved his arm ineffectually to summon the coffee trolley. Gryce and Pam had elected not to have a pudding, but Seeds, not having selected his main course from the hot meals counter where the puddings were in evidence, had left the question open. Gryce had hoped to snatch another moment or two alone with Pam by mentioning that the chilled rhubarb fool looked well worth queuing for, but Seeds, beyond murmuring, 'Rhubarb fool, shall I or shan't I?' had taken no action in the matter. Pam might at least have encouraged him by urging, 'Go on, be a devil.' A pity, when they were getting on so famously.