Magnus Mills - A Cruel Bird Came to the Nest and Looked In

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I need a travel permit, please.’

‘Right you are.’

He looked down at the counter as if expecting to see something lying there. I produced my anvil and placed it before him.

‘No, no,’ he said, ‘I have to check your reference; from your employer. What’s your job?’

‘I haven’t got a job.’

‘Haven’t got a job?’ he repeated. ‘How can you not have a job in the City of Scoffers?’

He said this in such an incredulous tone that two or three of his colleagues joined him at the window and peered out at me with curiosity.

‘I’ve only just got here,’ I explained.

His colleague on the right said something to him quietly; then he leaned forward and looked me up and down. I was wearing my dandy coat but I had no luggage with me because of my surprise departure. After appraising me for several moments he spoke at last.

‘A Fallowfieldsman, I presume?’

‘Correct,’ I said.

‘Well,’ he declared, ‘we can’t make any exceptions, not even for you people.’

I wasn’t sure what he meant by this.

‘What should I do then?’ I asked.

Fortunately, his associates had started to lose interest in me and were drifting away. Otherwise they’d have witnessed my obvious shock when he gave his reply.

‘You’ll have to get a job,’ he said. ‘There’s an employment exchange at the corner of the street.’

Reeling from this piece of information I retraced my steps down the length of the ticket hall, arriving at the platform just in time to see my train departing. I walked slowly after it as it clanked and swayed over the points and into the wasteland beyond the city. When I reached the end of the platform I stopped. I could hardly believe what had happened. Gradually the retreating train dwindled until it could be seen or heard no more, yet still I remained standing where I was. For ages and ages I stared blankly across the railway tracks, scarcely aware of the desultory gusts of wind that tugged at my coat, or the restless engines shunting back and forth along the sidings. Behind the station loomed tall buildings shrouded in vapour; factory hooters were blaring and smoke was rising from their immense chimneys; sparks flew inside cavernous steel sheds; beneath a gantry an iron girder descended steadily on a hook and chain; cables unwound from revolving drums; all around me the City of Scoffers was gathering momentum for the day ahead, while I could do nothing but gaze haplessly into an apparent void.

It was only when my stomach started rumbling that I remembered I hadn’t eaten for several hours. With new determination I turned around and headed for the front entrance of the station. After a hearty breakfast, I resolved, everything would begin to look a lot better.

When I got out into the street there were crowds surging in all directions, but I managed to get my bearings and went in search of some sustenance. By peeking through a few windows I soon discovered that two kinds of establishment served breakfast: there were canteens which charged one anvil, and restaurants which charged two. From what I could gather the food was exactly the same in both, so I concluded that the difference must rest in the way it was cooked. Not that I had any choice in the matter: my total wealth amounted to one anvil, so I chose a suitable-looking canteen and went in. For somewhere to be properly suitable, of course, I would have preferred it to be completely empty. As a former officer-of-state in Greater Fallowfields I’d become accustomed to the luxury of dining alone. Here in the city, by contrast, it was necessary to share premises with other people. Moreover, they were all sitting in very close proximity to one another. The canteen I’d selected only had two or three empty tables, but I quickly recognised that I wasn’t going to come across anywhere quieter at such a busy time of day. As it was, I almost lost my place before I started. Having seemingly reserved a table, I went and washed my hands only to return and find someone else had taken it. After that I made sure I was quicker off the mark: within a few minutes I had a table all to myself.What I couldn’t help noticing, however, was that everyone behaved as though nobody else was in the room. For instance, there was a man sitting about two feet away on my right who reminded me slightly of Whimbrel. I was almost tempted to strike up a conversation with him, except that not once did he glance in my direction or even acknowledge my presence. He just sat silently minding his own business. The same applied to the man on my left, and the man to the left of him. In fact, no one paid the faintest attention to anybody else, so that each of us was effectively dining alone after all.

Before parting with my anvil I took a last look at the troublesome coin. It was odd to think that only a few weeks ago I had mistaken it for my stipendiary sixpence, which in its turn had made me feel like a man of importance. Now it was barely enough to buy my breakfast; and I realised that getting a job was no longer merely a convenient means for obtaining a travel permit: it was now a necessity. With these thoughts in mind I paid my bill and set off towards the employment exchange.

My hopes were immediately raised when I spotted Merganser going in the same direction. He was some distance ahead, so I hurried after him, knowing that this could be a good opportunity for me. If I could get to speak with him he’d most likely be able to fix something up and save the day. I was now gaining on him rapidly. He entered the building only a short while before I did, but when I got inside he’d vanished, presumably into some back room or other. Even so, the sighting gave me cause for renewed optimism: no doubt I would run into him again in the near future.

The employment exchange was arranged in a similar manner to the ticket hall. I had entered through a grand doorway, and now saw innumerable little windows with men sitting behind them. There were notices around the walls directing ‘customers’ to various sections, but I ignored these and approached the first window I came to. The man on the other side was wearing spectacles.

‘Tell me you’re a blacksmith,’ he said. ‘We’re crying out for them at the moment.’

‘Sorry,’ I answered. ‘No, I’m not.’

‘A related trade, perhaps? Foundry man, drop forger, welder, riveter, turner?’

‘No.’

‘Are you any of these?’ he said, reading from a list. ‘Panel beater? Tinsmith? Coppersmith? Toolmaker?’

‘No.’

‘Boilermaker?’

‘No.’

‘Mechanic?’

‘No.’

‘Wheelwright? Cartwright? Cooper?’

‘No.’

‘What about construction? Stonemason? Bricklayer? Scaffolder? Joiner? Plasterer? Plumber? Painter? Decorator? Glazier? Roofer?’

‘None of the above,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’

‘No need to keep saying sorry,’ he remarked. ‘There’s jobs a-plenty if we can just find you the right one. Now let’s have a look.’ He flipped briefly through a card index before resuming the interrogation. ‘Baker? Confectioner? Pastry chef?’

‘No.’

‘Are you proficient in electrical circuitry?’

‘No.’

‘Telegraphy?’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘Dentistry?’

‘No.’

‘Weaving or spinning?’

‘No.’

‘The maintenance of clocks?’

‘No.’

‘Typesetting?’

‘No.’

‘Agriculture?’

‘No.’

‘Horticulture?’

‘No.’

‘Glassblowing?’

‘No.’

The man paused and examined me over the rim of his spectacles.

‘Are you a seamstress?’ he asked.

‘Certainly not,’ I replied.

For a long moment he sat there with a furrowed brow. Then a thought occurred to him.