John Braine - Room at the Top

"It's a miserable day," I said.

Hoylake stopped doodling on his blotter and looked through the window. The sound of the rain filled the room, a sort of rhythmic silence. "The valley's a raintrap," he said. He shuffled the papers on his desk in an undecided yet intent kind of way, as if there were some way of arranging them which would say all he had to say for him. "You've picked up the work here very quickly," he said.

"Thank you, sir."

"Six months now, isn't it?"

"That's right," I said, wondering what the devil he was trying to say.

June came in with a cup of tea. "Ah," he said, "welcome refreshment. Bring Mr. Lampton one, will you, dear?" He sipped his tea as if it tasted bitter. June came in with my own cup, a blue and white Worcester. "That's a very pretty cup," he said. "Does June especially like you?"

"It belongs to me."

"Ah. Quite the sybarite, aren't you?" He put out his cigarette and lit another. "Well," he said, clearing his throat, "I'll give you a little autobiography, Joe. I was born here in Warley. I've lived here all my life. So have all my family. I married a local girl, and I must say that I've never regretted it. I know Warley like the palm of my hand. In fact, much better, because I don't know the palm of my hand. And I know all the councillors. Especially Councillor Brown. We went to school together."

He paused. The haze in my mind cleared suddenly, and my heart started to pound uncomfortably.

"You've done remarkably well here, Joe. And I'm most gratified to see that you're acquiring the qualifications to do even better. There's plenty of room for promotion here, you know. People rarely stay for long in Warley. They move on to bigger places. They receive more salary, but it costs them far more to live; they generally are presented with the alternative of living either in a scruffy back street or an expensive suburb. It's much more agreeable here - you can live next door to your work and still be, as it were, in the country. You like it here, don't you?"

"Very much."

"Ah. You're a sensible young man." He cleared his throat again. "It's highly likely that you may resent what I'm going to say now. In a sense you're entitled to."

Now it comes, I thought. I kept my face still and expressionless.

"What you do in your spare time is your own business, Joe. Within limits, of course, and I needn't tell you what those limits are."

"Have there been any complaints?"

He lifted up his hand as if warding off attack. "I don't mean that at all, Joe. For heaven's sake don't misunderstand me. Whatever the limits of - of decorum - are, you haven't, I do assure you, transgressed them."

"What's wrong, then?" I looked at him angrily, but his eyes refused to meet mine; the two holes in his skull behind his spectacles were directed at me but I had the impression that his real eyes were somewhere else, scampering round the dark cramped office like mice.

"I'm going to tell you what is wrong. Not that there is, properly speaking anything wrong. Let me put it this way: I'm giving you some advice about living in Warley. I'm speaking as man to man. For your benefit. And because I'm your superior" - he treated me to one of his apologetic twinkles - "you have to listen to the old bore. Well. To continue, you have, I'm sure, some notion of the workings of local government. The most important cog in the machine is, theoretically, the councillor. In practice, however, it is the senior official who runs the show. The councillor can be removed from his post; the official, unless he is dishonest, unbelievably dissolute, or incompetent to the point of idiocy, is abolutely secure. No one can touch him if he does his work properly. If he does his work as well as you do, Joe, no one will attempt to touch him. For their own sakes, not just for his."

The phone rang. "Excuse me, Joe. Hoylake speaking. Yes. Yes. Of course. In about fifteen minutes. I'm engaged now. I'll ring you back. Goodbye." He turned back to me. "As I was saying, for their own sakes. The official is quite safe. But that is all. Promotion is another thing. Promotion, whatever the head of a department may recommend, is dependent upon the majority vote of the Establishments Committee. Then the full council. And, you know, councillors are like sheep. If one powerful personality declares himself unalterably opposed to an official's promotion, the majority will follow him. They'd follow him to curry favour, or because they're indebted to him in some way, or simply because they feel that, since the wise Councillor So-and-So is against the man, there must be something wrong with him. And, of course, there's always the last resort of offering some solid inducement to anyone likely to upset the plans of our hypothetical councillor ..."

"You mean that Councillor Brown - "

He cut in quickly. "I mean nothing of the sort. I'm not discussing Councillor Brown. I said that we went to school together and that I had more than a casual acquaintanceship with him. The only connection you have with Councillor Brown is that you meet him at your interview and that you've met him here once or twice."

"I remember him. A cheerful type. Overplays the part of the blunt Yorkshire businessman, rather."

Hoylake tittered. "Between ourselves, he does. But he's no fool. He rose from nothing, absolutely nothing. I have talked about you with him on several occasions. I said that you were a very promising young man. Highly intelligent. Intelligent enough to seize the point straightaway without any wearisome emotionalism." He offered me another cigarette. I noticed that his case was silver.

"I wouldn't know my exact intelligence rating, Mr. Hoylake," I said. "But I understand you very clearly." I forced a smile.

"Splendid, splendid. We'll say, then, that I'm talking in general terms. Imagine me, if you like, as a lecturer at a summer school ... Councillor Brown, since you mention his name, is a very wealthy man. He has a great deal of influence. He is also a self-willed man. He is, as you know, the chairman of the Establishments Committee. He's an engineer; he likes everything about him to run with the smoothness of first-class machinery. He has his whole life, and the life of all his family, arranged in detail for the next twenty years. If anyone got in his way he'd be utterly ruthless ..."

It was very dark in the room; Hoylake switched on his table lamp. The little yellow puddle of light made his mahogany desk look larger, big enough for an operation table. His skin looked dry as paper, and there were Commissar-harsh lines ruled from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. I felt small and frightened, then suddenly, refreshingly, angry.

"Perhaps I'd better apply for a job elsewhere," I said.

"Good God, my dear chap, whatever gave you that idea?" He wagged his finger playfully at me. "I'm afraid that you haven't been giving me your undivided attention. Surely I've been at great pains to emphasise - in the strongest possible terms - the excellence of your work, though, as I've also emphasised, the question of promotion doesn't arise at present. If your immediate senior, Mr. Harrod, were to obtain another post, that would be a different matter ... That's our little secret, though, we'll just see what happens ..."

I was remembering the supercilious look on Mrs. Brown's face, the big house on Poplar Avenue blazing with light and music, Jack Wales's shiny red M.G., his genuine public school accent - I was on the outside again, my grubby little face pressed against the window, I'd lost the wherewithal to buy what I hankered for and the shopkeeper was chasing me away.

"You haven't a girl in Warley, have you, Joe? You're not, as we say in these parts, courting ?"

"There's plenty of time," I said.

"Um. You're attractive to women. It's sometimes a curse. It can lead you into awkward situations. Of course, you should really be thinking of marriage by now. Nothing like an early marriage. Gives a man a sense of responsibility, something concrete to work for."