David Szalay - London and the South-East

More or less the only job which he feels would be suitable — and that only because it does not specify any necessary qualities, skills or qualifications, except in the very vaguest terms — is ‘Purchase Ledger Clerk’.

We are currently recruiting an Accounts Assistant to join the small and friendly finance team of this busy public sector organisation. Reporting to the Finance Manager you will be responsible for purchase invoices. A minimum of a year’s experience in a similar role is desirable. Applicants should be enthusiastic and have good attention to detail. The client offers an excellent basic salary and an attractive benefits package as well as the opportunity to work in a positive and supportive environment.

Heather, who was not at all satisfied with the outcome of their talk, is on edge and suspicious, and prods him with pointed looks and impatient sighs whenever she sees him doing anything other than finding a job — watching the tail end of Christmas TV, for instance, or putting his jacket on to take Oli to the snooker club. Several times a day she seeks progress updates, and he tells her, with increasing irritation, not to expect anything to happen before the new year. ‘But you’re not even trying ,’ she says, a shrill, despairing note to her voice.

‘I am. I’ve already applied for a job.’

She shakes her head incredulously. ‘What?’

‘Purchase Ledger Clerk,’ Paul mutters, walking out the door and telling himself that he must send his application tomorrow.

Life is pervaded by a sense of financial emergency. The new television was taken back to Dixons. ‘God that was embarrassing,’ Heather said, as they emerged from the shop onto Western Road, which was thronged, like North Street and Churchill Square, with impatient shoppers, struggling for their share of the sales. She had spent the whole twenty minutes they were in the shop under a crimson blush, her hair curtaining her face as she filled in the forms. She said that the money from the TV would be reserved for the February rent, the council tax, for bills — for all of Paul’s liabilities going forward. They went to Sainsbury’s. No luxury products were on the menu now. Instead the trolley was piled with basics in their no-nonsense livery, extra value multipacks and special offers. It was almost fun — like an old-fashioned game show — trying to pile up as much food for as little money as possible. The children, in particular, participated with enthusiasm, even questioning the necessity of many items, until they started to get on the adults’ nerves. And having at least a week’s supply of food stashed in the house seemed to stabilise the situation. There was something atavistic about the way that the food made everything seem more secure. Even Heather seemed to feel relaxed — she gently green-lighted a four-pack of Carling for Paul, and it was at her insistence that they bought a bottle of cava for New Year’s Eve.

What is it about ‘Purchase Ledger Clerk’ that fills him with fear and despondency? As he haltingly types a CV on Oli’s computer, wondering how many years of previous clerking experience to bestow on himself, Paul feels a massive lack of enthusiasm for the role. Filing invoices, filing bills — despite the vision of secure public-sector drudgery, there is something wrong with it. It is not the drudgery he minds. The drudgery is fine. More than fine — he is in a state in which the thought of it elicits strange little pangs of ecstasy. No, it is not that. It is the environment of ‘Purchase Ledger Clerk’ which depresses him. It will certainly take place in a grey-carpeted office with desks and ceiling panels and office equipment in neutral plastic tones. He will wear his suit. And somehow the fact that he will be filing invoices troubles him too. Leaving his half-made CV on the screen, he goes downstairs for a cigarette.

The children do not seem to understand what has happened. Or if Oli does, since it has nothing to do with snooker, it does not seem especially of interest to him. He has not said anything, or asked any questions. Of course, that may be because he senses that Paul does not want to talk about it — that it would be painful and embarrassing for him to do so; which it would be — he is embarrassed, the sense of ignominious failure is sharp, and he knows that it will be worse in the new year when instead of returning to work, he is still haunting the house in jeans and a jumper, typing CVs, and poking around in the kitchen for some lunch. He thinks of his own father — how he lost his managerial job and became a coach driver. Paul did not think less of him. Of course not. Or did he? Did he in fact, in some way, think less of him? Perhaps he did. Did he suddenly seem pitiable, impotent, small in a way that he had not until then? That he took his fate with stiff dignity did not make him seem any less diminished. Yes, he seemed diminished , and Paul senses that Oli’s perception of him is already drifting in a similar direction. The boy’s sense of status, of society, is sufficiently sharp — it is that after all, more than anything else, that he is learning at school — to notice that, in those terms, Paul has taken a knock.

Oli is watching television. ‘Have you finished with the computer?’ he says huskily, still staring at the screen.

‘Er, not yet,’ Paul says. ‘I’m taking a break. Go ahead and use it if you want.’

Oli shakes his head. ‘S’all right.’

Paul stands there for a few moments, pretending to follow what is on the TV, then goes to the kitchen and takes one of the Carlings from the fridge. He has thought a lot, since Boxing Day, about the Buddhist monks of Dharamsala who live by repairing motorbikes and cars. That is the sort of thing he has in mind. Useful simple manual work. Is it important that it is manual work, physical labour? Somehow it is. That seems to be part of the problem with ‘Purchase Ledger Clerk’. He wants no involvement, not even the most menial, with the workings of the money machine. That is precisely what he does not want. Though he had promised himself not to do so until the CV is finished, he breaks open the can of Carling and swigs at it thirstily. He does not want a job , he thinks — pleased with his precise semantic distinction — so much as work .

Perhaps it is simply the specificity of ‘Purchase Ledger Clerk’ that has extinguished his eagerness. Might not any such work, in all its dreary specifications, have the same effect? And more menial jobs, even more so? The old edition of the Argus is on the kitchen table, and to test this, he sits down with his lager and looks at it again. If he is really so keen on something of utter meniality — if ‘Purchase Ledger Clerk’ is too serious, too white-collar — then let him see how he responds to what is on offer for the semiliterate. There seems, however, to be very little on offer for them in the Argus . The jobs advertised there include secretaries and receptionists and sous-chefs and sales assistants, but nothing in the way of unskilled manual labour. Disappointed — more than that, starting to get depressed — he sits back and lights a cigarette.

He is drinking the second can of Carling when Oli comes into the kitchen. ‘Have you finished with the computer now?’ he asks.

‘Yeah. Yeah, I have, Oli. Thanks.’

Oli spins on his heel and leaves.

He will finish the CV in the morning. There will be time to do it then. It is early evening, dark outside. Though it is Wednesday, it feels like Sunday. He drops the empty can into the bin and goes to the fridge for the next.

In the morning a letter snaps through the front door. He recognises the handwriting. It is from his mother, and he knows what it will be — a thank-you note for Christmas. It was, she says, ‘wonderful’, its setting his ‘lovely home’, where she had ‘so much enjoyed’ meeting Heather’s ‘wonderful’ parents. He smiles, touched. Also perturbed. It makes him sad, this sense that his mother is just a little insane. Why does she always have to overstate everything? It just makes it all seem even worse than it is. There is a PS — ‘I enclose Dad’s latest PUBLISHED work!’ He looks in the envelope. There is a narrow strip of newspaper with a Post-it note stuck to it — Bucks Advertiser, 30 December 2004 . Presumably a slow day for local news.