I attended lots of interviews. Interviews were something I was pretty good at, sometimes too good. People are always slightly startled if they ask a question and you give them precisely the answer they already have in their head, so a certain amount of caution is called for. Over the years, because I’ve had to, I’ve learnt to effectively shield from the cacophony of thought that always surrounds me. I use a venetian blind concept – stout, sturdily-made, mental slats that can be opened, slitted or sealed, depending on what’s called for at any given moment. I’d grown up developing self-protection, so by that stage it was pretty much automatic and instinctive, although it does require a certain amount of concentration. Meeting new people, in new surroundings is still, and always will be, a bit unnerving because you need to keep a wary eye and ear open for what they expect from you. Too little’s not good, too much is far worse.
Volume and clarity of thought is like speech – everyone’s different and you come across everything from shouters to silents to synaesthetes. Most people adjust their volume, according to circumstance, although that doesn’t apply to shouters, who are just plain and painfully loud, wherever they happen to be. To make up for that though, there are lots of others, who’re heard only when their thoughts are amplified by emotion, they’re far more comfortable to be around. Rarer still, but treasured nonetheless, are those who are pretty much completely silent most of the time, their thinking seems to be (bliss!), completely encompassed and contained. That doesn’t mean they can’t be read, but you have to reach out and actively do it.
Whilst most people take it in turn to talk, there’s no such protocol for thinking, so thoughts and emotions come from every direction at the same time. It’s therefore, only common sense to keep my blinds shut most of the time, avoiding overload and migraine and of course, courtesy dictates I no more rummage around in people’s heads, than I would in their underwear drawer.
I wondered often as I grew up, and sometimes wonder still, do people I meet suspect there’s more to me than meets the eye? I don’t think so, why would they, when the truth is so darn peculiar? But there are certainly those, from time to time, who are alerted to me in some way – children more often than adults, because their instincts aren’t yet blunted by logic. They sense something. I’ve seen them react, a shadow of a feeling, a vague looking round for the cause – nothing so formulated as a complete thought, just an awareness of something different, something Strange having crossed their path. It used to disturb me, doesn’t really do that anymore, although I don’t like to think I make anyone feel uncomfortable.
For a considerable time after my encounter with Glory and the Peacocks, I was on high alert for more people like us, but whilst I sometimes came across those with a touch of Strange, they were mostly unaware of it, just saw themselves as strongly hunch-driven, and after a while I stopped looking. On the whole, by the time I’d reached my early twenties, I’d come comfortably to terms with things, decided precisely who I did and didn’t want to be, and felt I had things as satisfactorily under control as anyone in this life can.
CHAPTER FOUR
When I moved on from the Hillyer-Bowden’s and Hay Hill, I took a job as secretary to the MD of a fashion store in Regent Street. The carrot there was definitely the staff discount on store purchases, combined with the perfume-laden luxury of the whole place. Sadly, the surroundings turned out to be not so hot, behind the scenes. Once through the Staff Only door, carpeting gave way to concrete, perfumed air to sawdust smells and mirrored walls to white tiled ones. And as it transpired, the MD had a few disconcerting habits, which never came up at interview.
One of his peculiarities was writing out all his letters in longhand, prior to calling me in for dictation. The result, as might have been expected, was such rapid-fire delivery that my shorthand instantly crumpled into incoherence, with me only able to get down an occasional word here and there. This awkward situation was further exacerbated by the high, over-stuffed, gilt-studded leather chair in his office, on which I was expected to perch. At commencement of our daily sessions, I’d launch myself firmly onto the slippery, sloping seat. But as my feet then dangled a good few inches from the floor, it was inevitable, as dictation proceeded, I’d slip slowly southwards, to a deceptively more relaxed position. Struggling to avoid sliding off completely, at the same time as trying to get down even a fraction of what he was saying, wasn’t easy.
As if this wasn’t tiresome enough, he liked to pace the office briskly as he dictated, slapping his wad of notes on any flat surface along the way. As his office was well-furnished, with a cocktail cabinet as well as a nice wooden filing one, there was a lot of walking and slapping which, after a while became annoying. Every now and then, on his circuit, he’d pause to lean over me, ostensibly to look at my notebook, checking I’d ‘Got that last bit down’. I knew he’d even less chance of reading anything back from my shorthand than I did, but the leaning-over began to include an apparently casual, hot hand placement here, there and indeed elsewhere. Luckily, none of these difficulties were insurmountable.
I gave up fairly early on the shorthand, I could be pretty certain of what he wanted to say, and should I forget, he’d invariably toss his used notes in the wastepaper bin, so I simply retrieved them whenever he left the room, and churned out impeccably correct letters. The wandering hands weren’t pleasant, but they weren’t a problem either. I began to freeze him out, every time a digit so much as veered in my direction. It didn’t take him long to cotton on, without understanding in the least why, whenever he came within a certain distance of me, things got very chilly indeed. It certainly put paid to any funny business, but I don’t think it nurtured a congenial working relationship. I was only there for three months, all told.
The next step on my career ladder, was as a secretary in the packaging design department of Yardley, the cosmetic and toiletry people in Bond Street. That didn’t measure up too well in the longevity stakes either, although I would point out, in my own defence, the fact Rick Medoc, the chap I worked for, ended up in Accident and Emergency, was entirely his own silly fault.
He was pleasant enough when I started, although a bit too full of his own importance for someone who was not that much older than me. I assumed his recent promotion had gone to his head, causing temporary swelling and he’d get less pompous and pernickety as time went on. What I hadn’t factored in was an unpleasant bullying streak reserved, almost exclusively it seemed, for a couple of the older women in the office – I don’t know, maybe he hated his mother. Whatever his reasons, he rarely missed an opportunity to wrong-foot either one of them. Liz, who acted as liaison between the design department in Bond Street and the Basildon-based manufacturing side of the business, took it very much in her stride. Over a sandwich, one lunchtime, I asked why she put up with it and didn’t slap him down. She shrugged a well-padded shoulder, hitched up the thus dislodged bra strap, and chuckled comfortably.
“He’s just a kid who hasn’t grown into his big boy trousers yet,” she said tolerantly. “Needs a good clip round the ear, if you ask me. But, if shouting the odds makes him feel good, no skin off my nose. Seen more like him come and go, than you’ve had hot dinners, my love!”
Sandy, the other woman, was a different type altogether, and whereas it was water off a duck’s back for Liz, Sandy was floundering. She was secretary to the Distribution Manager, had been for about ten years. It was a role involving more logistics, figures and balancing than I could bear to think about. She was a very bright lady indeed and exceptionally good at her job, but even in the few weeks I’d been there, it was all too clear that Rick’s continuous fault-finding was undermining her, to a dangerous degree. In truth, an error highlighted by him, often proved to be nothing of the kind, but the more he picked her up on apparent oversights, the more she made.
I was with him in his office one morning, along with a couple of the factory production team, who’d come to discuss the launch of a newl
y branded range. There was a query on delivery dates for deodorant-stick containers, which were part of the launch. Rick buzzed the intercom for Sandy to come in. As soon as she did, there was a heightening of the atmosphere, she didn’t know what he wanted, but was convinced she’d slipped up somewhere. He knew that, and he had an appreciative audience.
I hate bullying, don’t you? Whilst firing questions – which he must have known, she hadn’t a hope of answering without the relevant information in front of her – he was plunging his middle finger slowly in and out of the hollow plastic container under discussion. He probably thought he was embarrassing her even further, and from the smirk on the faces of the two guys from the factory, they did too. I knew she was in such a fluster, any innuendo was completely passing her by. I did feel though, that what he was doing wasn’t nice and indeed, not so much risqué as risky. Plastic can be tricky, especially when heated, which I proceeded to do. The tube obligingly expanded, then contracted as it cooled, wedging itself firmly on his finger. A rigid plastic tube, once wedged, isn’t an easy thing to dislodge. It also follows, the more you panic and the harder you tug, the more swollen the finger becomes.
Apparently, after several hours increasingly uncomfortable wait in St Mary’s A and E, they were able to cut it off – tube, not finger – although I understood the whole process was quite painful. The abused digit certainly remained heavily bandaged for a good couple of weeks or so. Naturally, word of such an unfortunate incident spreads like a rash, and I believe for quite some time, wherever Rick went, whether in the office or down at the factory, there was much mimed re-enactment and a great deal of merriment at his expense. Still, no more than he deserved.
CHAPTER FIVE
I stayed with Yardley for a year and then felt a change was in order. I’d like to tell you that I subsequently found my calling and everything ran smooth as silk. Unfortunately, it gradually impinged on me that perhaps I wasn’t ideally suited to working for anyone for longer than a few months, which was unfortunate, because I definitely needed to earn a living. However, it wasn’t in fact until I got to the end of the run in my next job, that things suddenly became a great deal clearer.
I moved from Yardley in Bond Street, to the Reader’s Digest in Berkeley Square – I always did like a rarefied atmosphere – where I was offered a job, working in their book publishing department. This time around on the job circuit, I’d been determined not to be seduced by staff discounts, fancy surroundings or free cosmetics. The most important thing, I felt, was to find someone I really liked and could work for with minimal hassle for either of us.
I did the usual interview with Personnel, elegantly elongated, with thick, pale pink lipstick. During our time together she didn’t crack a smile – maybe the lipstick was too thick. I explained, despite CV evidence to the contrary, it wasn’t that I wasn’t prepared to stick at a job, just that as yet, I hadn’t quite found my niche. She didn’t trouble to hide her assessment that wherever that niche was, it wasn’t going to be at Reader’s Digest. Nevertheless, she tested my typing and shorthand speeds, sniffed at the results and took me along to see the chap looking for efficient secretarial skills. From the way that tall and elegant handed him my forms, lips pursed, he and I could both tell, she didn’t think, with this candidate, they’d struck gold.
I liked him immediately. For a start, his name was John Smith and you don’t get much more straightforward than that. Sharp-boned, freckled and sandy-haired, he laughed when he shook my hand and introduced himself, said he felt the least his parents could have done, was opt for a first name which would have made him a little less pedestrian. I guessed it wasn’t the first time he’d cracked that joke, it had a well-used air. Personnel said repressively she’d leave us to chat, but warned she’d be back shortly to collect me, would it be possible therefore, for Mr Smith to be brief and to the point? He grinned at me as she left,
“Look,” he said, “I’ll tell you what I want, you tell me whether you can do it.” He slid aside my CV, paper-clipped to Personnel’s notes, which I’d no doubt were signed off ‘unsuitable’, leaned dangerously far back in his office chair and pyramided long, thin fingers under his chin.
“Here’s the low-down. We publish books. At the moment we’re working on four: English Country Walks; Four Seasons of Cookery; a DIY tome, forget now what we’ve called that one and the Family Medical Encyclopaedia. Each book’s got its own editor and assistant. We’ve a Design team who turn their creative talents to layout, illustrations and photos and then Marketing gets involved, working on a load of advance promotions, book club deals and the like. When we’ve all finished doing our stuff and a book is completed, we hand it over to the Sales chappies and plunge headlong into our next effort. We’ve got Stately Homes and The History of the Automobile in the pipeline. My baby, this time round’s the medical one.”
I’d tuned out a little while he was talking, what was important to me was not so much what I was hearing, but what was going on underneath. I was pleased I couldn’t find any unpleasant under-currents, he seemed to be exactly as he seemed to be, pleasant and straightforward, through and through.
“… so,” he continued, “What I’m after’s a bit more than the usual secretarial stuff, I need that too, God knows I do.” He waved a hand over a desk top which could best be described as a bit of tip, “But frankly, I’m going under with the masses of medical info we’ve got pouring in – most of which only makes sense if you’ve had six years in med school. I need someone to use their common sense and write it up so we can make the ruddy book what we’re saying it is – a layman’s reference.” He paused for breath, sat back again in the chair and raised a sandy eyebrow. “Think you’d be any good at converting completely baffling to reasonably understandable?”
“No idea,” I said, “But more than happy to give it a go.” He nodded his head once,
“I think you’ll do nicely, if you fancy, that is?”
“I do actually, but don’t you need to know more about me, my work experience?”
“No. Waste of time. Proof of the pudding and all that. Anyway, we take you on for a month’s trial, if it doesn’t work out, well it doesn’t work out, but I like the cut of your jib.” There was no double meaning there, he seemed to be dead straight, up and down, inside and out. “I’ll tell Evelyn,” he unconsciously made a small pursed mouth, “She’ll sort out all the details, money, hols and that. Now, when can you get stuck in?”
By the following week I was installed. Personnel, predictably was less than thrilled, she hadn’t taken to me, although I wasn’t sure she took to anyone that much. Whenever we passed in the corridor, she’d hand me a look which clearly said ‘Don’t imagine you’ve got those feet comfortably under the desk for long!’ As things turned out, she was more prescient than she knew, but what happened really wasn’t my fault – well, not directly anyway.
CHAPTER SIX
I loved that job, and John Smith was exactly that, John Smith, plain and simple, a rare combination of straight talking and straight thinking. He displayed the same gentle humour and courtesy to everyone, from Bertha our constantly martyred tea lady to Basil Hartspring our equally martyred, if somewhat better paid, Managing Director.
The book editors’ smaller offices were set around a large, square, main one, where I worked with Diane (Cookery), Fredella (DIY) and Moira (Walks). Diane and Moira were old hands, having already, between them, seen off Castles and Forts and Art and Artists, whereas Fredella and I were mere novices. There were three other editors, two men and a woman, with John in overall charge of the whole department, running it with an easy hand most of the time although he did have, I discovered, an entirely unexpected and very explosive temper. It seemed completely at odds with all else I’d gathered about him, until it became apparent that yelling, extremely comprehensive cursing and the odd coffee mug swept off the desk, were more often than not, caused by intense frustration at something stupid he h
imself had done.
I worked for John for over a year – which by my standards, qualified as gold watch award time – before things started to unravel. I felt settled at Reader’s Digest, relished the work and although rarely meeting a symptom with which I couldn’t instantly identify, at the end of the day, hung on firmly to John’s oft repeated philosophy, that as there were hundreds of different conditions detailed in our book, it simply wasn’t possible for one person to have them all.
For quite a while I knew Tonya, John’s wife, only from a desk photo – pretty, thin and pale-faced with a cloud of black curls, posed on a park bench, one arm firmly round their eight year old son, Evan, the other equally firmly round a cream coloured poodle, desperate to jump out of shot. When I did eventually meet her, she’d brought Evan up to buy next term’s school uniform and John was going to take them to lunch.
She wasn’t in the office for very long and we only exchanged brief pleasantries. She said she was delighted to meet me and I clearly saw, the thing she was most delighted about was I wasn’t the scarlet nailed, seductress type, she’d always feared might be hired. I thought I sensed uncomfortable depths of anxiety and insecurity in her, but perhaps I was mistaken and anyway, I shouldn’t have been looking. Things weren’t helped much by Evan poking his nose where he shouldn’t, discovering my stapler and promptly attaching an envelope to his finger. John dealt with the ensuing shrieks from the injured offspring, in his usual efficiently calm way, assuaging bleeding with a plaster, sobs with a promise of chocolate ice-cream and incipient hysteria from Tonya, with a brisk hug. They left fairly swiftly after that, although not before Tonya had made it quite clear that leaving a stapler on an office desk was, in her opinion, just asking for trouble. I didn’t feel we’d got off to the best start.
Even Stranger Page 2
