Across the office, Fredella rose abruptly to her feet, knocking against her in-tray, which promptly tipped, in the manner of stacked trays everywhere, and shot all its contents to the floor. Fredella didn’t seem to notice and nobody else even glanced up – she was always knocking things over and making a clatter. But I saw her face. She looked pretty gob-smacked and not in a good way. I looked down again, away from her, but could feel what was happening. As she was wont to do, she’d just thought again, with pleasure, about John; how dreadful he was looking, how he couldn’t meet her eye, how scared he was of what was going to happen next. All of these were feelings which generally warmed her through and through. Not this time though. Panic immediately swept in, fully fledged. Nausea and painful shortness of breath, the sort of thing that only ever happened when she felt trapped, nothing she’d ever experienced before in a large open space like the office. Yet there it was. She sat down again, suddenly. I wondered how long the tie-up of thought to memory would last, and how quickly she’d realise that with one, came the other. She looked up then and caught my eye. I smiled warmly at her. After all, as she’d said, we had bonded.
I went in to see John, a couple of hours later, just before I left for the day. He looked up sharply as I opened the door, on constant alert for unwanted visitors.
“I may have sorted it.” I said.
“No! How?”
“We had a bit of a heart to heart and I think she may now be thinking of you in a slightly different way.”
“You’re kidding me. What did she say? Was she upset?” I considered, I don’t believe in lying just for the sake of it.
“Well, she may have been a wee bit put out,” I conceded. “But I honestly don’t think she’s cherishing a broken heart. She’s done this sort of thing before you know, gets quite a kick out of it.”
“What – to other people? She told you that? Oh God, then why would she stop? What on earth did you say to her? Maybe you’ve made it even worse?”
“Not worth going over it all. Look, I’m not making any promises but I think, just think mind, she’ll probably stop now. Trust me and let’s wait and see.” I knew he was unconvinced, scared to believe, pessimism warring with hope. But, as it transpired, my previously untried linking skills proved more efficient than I could ever have hoped, evidenced by a definite change in Fredella.
For a couple of weeks John remained, in trepidation, behind closed doors and Fredella spent a great deal of time looking pale, sick and alarmed, arriving late and on a couple of occasions leaving early. Then one day, she didn’t turn up for work at all. We were told she’d resigned suddenly, for personal reasons. Not even, said pursed lips Personnel, bothering to work out her official notice.
I hoped she was all right, but reasoned, provided she didn’t spend too much time brooding on her thwarted plans for John, she would be. Did I feel guilty? Maybe a little, but there was no question, something had needed doing, John and Tonya were good people and when it came to it, there hadn’t seemed to be anyone else available to step up to the plate.
There’s a saying, isn’t there, ‘No good deed goes unpunished’, and in the long run, it was my pleasant and comfortable relationship with John that suffered. The fact I knew what had occurred with Fredella was humiliating enough for him, but that I’d been the one to apparently sort it out, having seen him at his lowest, irrevocably changed the dynamic between us, if not from my end, certainly from his.
To complicate things further Tonya, who had known from his behaviour that something was very much up, put two and two together and made five. She convinced herself that John had feelings for me, which he did, although they definitely weren’t what she thought. Her acute anxieties, which he had no idea I knew about, together with his own loss of face, combined to make for an increasingly awkward and uncomfortable working atmosphere. I loved the job, and was far from thrilled at the way things were panning out, but the writing was on the wall. I reluctantly had to accept that whatever normal rules I chose to abide by, every now and then, things were bound to happen that took me beyond self-imposed barriers – and there would always be a price to pay.
By the time I’d made up my mind to add Reader’s Digest to the list of jobs that hadn’t quite worked out, I’d also come to the conclusion that trying to find work that suited me and to which I was suited might, in the long run, be like trying to squeeze a square peg into a round hole – ultimately unproductive and causing a heck of a lot of friction all round.
CHAPTER NINE
It was family stuff that finally focused my attention on what I might do to earn an honest crust. Noisy, good-natured, chaos and confusion was what our extended family get-togethers were all about, but that didn’t stop any number of bossy people (of which, amongst the relatives, there was no shortage) trying to organise everyone else. It occurred to me, that what I might actually be rather good at, had probably been staring me in the face for some time, I just hadn’t spotted it.
Aunt Kitty was the eldest, most obdurate of my late grandmother’s sisters, and the one who lived the longest, with an element of personal triumph as each birthday came and went, subsequent to the demise of her younger siblings. She’d worked into her early eighties, tubing from Hendon Central to a financial institution in the city, where they apparently never dared voice objection to her age which she’d brazenly, over the years, winched ever downward. Rumour had it, she’d gone so far as to change dates on her personnel file, which apparently left managers, probably not yet born when she’d first taken to a typewriter, without an administrative leg to stand on when it came to handing her a P45.
When she eventually did give up, she sometimes chose to play the batty card – vague and increasingly eccentric – although I knew for a fact, she was as razor-sharp as she’d ever been. Always tiny, she got even shorter, thinner and more hawk-nosed as she aged, although she still had more energy than was probably good for any one person. She remained, in solitary matriarchal splendour, in the Georgian Court, mansion block of flats in Hendon, previously shared with Grandma and Aunt Yetta. There was no doubt that whilst she missed the intermittent sparring and armed neutrality of their prickly relationships, the change in circumstance, left her free to indulge her bargain-hunting vices, and she happily hoarded to her heart’s content.
The flat was still the main, family social hub, although now gatherings were slightly more irregular and not every week. We were inevitably thinner on top when it came to the older generation but had acquired, in the natural way of things, new in-laws, babies, toddlers and children of assorted sizes, so it remained a noisy crowd to be fed and watered. Kitty still insisted on doing all her own shopping and cooking, as the sisters always had done for these social occasions, although a minor concession to age was made with the acquisition of a red and green tartan, shopping basket on wheels. This was steered round the Hendon shops at speed, with some aggression and scant respect for other people’s ankles, especially if they were in her way.
I’d seen her in action, the few times I’d reluctantly accompanied her on shopping trips, during which, it has to be said, we didn’t make many friends. We were also not hugely popular in Boots the Chemist, where she became so confused and upset that she completely convinced the sympathetic crowd, gathering round the till, that she’d been short-changed. I’d been choosing some eye-shadow, in another part of the shop, but hastened back when I saw what was occurring. There was no way she was in the least bit confused as to the bill, nor the correct change due. She could tot up a column of figures faster and more accurately than you or I could read them. With apologies, I hauled her away, sharpish, from the flushed assistant. She was singularly unabashed, being of the belief that most shops were out to defraud the poor old pensioner, new-fangled tills were deliberately designed to add to the bafflement and an extra £5 was better in her pocket than theirs. I don’t know whether I was more disturbed by her dubious morals, or the fact she’d take
n on so many of Grandma’s paranoid theories. I made her promise never to do that again and she said she wouldn’t – I wasn’t convinced.
I chose to take out and air my ideas on my future career direction, at one of these family gatherings. Can’t think why, it possibly wasn’t the best forum for reasoned discussion, maybe I was reckoning on safety in numbers. I was in the kitchen with my mother and Aunt Edna, who were busy shuttling piled plates of filled bagels, cakes and biscuits to the dining room table under Kitty’s eagle-eye, at the same time as filling teapots from the seriously overworked kettle.
“I’m going to set up my own business.” I said.
“Don’t put those cakes on the table right away, put them on the sideboard first.” Said Aunt Edna to my mother, “Everyone should have the bagels first. And look dear, all the cream cheese ones are at the bottom, that’s no good, put some at the top, otherwise everyone’ll just eat the salmon.” She was already busy, following her own instruction.
“What on earth are you talking about? What business?” My mother wiped a cream-cheese smothered finger on her apron.
“Well…” I said.
“Business? What business?” said Aunt Edna, “Stella, dolly, you’re talking airy fairy again. Here, take the pot and the milk and here, wrap the dishcloth round the handle, it’s hot. No, no, you won’t manage the sugar too, you’ll drop the lot.”
“I’m trying to tell you…” I said.
“What’s wrong with the job you’ve got, you like it don’t you, he’s a nice chap isn’t he?” My mother expertly operated on a Madeira sponge, leaving it fully sliced and fanned on the plate.
“Yes, but…” I started.
“Well there you are then.”
“Yes, but…”
“What? What’s she doing?” Aunt Kitty paused in the mass bagel buttering, always better to have too many than not enough.
“I’m trying to tell you, if you’ll shut up for just one second and listen.” I said mildly. Three sets of eyebrows raised, hair-line high, as they all turned to look at me, Aunt Kitty even temporarily suspended the butter-knife action.
“Well?” She said. “Spit it out, these bagels haven’t got all day.”
“I’m setting up my own agency.”
“Agency?” my mother pulled her chin in, her interrogative pose. “What for?”
“Well, anything at all really.”
“Sweetheart.” Aunt Edna liked to think of herself as the practical one, keeping the rest of us on the straight and narrow. “Girls your age don’t set up businesses, girls your age find husbands and have babies.”
“What do you mean, anything?” Persisted my mother. “An employment agency?”
“Not exactly,” thoughts were, even as we spoke, firming up nicely in my mind. “A help-you-out kind of an agency.”
“Like Universal Aunts?” Aunt Kitty, head to one side, bird-like and bright with interest had homed straight in.
“Yes. Yes, that’s exactly the sort of thing I’m talking about. I mean, I’m good at organising, getting things done. I’m going to set up this service, for people who need admin and other office stuff done, like we did in Hay Hill. But I’ll add in all kinds of practical stuff – errands, pick-ups and collections – that sort of thing. And if it’s something I can’t do, then I’ll find someone who can. It’ll be something that can grow in any direction, depending on what people need most of.” The concept was taking shape as we spoke, and it felt right and comfortable.
“Sweetie, you know I love you to death, and because I do, I’m allowed to tell you, you’re crazier than a cage-full of monkeys.” Aunt Edna tended not to be sit-on-the-fence, when it came to an opinion.
“Edna, you can’t say that.” My mother obviously felt a bit of maternal defence was called for, despite the fact she didn’t think her sister was that far out.
“Well, I think it sounds like a blooming good idea. Clever.” said Aunt Kitty. I gawped at her, I’d assumed she’d be in the Aunt Edna camp. “Got to be done right, though. Everything thought through, back, front and sideways. Here Rosie, finish these bagels. Edna, you still haven’t mixed cream cheese and salmon enough. You, Stella, sit down this minute and write yourself a list. Get what’s in your head, on to paper. Going to do it, have to do it properly.
“Fine,” said Aunt Edna, redistributing bagels and shaking her head, “Just don’t all come crying to me when she’s, God forbid, fat, forty and firmly on the shelf.”
CHAPTER TEN
John, took the news of my planned departure, with rather less disappointment than I’d have liked, although I wasn’t surprised. He desperately needed to close an awkward and embarrassing chapter. He felt he’d let himself down unforgivably, he needed to move on, and there was no way he was going to be able to do that while I was still there. Personnel, also took the news squarely on the chin, and not without a certain degree of smugness. She’d known from the start, I wasn’t a stayer.
At the same time as severing those ties, with regret, I was putting into action a host of exciting ideas and plans. It was all rather odd really. I’d always worked within a planned structure – school, college, employment – all places where people told you what to do and where, when and how they wanted you to do it. Setting up a business was a different thing altogether. There was only me to decide which direction to swim in, or indeed, as it transpired, just how deep and far out I was prepared to go.
I had just enough in the bank to put down a deposit on a two-room office, above a travel agent in Brent Street, although I knew, if I got into the second month and hadn’t found any paying clients, it would be a short-term rental indeed. My landlord, Martin Meisel, who ran the travel agency was a stooping, anaemic type in his late fifties, carrying the weight of the world on his thin shoulders. He could have been considered a little lacking in the enthusiasm you’d like, from the person planning your holiday fun, but seemed to have a loyal clientele. His wife Hilary, worked with him, and was fractionally more on the jolly side, although possibly only by comparison. They do say, couples grow to look more like each other over the years and certainly, these two could have been brother and sister. I think at some point, someone might have suggested to Martin that he brighten up a bit, but he interpreted that as clothes rather than attitude, and was often to be found in bright red or electric blue trousers, teamed with one of Hilary’s knitted jumpers, on which she worked assiduously, when the shop was quiet. She’s still the only person I’ve ever seen who could knit and smoke simultaneously.
I’d received a surprising amount of family support, far more than I’d expected – some welcome, some not so much. My father, who could easily match Martin, gloom for gloom, was acutely pessimistic and convinced this venture stood every chance of falling immediately flat and heavily on its face. He nevertheless, gamely pitched up with a paintbrush, and over the course of a couple of days, the office lightened from dingy brown to a more reassuring magnolia. My mother also insisted on buying and putting up net curtains, which she said, made the place look more homely, undeterred by my pointing out that homely was not the ambience I was aiming for. More usefully, my sister Dawn, who was on the artistic side, sign-painted the upper frosted glass panel of the door, with some pleasingly authoritative black paint and alliteration – Simple Solutions to Practical Problems – which I felt nicely summarised my client offering.
I’d invested in second hand desks, chairs for both office rooms and an impressive filing cabinet. Aunt Edna had donated two electric typewriters from Uncle Monty’s offices, a generous gift, of which I’m pretty sure he was completely unaware, and I’d acquired two phones with an officious row of buttons on each, to enable inter-office as well as outside communication.
I was somewhat less gratified by the unexpected appearance, at a very early stage, of Aunt Kitty, who trotted up the two flights of stairs, hauling the ubiquitous wheeled shopping
basket, and announced she’d come to sort me out. As the whole ethos of what I was doing, was based on me sorting everyone else out, I wasn’t thrilled. Quite apart from which, I was pretty certain that as a vibrant and efficient fledgling business, the last thing I needed was an 83 year old assistant.
“Rubbish.” she said, reading my mind as accurately and easily as I’d normally read anyone else’s, and looking around the small space for possible trolley storage. “This isn’t charity, you know. You pay me what you can afford and I can type, keep the books and answer the phone, just till you get on your feet.” I pointed out, as of this moment, I didn’t have a book to keep, the phone wasn’t exactly ringing off the hook, and this whole exercise was all about me standing on my own two feet. But this was a woman who’d never met opposition she couldn’t ride rough-shod over. I was still in mid-remonstration as she was unpacking the trolley, from the depths of which she produced an electric kettle, PG Tips, assorted crockery, milk, Jaffa Cakes and last, but not least, a slightly exhausted looking fern in a pot, which she shook out, dusted down and placed firmly on the window-sill.
“Here, Stella,” she said, “Fill the kettle, we’ll have a cup of tea and talk things over some more.” I grumpily took myself downstairs to the shared kitchen, where Hilary, one bony hip planted on the worktop, was casting on or casting off – as I was never sure what she was knitting, it was difficult to tell.
“See you’ve got help.” She said, “Not quite in the first flush, eh?” I rolled my eyes,
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