by David Cooper
“So what do you suggest? I really don’t think I can leave it any longer. Especially when it might help me get out of another problem that’s just been dumped on me.”
“What’s that?”
“The firm’s outing to Henley Regatta. I got trapped this morning. One of the Lewis Hackett partners phoned me this morning to ask if I had anything in the diary for the fifth of July. Some loud woman with a really posh accent. I thought it must have been about new work, and the whole day was free, so that’s what I told her. I never knew what a stupid mistake I was making.”
“I bet that was Clarissa Wellingbourne. I’ve heard she really fancies herself. Pity she didn’t ask me, though. I’d have volunteered like a shot. Mind you, I was in the rowing team when I was at university. But how do you mean you got trapped?”
“Well, next thing I know, she’s saying she’s putting me down on the list, and that I should find a client to invite as a guest, and I should make sure it’s someone who can drink…”
Jackie burst out laughing, quickly containing herself again as Craven blushed.
“If it wasn’t so serious, Paul, I’d suggest you gave her Jerry Endacott’s name and told her he could drink for two! No, I’m only joking. Don’t tell me – you felt you couldn’t stand up to a partner and tell her it wasn’t your thing.” Craven nodded. “Well, let’s solve the problem. I’ll get in touch with Clarissa and make out that you realised you were double booked or something, so I’ve stepped in, and I’ll sound out one of my clients to join me. All sorted.”
“That’s really kind of you. I suppose it’ll save me having to tell her the real reason I don’t want to go. But what do I do about…”
“Coming out?” Craven blushed once more at Jackie’s use of a phrase that even he knew had different connotations. “Yes, I know, that’s almost exactly what it’s going to be like. If I was in your shoes, I’d ask Rufus Squire for a private word. With a bit of luck he’ll make sure he does the right thing. You never know, it might make him decide he ought to be more of a mentor to you than he has been so far. And he might help keep you away from Finnie.”
“That would be good.” Craven thought for a moment. “I think I’d feel more comfortable putting it all down in writing first.”
Jackie frowned.
“I’m not sure about that. I reckon he’d appreciate it more if you went for a proper man to man chat with him. Let’s face it, he offered you the job, so he’d surely be able to spare some sympathy. There’s probably going to be some forms to fill in, knowing HR, but…”
It was Craven’s turn to feel concerned.
“That’s what I thought I’d manage to avoid, if I wrote it my way rather than answered a load of standard form questions. Especially when I don’t have any doctors’ certificates. I did something like that in a test for my support group a long time ago. They suggested I used the guidance from the Office for Disability Issues…”
“I really wouldn’t do that. But it’s up to you.” As Jackie’s phone rang, Craven realised that it was well after two o’clock, and stood up to leave. “You know where I am if you need any more help.”
Craven excused himself and left, almost colliding with an unfamiliar smartly dressed woman who was walking past Jackie’s office. She paused in her stride.
“I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Ruth Gough. You must be dealing with Jackie on something?”
The question was nothing more than an ice breaker, but it threw Craven into a panic once he realised that he was speaking to Jackie’s immediate boss.
“Er…no, not really…well, there’s the Mansell estate, but…” Craven could not help but notice her puzzled look as he finally pulled himself together. “Er…I’m Paul Craven, from litigation.” He half extended his hand, but quickly changed his mind and withdrew it, not knowing what was expected of him. Fortunately his embarrassment was spared, as Gough nodded and walked on. He quickly descended the stairs and made it through the department entrance ahead of the first of his colleagues returning from the pub. They were so deep in conversation that they scarcely noticed him.
For the next two hours Craven found it almost impossible to concentrate on work. Had it not been too much for his conscience, he would gladly have settled down then and there to the task of writing a memo to Squire, explaining that he would like to be recognised as a disabled employee. Despite Jackie’s advice that he should avoid anything too formal and speak to Squire instead, he remained convinced in his own mind that a written summary was the best way forward. At least he knew he had the weekend ahead…
It suddenly occurred to Craven that he could smell cigarette smoke. He had always been acutely aware of the odour’s presence. But it was all the more aggravating that one of his most disliked smells was bothering him then and there, in an office environment where the practice was strictly against the rules. It had been persistently raining for most of the day, and even he could understand how much of a disincentive this would be for smokers to step outside into the street. But surely the fumes would not have drifted all the way up from the underground car park to the emergency exit, immediately outside his office?
Craven stepped outside through his open doorway onto the department floor. He noticed that the fire door to the rear steps was ajar. Closer inspection revealed that there was a tightly folded paper wedge blocking it open. He gave the door a baleful glare, wondering whether to open it fully in the hope of seeing the culprit, or to remove the wedge and commit a minor act of revenge by letting the door close shut. But he sensed that it would be unwise to do anything that might make the problem worse. Perhaps, he thought, there would be a crackdown once I’ve delivered my memo and explained at the same time how much I hate smoking.
He had barely resumed his seat when he heard the fire door creaking open. Instinctively he looked up, determined to see who was responsible for disturbing him. The unkempt figure of Jake Hutchings slouched past, glancing into Craven’s office and averting his eyes just as quickly.
Craven decided that it would be a waste of time to provoke an argument with one of his least favourite colleagues. He decided to make a special point about the issue to Squire early next week in the memo that he was now all the more convinced he needed to compose.
Monday 13 th May
“Paul, Rufus Squire. Why on earth couldn’t you have just asked me for a quiet word about this?”
There was no doubting the exasperation in Squire’s voice as Craven picked up the ringing phone and found out exactly how his head of department had reacted to the memo that Craven had meticulously put together over the weekend. It sank in almost immediately that Jackie’s advice had been right, and that he probably should have broken the unexpected news face to face.
“Er…I’m sorry…I just thought…”
“You’d better come across right now.” The click of the phone as Squire hung up left Craven acutely aware that he had no choice. He quickly searched for a pen and notepad, and hurried out in the direction of Squire’s office.
Earlier that morning, Craven had found himself in a quandary. He had been keen to avoid handing over his memo in person, thinking that it would be better for Squire to read it in private as soon as he had returned from a court appointment. But his plan to leave it on Squire’s desk, in an envelope marked Private and Confidential, had turned sour the moment he saw the redoubtable figure of Sheila Driver in his office, catching up on her filing. He was fearful not only that she might ask what he was leaving there, but also that she might have Squire’s authority as a senior secretary to open any of his correspondence, regardless of whether it was intended for his eyes only.
When Squire finally turned up, Craven’s anxious wait for a suitable moment to carry out his task only served to add to his sense of foreboding. He put his head out of his doorway and glanced in the direction of Squire’s office on four occasions, harbouring an irrational fear that all of the secretaries had their eyes on him. Finally, Squire stepped out and entered Roger Blake’s office.
In an instant, the sealed envelope was on Squire’s desk, awaiting his return. Craven received the summons ten minutes later.
Squire gestured impatiently to the empty chair that Craven had hesitated to occupy. He sat down gratefully, dreading the worst. But he watched Squire take a deep breath and somehow revert to his less fearsome side.
“Why do you do things like this, Paul? It’s pretty awkward to have to deal with ultra serious reports like this one. All the compliance that’s going to be involved. I’d have preferred a casual chat. Far easier to deal with these issues that way.”
Squire paused. Craven struggled to find a response.
“Well…I thought there were procedures to follow…”
“Procedures? It’s a bit late to talk about procedures, isn’t it? You certainly never told us about this on your application form, or your joiners’ data sheet, did you?”
Squire was forcing a smile, consciously trying to cover his annoyance by hinting that Craven had been in the wrong. His tactic worked. Craven knew very well from his meticulous research that it was no longer legally permitted for interviewers to ask applicants and interviewees outright about their disabilities or health problems, at least not before a job offer had actually been made. But he hardly dared take such a point against his departmental head then and there.
“I’m sorry…I’ve always felt embarrassed to tell people about the way I am…I’ve never wanted to make it worse, I just do what I can to cope…it’s never got in the way of doing my job before…”
“But obviously it has now.” Having added to Craven’s unease with a deliberately benevolent glance, still concealing his inner exasperation, Squire looked once more at Craven’s note.
‘I need to let you know that I am a disabled person as defined by the Equality Act 2010. I have mental impairments that have a substantial and long term adverse effect on my ability to carry out normal day to day activities…..
‘I have an autistic spectrum condition known as Asperger’s Syndrome. This interferes with my normal day to day communication activities. I take everything very literally and there is little or nothing I can do to overcome this. I find it hard to understand non-verbal and non-factual communication such as jokes and banter…
Squire put the note down.
“Where did you get all this from, Paul? It reads as if…” Squire paused, holding back an instinctive light hearted suggestion that Craven’s memo could have been written by a robot. “Is this some kind of DHSS template?”
“No, it’s nothing to do with social security, it’s from the Office for Disability Issues.” Craven never suspected that his answer, however accurate it may have been, almost served to test Squire’s patience to breaking point. “Can I just ask…”
“Hold on. Let me finish this.” Squire resumed his reading.
‘I am normally able to handle these problems by avoiding situations where they might cause me difficulties. However, I now find that I need to ask for reasonable adjustments to help me cope…’
‘I am particularly concerned about being exposed to smoking, and would ask that this is addressed as well…’
Squire finally reached the closing section, read it twice, and drummed his fingers on his desk.
‘Finally, I confirm that I am not looking for less work or responsibility. I do like the work here. Although the working environment is a lot different from what I experienced for many years at my previous employer in Stoke on Trent, I am confident that with some reasonable adjustments, I will be able to carry on doing everything expected of me here.’
“Thank heaven for small mercies.” It finally proved too much for Squire to resist a sarcastic comment, indifferent to the fact that it would only compound Craven’s anxiety. “Tell me something. Are you saying that this business, this syndrome, has been certified by a specialist doctor?”
Although he was not unfamiliar with Asperger’s Syndrome as a term, Squire could not immediately recall its correct pronunciation and ducked out of an attempt. He was more concerned to betray no sign of personal ignorance in front of a relatively junior employee, than to avoid giving offence.
“Sorry, I don’t have any medical reports or anything like that. I just know it’s the way I am. Anyway, it’s not an illness, it’s a condition.”
“Same difference, as far as I can see.” As Craven looked away in his unease, Squire sensed that he might have said the wrong thing, and quickly glossed over his error. “Look at it from my side of the desk for a moment, Paul. How am I going to square anything with HR if I can’t put a document under their nose? You must surely know as well as I do that they’ll need to tick boxes if they’re going to put someone down on the disabled list.”
“Is there a list?”
Squire’s false smile froze.
“Oh, no, it’s just a figure of speech.” Craven’s glum expression remained unaltered, and Squire realised that he needed to change tack once more. “OK, I can’t promise you miracles, but you haven’t told me anything about these adjustments you’re looking for. It’s all very well for you to break bad news like this, but you’ve got to help me deal with it. What are you after?”
Craven was thrown by Squire’s blunt question.
“Well…I’m not looking for special favours or any other special treatment. Not if it turns people against me. All I want is to be accepted as I am.”
“Paul, this isn’t helping me.” Squire tried his hardest to keep his tone even. “You need to be more specific.”
“Er…well, even in that office right at the back by the fire escape, I’m still not comfortable having to keep my door open all the time. I feel really uneasy…”
“Feel free to close it, then. Problem solved. What else?”
In an instant, Craven realised that one of his greatest workplace nuisances was suddenly no more.
“Oh…thank you. Er…I have a support group back home, there’s a meeting on the last Monday of the month. It would really help me if I could leave at five o’clock on that day, so that I could be sure I’d get there on time…”
“Permission granted. Is that it?”
“Well, I really don’t like to say things like this, but there was a client meeting last week when the client was really obnoxious, and I felt as if I just didn’t belong there…”
“Say no more. Hopefully it won’t happen again.” Squire raised a hand. He had received a far from favourable report from Seb Finnie on how Craven had come across to Jerry Endacott, whom Finnie had emphasised once more to be one of his best clients, at the previous week’s meeting. Finnie had qualified his comments, somewhat reluctantly, with praise for Craven’s work subsequent to the meeting when producing a statement dealing with Endacott’s recollection of events. He had, however, omitted to mention the incongruous party atmosphere in which the meeting had been conducted.
For his own part, Squire knew very well that Finnie had still not left his youthful excesses behind, despite the responsibilities that his early elevation to partnership had brought. But he would never share thoughts of that kind with Craven. He noticed the awkward silence that had greeted his brusque response, and continued.
“You do need to remember, Paul, that you’re only an assistant here. I’ve told you before. You need to do the work you’re given, and you need to impress the clients who give you the work. I’m sure that once we’ve taken stock of this business here, we’ll do what we can to keep you away from the more difficult ones. Now that Seb’s taken over as your immediate line manager, I’m sure that’s going to help, especially as he’s closer to your age, and…”
“That’s something else.” As soon as Craven had made the comment, he regretted it straight away. Even he could not fail to notice Squire’s pained expression. “Er…what I meant was…”
“Well?”
Craven’s mind raced. He realised that criticising Finnie directly, for the way in which he had stoked up the intolerable atmosphere of the previous week’s meeting, was not going to be at all welcome. Ab
andoning the idea, along with any hope of persuading Squire to act as his personal supervisor rather than Finnie, he thought of something else.
“It’s just that this forced socialising is all so uncomfortable for me. I know I’m the same age as the people who those Friday lunchtimes are for, but I really don’t fit in with that crowd.”
“Steady on, Paul. The people you call ‘that crowd’ are members of this department, just like you. So you’d better not alienate yourself from them any further. It’s bad enough that…I mean, it’s clear enough that you’re not one for the pub scene, but…Why not just go out for lunch with one or two of them? Get to know them that way?”
Craven felt a sense of relief.
“Well, it’s interesting you should say that…” He was about to tell Squire of his new found friendship with Jackie Browning, when Squire’s phone rang. Squire looked at the number displayer and chose to let the phone ring, indifferent to its effect on Craven’s ability to concentrate. He sensed that Craven was about to tell him something of no importance, and deliberately changed the subject.
“Anyway, what’s this about smoking? Everyone knows it’s banned. Don’t tell me someone’s been lighting up on the floor.”
“Oh, no, nothing like that…someone must have gone down the fire escape to the car park last week, and the smell got up the stairs…” Craven hesitated, fearing that Squire might cause a confrontation by calling Hutchings in then and there if he elaborated. Thankfully for Craven, the phone fell silent as Squire answered.
“Well, I can’t condone anything like that, of course, but now that you’re free to close your door, you won’t have any problems like that again, surely?”
“I suppose so.”
“Anything else?” Squire drummed his fingers on the desk once more, as if to dissuade Craven from expanding upon a problem that Squire felt he had almost managed away in full with minimal personal effort. He was rewarded with silence from the other side of the desk. “So, what do you want me to do about an announcement?”
