But my pleasure was a little muted yesterday. I could still feel the chill of that word “shall."
Tonight before writing my diary, I shooed Timmy into the garden where he sat, rather indignant, on the table under the apple tree. I don't like him to be exposed to emotions. I had a good look at myself in the mirror. Really looked, if I am honest, for the first time in ages. There are wrinkles and there are grey hairs. I had not noticed the passing of the years, and now suddenly I am becoming an old person, and the abyss is opening up in front of me.
What shall I do? What on earth shall I do without Calvert's? Without my little nest, my bits and bobs, the hurly-burly, the chuckles, and yes, even the annoyances.
Who shall I be when all that is taken from me?
I must pull myself together, let Timmy in. I shall take a small glass of whisky, which the doctor has also recommended, and we shall read a chapter of Pride and Prejudice, and then we shall go to bed.
* * * *
12 November
Well, this has been a week to remember and no mistake. I have not had a moment to myself, and I have come home each night so exhausted that I have barely had the energy to feed myself and Timmy. Writing this diary has been out of the question. But now it is Saturday, thank heaven, and the week is over.
Calvert's has been a bedlam. The whole place has been turned upside down, the corridors full of cardboard boxes full of files and crammed with rushing people, half of whom were total strangers. But finally, we can breathe a little. I came home tonight at a reasonable hour for the first time in days, made a decent meal for us both, and I can write my diary, so long neglected.
The saddest part of all the changes that have afflicted us is that I have lost my little nest. The upper management decided that our two departments, our Stationery and Robson's Office Supplies, were simply too large to fit anywhere but in a new, larger office. So we have been installed in a grand, spacious room, which was the fief of Mr. Kingsmith, who ran Goods Inward and Despatch.
And with the new office has come Mr. Bascomb. Yes, I have finally met the famous Mr. Bascomb. He seems a pleasant enough man, with a pale, tired face and a worn brown suit with a row of pens in his pocket. His shoes are brightly polished, I can say that for him. Mother used to say, always look at the shoes first if you want to get the measure of a man. He greeted me civilly enough, and I returned the compliment. We are not, after all, rivals. Not yet.
We sit at two large desks that we have pushed together in the centre of the room, so that we work facing each other. Not something I am used to, but needs must. And time will tell.
* * * *
29 November
Well, time has told, and the story is a mixed one. It is not the necessity for working in an office with another that is hard to get used to. It is the strangeness of it all. The new people who wander the corridors and who come in to see Mr. Bascomb. They are not unpleasant. In fact, if anything, the Robson's representatives are a sight more decorous than ours. But they have their own little ways. They seem to have respect for Mr. Bascomb. They call him Mr. Clips, apparently, due to his habit, when he has nothing else in his hands, of twisting and bending a paper clip between his fingers. He makes little shapes, animals, quite complicated really. He must have a lot of strength in his fingers.
There is a certain amount of good-natured banter, without, I am happy to say, the unsavoury element to which I have been accustomed with the Calvert's sales force.
"Sharing an office now, Mr. Clips?” said one of them, a youngish man with a fresh, merry face. “Well, you do seem to have all the luck. Don't let him try anything on you, miss,” he said to me. “He's a quiet one, but they're the ones you have to watch."
Mr. Bascomb smiled, a little embarrassed.
"You'll have to forgive them,” he said later when we were alone, “they don't mean any harm."
"I quite understand,” I said, “I have nothing against a bit of fun, as you call it, but in the right place and at the right time."
He nodded.
"I'll make sure the horseplay is kept to a minimum."
He was twisting a paper clip in his fingers, bending it into an odd shape—a horse it seemed to be.
Mr. Bascomb is an odd sort.
* * * *
1 December
And now I know what sort of man Mr. Bascomb is. I have become used to shocks in the past few weeks, but nothing compared to the shock I had today. It has left me feeling as though the world has been turned upside down.
Mr. Bascomb and I had quickly come to an arrangement for lunchtime, whereby he left half an hour before I do, and I return half an hour after him. This means that the office is left unstaffed for the shortest possible time. It isn't strictly necessary, but it's something we like to do.
Today he left as usual at half past twelve and I at one o'clock. I walked into Mario's as usual. Mr. Mario welcomed me as usual, but his manner was a little strained.
I turned and saw with horror and disappointment that My Seat was occupied by Mr. Bascomb. He was sitting there, as calm as anything, reading a book as he ate, if you please.
I heard a rushing noise in my ears. Mr. Mario fussed about me, clearly having recognised my distress. I waved him off with thanks and threaded my way determinedly through the tables to where Mr. Bascomb sat.
He looked up from his book as my shadow fell across him, and his face broke into a smile.
"Miss Shipley,” he said, “well, this is a surprise. How delightful. Are you joining me?"
"It would appear so,” I said with as much irony as I could muster. He seemed oblivious. I sat down facing him.
"Well,” he said, “this is a pleasure. Do you come here often?” He checked himself. “Oh, dear, that's very hoary, isn't it? Do forgive me."
"As a matter of fact,” I said, “I have been coming to Mr. Mario's for many years now."
"So you're a regular,” he said. “Well, I must say the food is very good. Quite a find, a place like this, and only five minutes from the office."
I ordered the risotto, since Mr. Mario was offering it as the dish of the day.
"I had the lamb cutlets,” said Mr. Bascomb, “and very good they were too."
I hadn't asked him what he had eaten. Why was he telling me this?
He looked at his watch.
"Twenty minutes,” he said, “and then it's back to the coal-face for me. Would you think it very rude if I were to continue with my book? I've just reached a rather exciting passage."
"I don't mind in the slightest,” I said. “Please do."
He showed me, unasked, the cover of the book. It was a blood-and-thunder of the worst description. He smiled rather sheepishly.
"My one vice,” he said. “I've always loved a good thriller."
"Really,” I said, trying to communicate my complete lack of interest in his choice of reading matter. But he took it as a continuation of a conversation.
"Yes,” he said, “it was my dad who got me started on them, when I was far too young to be reading that sort of thing. It's a little immature, I suppose, but then we all have our little idiosyncrasies, don't we?"
I was saved the trouble of finding a response to this inanity by Mr. Mario, who brought my risotto, which he placed in front of me with an apologetic air. As well he might.
Thank heaven Mr. Bascomb now returned to his book, showing a modicum of good manners, leaving me to eat in peace. In peace indeed. My risotto tasted like ashes. I have read that expression several times in various books, but I had never, until then, understood precisely what it meant. I ate mechanically, staring at my plate, while Mr. Bascomb, oblivious and uncaring, turned the pages of his book. At last he looked again at his watch, finished the last of his coffee, and closed his book.
"Well,” he said, “back to the salt mines for me. Bon appétit,” he then had the gall to say. “See you back at the ranch."
Whatever was he talking about? He stood up and left me, giving me a little wave from the cash desk as he paid hi
s bill, and I was alone at last. But the whole lunch hour was ruined. I drank my usual coffee, which tasted like mud, and stared miserably out of the window. I didn't even bother to move round the table into My Seat. What would be the point? The entire day was spoilt.
The afternoon passed, that's all I can say about it. I tried in a number of subtle and tiny ways to indicate to Mr. Bascomb that he had overstepped the bounds of normal decent behaviour. I saw that he had placed on my desk a little wire man holding an umbrella. At any other time, I might have admired his dexterity and paid him a compliment. But I ignored it, and him, too, which very irritatingly he didn't seem to notice. I have the feeling that the man has a hide like an elephant. I began to suspect that he was totally unaware of having done anything. Is this possible?
I told Timmy all about it when I arrived home. He was as outraged as I. Or as outraged as a ginger cat can be.
But he is more rational than I. More measured.
"After all, Mum,” he said, absently licking his side, “perhaps he won't do it again. It doesn't do to meet trouble half way.” Seemed to say. Seemed. Cats cannot talk. It has been proved.
* * * *
12 December
He has done it again. He has done it again every day for the past two weeks, and I am at the end of my tether.
Every day, I have been to Mr. Mario's hoping against hope that Mr. Bascomb has found some other place to lunch. But no. Every day, there he is, sitting there as calm as you please with one of his “thrillers,” in My Seat. Mr. Mario always gives me an apologetic look, but his look also says that he can do nothing. After all, it isn't really reserved for me, that seat. It has simply become so, by accepted custom, I suppose you might say.
It's the unfairness of it all that really hurts. This is the man who is going to take Calvert's from me, and here he is already taking My Seat.
Timmy has been totally sanguine about it, and cynical as cats often are.
"They'll take everything from you sooner or later, Mum,” he said, and I believe him. “They'll have the house off us if you don't watch out, that'll be the last thing."
"They can't do that,” I told him. “The house belongs to us. Mother left it to us."
"They have their ways,” he said darkly. “They'll find a way."
"But who?” I said. “Who would do a thing like that?"
"The same people as always, what take everything. Them what took Mother away from us, them what's taking your job away, them what's taken your seat at Mr. Mario's. The Takers, that's who."
Timmy's grammar isn't all that it should be, but he has a very firm grip on reality.
"But what can we do?” I said in despair.
"Come for a walk in the garden,” he said. “I'll show you."
And he did.
* * * *
30 December
Well, Christmas is over. I have never been so glad to leave the office as I was on Christmas Eve. Mr. Bascomb, who stole my place at Mr. Mario's, which he now seems to take as his right, found it necessary to rub salt into the wounds by offering me a Christmas present.
He smiled. “Someone told me you have a cat,” he said. “I thought this might be nice for him."
It was small fluffy pink ball with a bell inside it that tinkled when the ball rolled. I thanked him, of course, without being effusive. It was a kind thought, but kind thoughts don't change anything. Timmy has of course refused to play with it. He turned up his nose when I first showed it to him, and since then it has lain in a bowl on the sideboard.
Christmas was nice. We had a nice chicken for Christmas Day, which Timmy adores. I went to Midnight Mass without him, naturally, because Timmy is not at heart a believer, but he tolerates my expressions of faith. I gave Timmy a new catnip mouse.
"Just the job, Mum,” he said. “Just what I been needing."
And he gave me a box of lace handkerchiefs. Well, it was I who bought them, but he would have if he could. I thanked him with a big kiss.
"Think nothing of it, Mum,” he said, “my pleasure."
Seemed to say. Cats. Cannot. Talk.
Tomorrow is New Year's Eve and then a new twelve months begins. I am determined that it will not be the same as the last. I have made a resolution that this year, I will take my own destiny in hand. I cannot simply go on drifting, sent hither and thither at the mercy of whatever capricious wind of fate happens to be blowing.
Timmy agrees with me, and he has shown me how to begin.
* * * *
6 January
The Epiphany. How appropriate. The Coming. Well, Mr. Bascomb has certainly had it coming. This morning at teatime, he put the tin lid on it. Mrs. Panting came round at half past ten and stuck her red face round our door.
"Will there be biscuits being required?” she asked us. “Only I've had a run on chocolate Bourbons in recent days. I don't know what's got into ‘em in Sales. Must be the new moon or sunnink."
Mr. Bascomb followed her out into the corridor and came back with two cups of tea. He handed me a horrid green institutional pottery cup and kept for himself the cup and saucer that I always have, and Mrs. Panting knows it full well, a sort of Limoges pattern, delicately coloured with a pink rim. Of course it isn't Limoges, but it looks like a proper teacup, as opposed to the hospital-issue horror that I found myself holding.
"Cheers,” Mr. Bascomb had the gall to say, raising his cup to me in a mock toast. I wondered, Is he doing it deliberately? I calmed myself down with a sip of tea and by telling myself that these problems would soon be resolved.
I had half hoped that Mr. Bascomb would make a New Year's resolution to stop making my life a perfect misery, but the teacup incident persuaded me that the man is indeed dead to all sensibility. This, strangely enough, reassured me, and I left for lunch in a calm and resolute frame of mind.
And there he was, in my seat, reading his “thriller,” and eating what appeared to be turkey. He acknowledged my presence, did Mr. Bascomb, and made a token gesture to close his book, but I stopped him with an upraised hand.
"Please, do not stop reading on my account, Mr. Bascomb,” I said, smiling to show my understanding of his habits. I needed that book there. Propped up against the cruet stand. The cover said Kiss Me, My Deadly. Horrors. Whatever could that mean?
I ordered the turkey risotto to allow Mr. Mario to further run down his stock of leftovers. Mr. Bascomb continued to read, looking at his watch from time to time. His coffee arrived. Mr. Bascomb, without looking up from his book, spooned sugar into his cup and stirred it. Then he paused. I took from my handbag the little screw of newspaper with the white crystals from the garden shed folded inside, and as quickly as I could and without any sudden, inhabitual movements, poured them into Mr. Bascomb's coffee. They sank immediately. Then Mr. Bascomb's hand came round the book once more and he stirred his coffee again. Thank the Lord for that. He finally closed his book and raised his cup to his lips. I could not look away. I was mesmerised. He drank, once, twice, a third time. He frowned slightly but then put down his cup.
"Back to the coal-face,” he said, getting to his feet. “I'll see you later, Miss Shipley."
I watched him go. Outside the café he paused on the pavement with his head slightly on one side, as if he were conducting some sort of discussion with himself, then he shook his head slightly and walked off.
And so, for good or ill, it was done. Mission Accomplished. Now, I thought, let us see if Mr. Bascomb returns to Mr. Mario's.
This afternoon, Mr. Bascomb looked less than his usual chirpy self. His face was paler than usual, if possible, and he kept excusing himself to go I know not where. Yes, I do, actually, but we don't need to be too specific, do we.
When I arrived home tonight, I told Timmy what I had done and how successful the plan had been.
"Well done, Mum,” he said. “That's the way to do it."
"I don't think he'll be going back to Mr. Mario's again,” I said.
"Well,” he said, “even if he does, you just take the stuff wi
th you and give him another dose."
* * * *
13 January
Mr. Bascomb is made of stouter stuff than I gave him credit for. Counting today, that makes five days he has returned to Mr. Mario's. Of course, he has had the weekend to recuperate, two days with no dose at all. So, on Timmy's advice, I doubled the dose on the third day. Happily, the crystals appear to be tasteless, or nearly so. But he did give me a nasty moment yesterday. He drank his coffee as usual and then looked me straight in the eyes.
"I think I'm going to cut down on my intake of coffee,” he said. “It seems to be having an effect on the old tum."
He knows, I thought. I don't know how, but he knows. But no, it was all right. He smiled at me and got up from the table.
I wondered how long we could keep this up, or rather how long he could keep it up. He really has become frighteningly pale over the past week, and I have noticed in the afternoons that he seems to perspire heavily, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.
Well, Mr. Bascomb, I thought, I can keep it up as long as you can.
* * * *
17 January
A shock. Mr. Calvert came in to see me this morning. He was rather less than his usual genial self. He came in without knocking, which was in itself unusual.
"Dorothy,” he said, “I have some rather awful news."
This is the moment, I thought, he's going to tell me my time is up. But no.
"I don't really know how to break it to you, but the fact is that Mr. Bascomb, well, I'm afraid he's died. In the night apparently. His sister rang me this morning."
AHMM, May 2007 Page 11
