by Simon Brett
And the outgoings on the new house were considerable. The Marshalls had dispensed with a private pre-purchase survey. Graham, in unconscious echo of his father’s manner, had announced that, since the building society was prepared to lend so much money on the property, there couldn’t be much wrong with it. This economy was rewarded by a sudden bill for woodworm treatment, which ate up what was left of their savings after the expenses of the move.
Graham and Merrily had prepared theoretically for certain retrenchments after they moved, but they found their reality unpalatable. Ten years of living above their income had nourished habits of extravagance which they found hard to break. The spectre of worrying about money, which had loomed over Graham’s childhood but been exorcised in his early twenties by success at Crasoco, threatened to rise again.
Their altered circumstances were reflected in that year’s holiday. Instead of the customary fortnight in Cyprus, they decided to economise by renting a cottage in South Wales. Appalling weather ensured that the holiday was a disaster and necessitated long drives to find diversions for the children, which made the whole exercise almost as expensive as going abroad.
The children did not enjoy it and were not of an age to disguise their disappointment. Graham found he spent much of the holiday shouting at them. They had lost the charm which smallness had imparted, and their physical development presaged worse problems ahead. Henry already had the downy lip, swelling nose and moody secrets of adolescence. Emma, though only eleven, had lost her spontaneity of affection and replaced it with a kind of mannered coquettishness, which augured badly for the future.
Also, they were getting expensive. Both went to private schools and, apart from the inevitable cost of replacing the clothes they outgrew with such rapidity, they were getting to the age of costly entertainments. Graham found himself sounding more and more like his father as he grudgingly paid out for school trips or cinema seats or the hire of tennis courts. They seemed incapable of doing anything that didn’t cost money.
And, as they grew more expensive, so he seemed to get less out of them. They were just two young people who happened to be growing up in his house, and at his expense. When he looked at them objectively he realised they held no interest for him whatever.
The habit of objectivity, or even remoteness, increasingly coloured his view of his wife, too. Having not thought about her much for some years, he now found he was looking at her as an outsider might.
And what did the outsider see? A thin, materialistic, rather silly woman of nearly forty.
The waiflike beauty which had been crowned with flowers at their wedding had hardened into angularity. Childbearing had deflated the breasts and spread the hips. And the waiflike charm which went with the appearance had degenerated into empty mannerism.
There was no split in the marriage. They were faithful to each other, and still made love at least once a week, murmuring apposite endearments as they did so. But love-making had become routine for both of them, almost a chore, better than stacking the dishwasher, but less exciting than having a gin and tonic.
As he had with his children, Graham now looked increasingly at his wife with detachment. He realised, with only the mildest of shocks, that she meant nothing to him.
And she did bring with her positive disadvantages, mostly in the form of her mother. Initially, Graham had got on well with Lilian Hinchcliffe. He enjoyed the reflection of her fame as an actress, and the studied bohemianism of her lifestyle contrasted favourably with his own parents’ mouselike reticence. Visits to Lilian’s cottage near Abingdon ensured varied — sometimes eminent — company, plentiful alcohol and occasional cannabis. Her extravagant personality and his limited connection, through her, with the unconventional world of show business gave him an extra dimension to his colleagues. He could still hold attention in the Crasoco canteen with accounts of her outrageousness, of her much-vaunted affairs, of the fifteen-year marriage to Charmian and Merrily’s playwright father (long vanished into alcoholism and death), and, more significantly, of the supposed early liaison with the internationally known and fabulously wealthy film actor, William Essex. All these details gave Graham’s mother-in-law very positive advantages.
But Lilian changed as she grew older. Her youthful looks, skilfully maintained into her sixties, suddenly gave way, and cosmetic attempts to repair them made her grotesque. Round the same period, acting work seemed to dry up, and her longterm live-in lover, a costume designer, suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack. The extravagance of her character, so charming in company, curdled, with loneliness, into resentment and contrivance. She made increasing emotional demands on her two daughters, particularly Merrily. Charmian, having broken off an unsatisfactory marriage, lived a career girl existence on the fringes of journalism. Lilian blamed her for not producing a nice set of grandchildren like Merrily, who, as a result, had the dubious privilege of being the favoured daughter.
The climax of Lilian’s emotional demands came in September 1980, with a suicide attempt. It was hopelessly inept. She left a blackmailing note and she tried to kill herself by swallowing paint stripper, of all things, though the small amount she took exposed the true nature of the gesture.
As a cry for help, however, it worked; it was agreed that she was too isolated out in Abingdon, and she was moved into a flat in Barnes to be nearer her daughters (or, more strictly, her younger daughter, since Charmian lived in Islington).
This made Lilian a semi-permanent fixture round the Boileau Avenue house. Graham didn’t mind that, so much as the fact that he seemed to have to keep subsidising her. She had had money in her time, but spent it all with a ready prodigality. Now she always seemed to be hard-up, and Merrily was constantly asking Graham for small sums to help her mother out.
He resented it. But more than the fact that she was poor, he resented the fact that she was not rich. Though appreciating the advantages his parents had given him by education, he could not help noticing, as he felt his financial circumstances straiten, the even greater advantages enjoyed by contemporaries who had inherited, or stood to inherit, money.
The biggest blow of a bad six months came at the end of November when Graham’s father and mother were both killed in a car crash.
Though he had not of latter years seen them that often, and though his relationship with them was not a particularly affectionate one, he felt the shock profoundly.
First, there was just the shock of a disaster, an intensified form of that experienced on passing a road accident or hearing news of a plane crash.
This was followed by a feeling of anger, almost contempt, towards his father. For Eric Marshall and his wife’s deaths seemed to cast doubt on the principles of economy by which they had run their entire lives. The accident, Graham discovered from the police, need not have happened. His father, for whom saving money became an obsession as he grew older, had insisted on doing his own car maintenance. It was his inefficiency, in failing to tighten the wheel nuts adequately after a tyre-change, which had led to the fatal crash. For Graham, this knowledge diminished his father’s memory.
All of Eric Marshall’s dicta now seemed suspect. The old line that ‘there’ll always be jobs for teachers’ took on a new irony with the growing recession, and the much-vaunted economy was also shown to be based on a false premise. A lifetime’s scrimping had produced virtually nothing to pass on to the next generation. Eric Marshall left no will (another supposed economy) and so legal fees took a large bite from the proceeds of the Mitcham house sale.
But the greatest shock was the slowest to come. Since he had seen so little of his parents, and felt so little for them, it took Graham a long time to define the void that their deaths left in him.
Slowly he realised that what he had lost with them was a point of reference for his achievements. From his earliest recollection, he had performed for them. Even in latter years he had rung them from time to time when he had news of some promotion or other triumph. And they had always responded.
&
nbsp; It had been their valuation that had given him the definition of ‘a success’, which he so readily accepted. He did not realise how much he had been cushioned by their unfailing response to his achievements.
With them gone, he could now only be assessed by the harsher standards of ‘the outside world’.
At work, the second half of 1980 also proved a sticky period, though Graham Marshall did not feel his own position was challenged. There was just a general malaise throughout the company.
Partly, it was financial. The recession was well-established and, though the oil companies suffered less than other industries, wage rises were curbed and the national unemployment figures made everyone twitchy about their job security.
The situation was not improved by the fact that Crasoco had recently employed a firm of Management Consultants to assess the company from top to bottom. This had an unsettling effect, there was much talk of the likelihood of redundancies following their report. Graham, who had seen a few such investigations come and go without making more than cosmetic changes, remained unworried.
He had his problems, but he managed them with his customary skill. He was busy with commitments to an increasing number of meetings and other responsibilities that George Brewer now shirked, and he found that the whole business of moving house had taken more of his energy than he would have anticipated. He got very tired, but he coped.
Also, increasingly, he had the challenge of bumptious underlings to deal with. One of the effects of the recession had been to restrict job movement in the more obvious channels of promotion, so more young men had followed his course into the Personnel Department. It was inevitable that these were people with similar skills and ambitions to his own. And inevitable that they would try, as he had done, to outmanoeuvre their superiors. At forty, Graham found he had a whole pack of men ten years younger snapping at his heels.
But he felt confident that he was wilier than they were. Most would burn themselves out, lower their sights and settle at their present level. A few would achieve promotion.
The most promising of them was called Robert Benham. He had joined Crasoco three years previously from an American-based oil company. Before that he had worked for an electronics firm and he had a background of computer training. He was bright and ambitious, though he lacked
George and Graham’s public-school finish. He spoke with a flat Midland accent and lacked humour. But to everything he did he brought great application and aggression. He played squash on the company court every Tuesday lunchtime and apparently sailed in his spare time.
A good Personnel Officer, Robert Benham might, Graham reckoned, in ten years or so, be in line for his job as Assistant Head of Department. For that reason, he sponsored and encouraged the younger man. When he took over as Head of Personnel, Graham knew that he would need the support of such proteges. And when he masterminded the changeover to the new computer system, he would require specialist help.
Early in 1981 the Management Consultants’ report was submitted to the Board of Directors.
Its main criticisms were that the British division of Crasoco was too insular in outlook, insufficiently aware of the oil industry’s world picture, and overstaffed at some levels.
To the surprise of all, and the consternation of many, it became clear within a month that this time the consultants’ recommendations were going to be heeded. The report, coinciding with the recession, made the company determined to trim down their staff. In spite of rearguard action by the unions and the staff association, there would be redundancies and early retirements.
Anxious weeks followed this announcement, but still Graham Marshall did not worry. He was confident of his abilities and knew his value to the company. He was the best Assistant Head of Department they had had for years.
His confidence proved justified. As ever, because they were closest to the decision-making, the management side suffered least in the cuts.
The only major casualty in the department was George Brewer, who was asked (though the question was not one which would accept any answer but yes) to take an early retirement.
Graham Marshall breathed more easily. The delays of the last few months were over and the continuing road to success lay open before him. He would get the job a year earlier than he had anticipated.
In March George Brewer’s post was duly advertised, and Graham duly submitted his application. There were other candidates, but all younger and less experienced, with less years of service to the company. George Brewer was on the selection board, and at the interview virtually said that Graham was the obvious man for the job. David Birdham, the Managing Director, asked some searching questions about the Personnel Department’s future, and Graham’s answers, without overt disloyalty to George, implied that he was prepared to make substantial changes. He left the boardroom after much bonhomous smiling and handshaking.
He felt as if he had just been admitted to the company’s most exclusive club, and, although he had never doubted it, knew that the job was his.
CHAPTER THREE
So when, on the Thursday after the board he received a call from George Brewer’s secretary, Stella Davies, to pop up for a drink before lunch, Graham had little doubt what the summons was about.
He entered the outer office confidently and exchanged a little banter with Stella. She was particularly forthcoming that morning. Attractive divorcee in her forties, Graham found himself wondering — not for the first time — if she went with the job. And how far she went with the job.
His confidence was, as ever, increased by the sight of his boss. George had been ageing fast in the last few years, as the precipice of retirement drew nearer. The recent decision, which had brought him so suddenly to its brink, had had a devastating effect. He looked an old man, confused and afraid, as he sat in his swivel chair and fiddled with a paper knife. His lapels were sprinkled with ash from his constant stream of cheap cigarettes. Graham felt the atavistic surge of superiority that youth will always feel as age withdraws from the contest.
George acceded to Graham’s offer to get the drinks. His confused state, and the eagerness with which he put the proffered Scotch to his lips, suggested that it was not his first of the morning.
Hmm, Graham found himself reflecting, if old George is hitting the bottle, the sooner he’s moved on and I take over, the better.
‘Cheers,’ he said.
George Brewer echoed the toast, belatedly, since half his drink was already gone. He reached in his pocket for a cigarette and placed it sadly in his mouth. Graham leaned forward and lit it with his gold lighter, which bore the initials G.M. (an atypically expensive twenty-first birthday present from his parents).
‘Good of you to come up, Graham.’
‘No problem.’
‘No.’ George swayed restlessly in his chair. Cigarette ash dropped unnoticed on to his lap.
‘You know, Graham, I don’t mind telling you, I don’t like the way the company’s going. Don’t know what management’s up to.’
‘I agree they’ve given you a pretty shabby deal, but. .’
‘Oh, me,’ George shrugged, as if dismissing a cause beyond redemption. ‘I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about everything. . No, from my point of view, I’m glad to be getting out. Don’t like the look of the future. The oil won’t last much longer, apart from anything else.’
‘There’s still a bit,’ Graham consoled. ‘And the company’s putting a lot of money and research into alternative fuels.’
‘Yes, yes, I suppose so. .’
George seemed very low. Retirement was frightening him sick. Since the death of his wife, he seemed to have no resources outside his work. One of those who could be dead within a year from sheer inactivity, Graham reflected. He was quite fond of old George, but the thought didn’t shock him. Since his parents’ deaths, he had been increasingly conscious of how expendable people were.
‘Look, Graham,’ George began again unnecessarily loudly, to shake himself out of his mood
, ‘you know I’ve always had the highest respect for your abilities. .’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I’ve always hoped, when the time came for me to go. .’ His bottom lip, slightly misshaven, quivered. ‘Not that I thought I would be going so soon. .’
‘Nor did any of us,’ Graham supplied loyally. Oh, get on with it, George, get on with it.’
‘I always hoped that you’d take over from me. I think we see eye to eye on the important issues in this company. Both want to keep out the bloody Space Invaders, eh?’
‘Yes.’ Graham laughed loyally at the recurrent joke.
‘And I like to think that, with you sitting in this seat, my policies would be continued — at least in outline.’
That’s all you know, thought Graham. But he nodded and said, ‘Of course, George.’
‘So I’ve always wanted you to take over this job.’
Graham nodded again. He was having difficulty in controlling a little smile at the corners of his lips.
‘Unfortunately the rest of the selection board didn’t agree with me.’
So total was the surprise of these words that Graham could not for a moment take them in.
‘I think it’s just faddishness,’ George continued petulantly. ‘They’re all so twitchy after that damned Management Consultants’ report, they just want change for change’s sake. Won’t go for the obvious candidate for the very reason that he is obvious.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Graham managed to say. ‘Are you telling me I haven’t got the job?’
‘Yes, of course I am,’ George replied testily.
Graham’s first thought was that George must have got it wrong. He was so confused these days, possibly so drunk, that he’d got the wrong end of the stick.
‘Are you sure, George? I mean, I thought — ’
‘So did I, Graham. And, had it been in my gift, you’d have. .’ The stubbly lower lip trembled again. ‘Maybe it’s my support that’s dished you. Now I’m completely discredited in the company, maybe it’s. . Maybe they don’t want my policies continued. .’
