by Rosie Thomas
He was challenging her, with the fuel of drink, to murmur about her own approval being irrelevant. But Harriet only asked, ‘Open Secret? What’s that?’
‘A good movie. Only a supporting role, but a fine one. Shooting finished at the end of last year, but because of post-production problems it won’t be released until this Christmas.’
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ Harriet said. Surprisingly, Caspar leaned forward and noisily kissed her cheek. For the rest of the meal he was the cheerful paterfamilias again, and they looked like any family out for a birthday or holiday treat. Harriet enjoyed herself and she thought Caspar did too.
At the end of the evening they came out into Old Park Lane. Caspar looked up and down.
‘No papparazzi here, then.’
‘None,’ Harriet agreed sombrely. And even if there were, it was too late for it to matter.
Caspar held old-fashioned views as far as Linda was concerned. He would take her back to Little Shelley for the night, even though it would have been more convenient for them both to stay in Hampstead with Harriet.
‘Come to the airport to see me off,’ Linda begged.
‘No, your father and Ronny will do that. Send me a postcard of some palm trees.’
Linda hugged her. Balancing her, smelling her soap and childish skin, Harriet felt jealous of Clare. She would miss Linda during this summer holiday.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow evening,’ Caspar said. Harriet watched them drive away before climbing into her own car. Linda waved until she was out of sight.
Caspar did better than calling. He arrived in person, direct from Heathrow.
While Harriet hastily changed her clothes he stalked through the flat, picking up and riffling through her sheaves of paperwork, peering at Meizu boxes and the prototypes of new games. He followed her downstairs and sat on her bed, looking at the neat regiment of jackets and blouses in their polythene skins hanging in her wardrobe. It seemed to amuse him to claim ignorance of her world.
‘You’re a business executive.’
Harriet applied lipstick without looking round at him. ‘Yes. “Meizu Girl” sounds as if it might be something livelier, don’t you think? Disappointing for everyone.’
‘Do you enjoy living here?’ He gestured at the room and pointed upstairs. She knew what Caspar meant; she had been seeing it partially through his eyes. It was so neatly white-painted, furnished with such silky and marbleised neutrality and hung with such tasteful pictures. For the first time since she had moved in, she felt less than wholly pleased with it. ‘Do you enjoy your life, Miss Peacock? Your executive apartment, your office suite?’
‘It’s the only life I know,’ Harriet answered.
Caspar beamed. He was bulky, tanned from his visit to the Coast, larger than life in her tidy rooms. ‘Follow me,’ he commanded.
He took her to what she supposed was a drinking club. It was in Chelsea, in the same street as Manolo Blahnik where she had bought her grey suede Mercury sandals. She remembered as they passed the shop that she had wrenched the high heel when she drove it down on Robin’s foot, and reminded herself that she must bring the shoe in to have the heel reset. It was not proving easy to reset her relationship with Robin into a mere matter of business, but she dismissed the anxiety for that evening.
Harriet had never noticed the discreet door, or even the building itself, which looked like a private house. She followed Caspar obediently into a wide hallway, with a glimpse of green garden beyond. There was a billiard table on one side, with a number of red-faced men gathered around it. On the other side was a crowded bar, backed up by tables crowded with glasses. A blue wreath of smoke drifted over the drinkers’ heads. It looked and sounded like the height of an unusually successful party, a party that must have been under way for several hours. Looking at her watch, Harriet saw that it was still only seven-thirty.
Caspar was greeted as they pushed their way to the bar, as an old friend and not a face. He boomed in pleased response. Two or three people glanced after Harriet as if wondering what she, rather than he, might be doing here. They passed a television newsreader, holding a billiard cue javelin-fashion. His face was just as familiar as Caspar’s, and no one peered covertly at him either.
‘What’ll you have, Harriet?’
She glanced around her. There was not a white wine spritzer in sight. Nor was there a suit, or a tie, or a calculator. It was a world of corduroy and crumpled cotton and unfamiliar periodicals. Probably also of Russian novels, Harriet thought, and the latest literary fiction. ‘Gin,’ she answered.
She was also noticing that this diverse crowd of people was comfortably and equably enjoying itself, although violent disagreement might well break out later. Caspar was perfectly relaxed here. He handed her half a tumbler-full of gin, minimally diluted with tonic, no ice.
‘What is this place?’
He looked surprised. ‘My club. Every gentleman needs a club. It isn’t quite the Atheneum, thank God, but it is home.’ He lifted his glass of Scotch. ‘Welcome home.’ Caspar might like to pretend ignorance of her world, Harriet reflected, but she was genuinely unknowing of his. Thoughtfully, she drank her gin.
It was a long evening.
At some stage they did eat a meal in the club dining room, at a long communal table, but Harriet only remembered that everything had the colour and texture of steak and kidney pie, and that the member sitting next to her ate everything one-handed because his spare hand was on her leg. Before the meal there was drink, and talk, and a surprising amount of laughing, and after it there was even more drink, and talk growing heated. The violence that she had anticipated broke out at last, with Caspar at the centre of it. At one moment he was unsteadily on his feet, propped up by his supporters, trying to swing a punch at a little, gnomish man in a green corduroy jacket, also hemmed in by supporters. There was a great deal of shouting. Harriet was surprised to discover that she was shouting herself. But then, a moment later, Caspar and his opponent were sitting with their heads close together and the little green man was crying into his drink.
It was very, very late when Harriet and Caspar at last found themselves back on the pavement in Old Church Street.
‘I’m afraid I can’t drive,’ Caspar confessed, with an owlish expression that Harriet found very endearing. She hung on to his arm out of affection as much as necessity.
‘Neither can I.’
They found a taxi to take them back to Hampstead.
Caspar may not have been fit to drive, but he was perfectly well able to make love. He did it in his usual direct way, but Harriet felt confused, and tearful, and dissatisfied. She locked her arms around his neck and whispered, ‘I love you,’ but he didn’t answer that.
She told herself afterwards that it was the gin talking, and hoped he had forgotten it.
In the morning she left him still asleep on her bed, and went to work with a searing hangover. She confessed it to Graham Chandler who clicked his tongue at her, his disapproval only half humorous.
That was Harriet’s introduction to the world Caspar liked best.
Fifteen
London, March 1985
The factory manager was a big, paunchy man whose white nylon shirt parted down the front to reveal ellipses of white vest. The shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbow exposing meaty forearms, held akimbo as he led the way across the factory floor. The machine operators stared at Graham Chandler and Harriet following behind the manager. They stared hardest at Harriet’s navy-blue suit with the wide shoulders and narrow skirt, at her hair and her diamond ring and her flat black attaché case she carried under her arm.
Harriet wouldn’t sail by them to her meeting in the factory office. She stopped by the nearest machine, the expensive and elaborate new German installation that produced the plastic components for Alarm, to greet its attendants. She knew two of them already and remembered their names, and she introduced herself to the third, shaking his hand.
‘Is it behaving itself?’ she asked, nod
ding at the machine. The foreman gave a gloomy nod, standing back to wipe his forehead with the back of his wrist.
‘Because the production figures are twenty per cent lower than they should be,’ she added calmly, and waited for his response.
‘Teething troubles. Dies not aligning properly, see. Been sorted out now.’
‘So I’m told.’ Harriet smiled. Graham and Ray Dunnett, the works manager, were six steps away, waiting for her.
Harriet said, ‘I know you’ve been having some other problems. We’ll solve those today.’
She continued on across the Winwood floor, exchanging brief words with some of the men. When she moved on they turned to look at her legs, and then grinned at each other. Harriet felt their scrutiny and judged that it was curious, not hostile. There were problems at Winwood, mostly technical problems, and nothing that could not be dealt with. Production figures were an issue; her legs were not. Harriet regarded her manufacturing set-up with determined equanimity.
They reached the far end of the factory floor and a row of partitioned offices that housed desk staff. Ray Dunnett’s cubicle was at one end. He held the door open for her. At the end of the line two women in overalls were checking the sets of finished plastic bits and temporarily bagging them in polythene, to await final packaging. Big cardboard boxes of filled bags stood on pallets beside them. They watched Harriet and Graham until the door closed behind them. Then one woman turned down the corners of her mouth at the other.
‘She don’t look very fat or happy on all of it.’
‘On what, Bet? Him or the money?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t mind the chance of getting fat on him. Take it as it comes, I would.’
‘As he comes?’
Both women shrieked with laughter. Harriet and Caspar Jensen were the familiar property of the factory floor after the newspaper stories about them. There was plenty of dirty talk at Winwood. Bet lit a cigarette and leaned against a stack of filled cartons.
‘Ray’s busy, isn’t he?’ she said cheerfully. One of the men wandered over and stood beside her.
‘So what are my chances, then, darling? I’m not famous, but I’ve got other advantages, if you know what I mean.’
‘Get away,’ Bet said, to encourage him.
Harriet sat down opposite Ray Dunnett’s grey metal desk, alongside a pair of grey metal filing cabinets. Her works manager’s office reminded her strongly of Mr Jepson’s at Midland Plastics. There were the same pictures of airbrushed flesh, the same well-used ashtray, probably even the identical paper cup half-full of cold coffee. Ray would have to start delivering better than Mr Jepson had done, that was the difference. Harriet snapped open her case.
‘Let’s deal with the technical side first, shall we? Graham?’
Graham and Ray discussed the afflictions of the new machine. The manufacturers’ technical representative had made a site visit, and the faulty part had been replaced. Ray and his foreman were watching it and monitoring its performance. Harriet listened to Graham’s questions. There was no doubt about his expertise, he knew what he was talking about, but he never said it forcefully enough for Harriet. She found herself sharpening his points for Ray Dunnett’s benefit, stressing the importance of the machine’s proper functioning. It irritated her to realise that she could not quite grasp exactly why it had been misbehaving, but at the same time was clearly aware that Graham was not handling the investigation with enough force.
Harriet also knew that it was her weakness to believe that she could do everyone else’s job more efficiently herself. It was irrational, she understood, to feel impatient with her colleagues because of that conviction. She forced herself to listen politely, and to thank Graham and Ray at the end for their explanation of the technical details. But still, she saw, Graham looked annoyed.
‘Let’s move on, shall we?’ she said.
‘I’ll have to call in Mick, off the shop floor,’ Ray announced.
The next problem, Harriet rightly suspected, would not be so easily dealt with. Mick came in and sat down. He rolled a thin cigarette with elaborate care and then began a long explanation of how his lads were not happy with the canteen arrangements. Harriet listened, frowning. The union representative was trying to tell her that he wanted a hot-meal service provided for his members.
‘There are only forty-two people employed here, including clerical staff,’ Harriet answered at length. ‘It would hardly be economically sensible to equip and staff a kitchen for that many, would it? The canteen room is provided so that people have somewhere to eat their packed lunches, and vending-machine hot drinks are available, as you know. That’s all we can do, while Winwood remains at its present size.’
Mick appeared not to have heard what she said. ‘Either a full canteen,’ he went on, ‘or a longer break-time so that they can drive back and get a hot dinner.’
The Winwood site was isolated in an industrial development. It would take an appreciable amount of time to drive into the nearest town and back.
‘Break-times have already been negotiated, as you also know,’ Harriet told him. ‘I can’t consider extending them.’ She thought back, with nostalgia, to the Stepping days when she and Karen and the others had arranged their hours without dispute, to suit themselves and each other. And at the Peacocks’ offices everyone worked, as Harriet did herself, until whatever needed to be done was finished. In contrast, Mick’s bland deafness was intensely irritating. He swept on, involving all of them in a discussion of down-times and working practices and demarcations that threatened to last for the entire day. Harriet fought unsuccessfully with boredom and anger.
At last she snapped, ‘We don’t have any more time to devote to this. Down-times were agreed with your management at the outset, and the canteen arrangements remain as they stand.’
Mick sucked in his cheeks but, at last, he stood up. Graham looked pointedly at Harriet, and she ignored him.
‘I’ll report back to my members, then.’
‘Do that,’ Harriet said crisply. Mick left the room, exuding grievance. ‘What’s next, Ray?’
‘Health and safety.’
The health and safety officer had visited the Winwood factory, and sent in his report. There was a list of details that did not please him, from inadequate machine guards to the towels in the female lavatories. Harriet sighed and massaged her forehead.
‘Right. Let’s begin at the beginning. Where must the safety guards be fitted?’
‘Well, I’ll show you, but if they are fitted the operator’ll need to remove them every time he wants to reach over the belt.’
‘And how often does he want to do that?’
‘Two, three times a day.’
‘What’s the answer, then?’
Ray shrugged. ‘Lose time or ignore the safety requirement.’
‘Does everyone face the same choice?’
He laughed. ‘’Course they do.’
There was no satisfaction, Harriet thought, in dealing with issues like these. She began to feel numbed by the tedium of the day. Slowly, painfully slowly, they went through the inspector’s list. It took all the afternoon, and at the end of it Harriet did not even feel rewarded by a sense of something achieved.
They shook hands with Ray Dunnett before leaving for the drive back to London. They had reached solutions on two or three of the minor health and safety issues, but could only agree to try out means of solving others. The business of Mick and his canteen requirement was no further forward. Ray wagged his head morosely. Harriet knew that he wanted to be told how to deal with the issue. She should, she thought, have appointed someone more dynamic to manage her factory.
‘Do what you think is necessary,’ she said briskly, letting go of his hand. ‘That’s what I want.’
‘What you want,’ he echoed, as if cogitating the idea, but also with a touch of sarcasm. Again Harriet wished she had a better understanding of the technical mysteries that were plain to Graham and Ray. She would have to learn, that was all. A course,
perhaps, or better still a week or a month spent here at Winwood, watching and overseeing. If she could spare the time out of the office. But then time could always be made, somehow, she had already learned that.
When they came out of the office, Harriet saw that the floor was deserted. It was a few minutes past five. The big German plastic-moulder stood silent, an old man in an overall was half-heartedly sweeping in a distant corner. Out of action, the machinery seemed much bigger, veiled in its own expensive mystery. There was no overtime, Harriet was aware of that. They were well up to date with orders for Meizu and Alarm as well as for other, smaller products.
They left Ray in the empty car-park and headed along the motorway towards London.
‘We have to make that place work,’ Harriet said. Graham only nodded. ‘It’s costing hundreds of thousands.’
‘I’m not a money man, Harriet. But I do know that there’s nothing to be gained by antagonising the men. Or by letting your irritation show to people like Ray Dunnett.’
‘I’m not irritated,’ Harriet snapped. She pushed her foot down harder, and sent the car swirling in the stream of fast traffic.
The next day was a busy one. Harriet had a long meeting with her marketing manager and the packaging designers who were working on a new range of point-of-sale material for Alarm. They spent the morning surrounded by dummy boxes and artwork, examining the effect of poster roughs and mocked-up counterpacks. It was the kind of work Harriet liked best, with the feel of the product in her hands, and she knew that she was good at it. She made instinctive decisions, but she could always justify them.
She said, ‘I like the cherry-red background for the lettering. It’s much warmer than the blue, and the type reads off better.’
‘Red it is, then,’ the art man said.
The packaging people liked working with Harriet too, and the atmosphere in her office was cheerful. They sent out for sandwiches and had a working lunch, still surrounded by colour samples and boxes of Alarm.
