Backhand Smash

by J M Gregson

  Robert Walmsley congratulated himself on one thing, at least: his appointment of a new PA two weeks earlier. There had been plenty of good candidates. Fitton Metals still looked prosperous, even healthy, on paper. Only one or two informed people like Walmsley knew that it needed an infusion of capital to service new processes and that it wasn’t going to get that. The person he had appointed had seemed to be one of the very best candidates to become his new PA.

  Anne Grice was an attractive woman of forty-four with good features in a heart-shaped face. She had dark, neat, short hair and wore a well-cut grey skirt and white blouse, and calf-length black boots. She also carried a general air of quiet authority. Bob had fancied, even at that first meeting, that she would not need to shriek at the junior secretarial staff who would also be part of her remit; they would accept the authority of this calm, experienced woman without question.

  The major question in Walmsley’s mind had been why she was planning to leave behind what seemed an even better post to take this one. He’d taken her briefly through her impressive curriculum vitae and then come swiftly to the point. ‘You come here with a glowing reference from your present employer. He says that he would be very sorry to lose your services.’

  ‘That is good to hear. Good for my ego. But I think that it is time for a change.’

  ‘Forgive me for being ungallant, but I note from your application details that you are forty-four. You have at present an excellent salary and a satisfied employer. Why do you want to leave all that behind and come to Fitton Metals?’

  ‘It’s more convenient for me. Nearer to home.’

  ‘But the money isn’t any better than what you’re earning in your present post – I’m afraid it might even be slightly less, if this year’s bonus is as small as last year’s.’

  ‘It’s adequate. Finance is not a problem for me. I need job satisfaction as much as money. You don’t seem as if you’d be an ogre to work for, Mr Walmsley.’

  It was a tiny shaft of humour and she’d given him a tiny smile to accompany it. She was very pretty when she smiled, but that hadn’t swayed him. He was past the age for that, he’d told himself firmly. He wasn’t convinced by her arguments for taking this post, but he couldn’t press the matter further without becoming over-personal. She was divorced and perhaps she had a good settlement from that, but you couldn’t pursue such things in an interview.

  Anne Grice had seemed to have every qualification for the job, and her present employer in Preston had assured Bob over the phone that he would be very sorry to lose her. Walmsley had enquired if there was anything further about this post that she needed to ask him and been assured that there wasn’t. She had researched the firm thoroughly before she applied. Another small, friendly smile lit up the rather serious face and convinced Bob that she would be easy to work with.

  He’d told her that he had other candidates to see, that he would let her know within three days what the decision was. He’d felt as she left that they both knew that she was going to be appointed.

  Perhaps both of them had also known that Anne Grice had not revealed her full reasons for wanting to join him here.

  Saturday afternoon. The courts at Birch Fields were very busy, as the days still stretched out and the season enjoyed a post-Wimbledon boom.

  Clyde Northcott would have chosen a much less public occasion for his first appearance at the club, but he hadn’t been given a choice. This game had been arranged for him. Olive Crawshaw was the directorial force behind his appearance in mid-afternoon, at the time of maximum exposure. ‘You’ll enjoy a good men’s four,’ she’d told him authoritatively. ‘You blokes always do, I know. It’s your favourite form of the game. You play mixed doubles when you have to, and most of you do it with good grace, but you tolerate us women rather than enjoy it. You’re stronger than us and you’re generally more competitive, though some of us do our best in that respect.’

  Clyde couldn’t imagine any man being more competitive than Olive, though he had more sense than to offer that thought. Nor did he attempt to resist the unstoppable tide of her plans for him. There was no sense starting his life at Birch Fields as a tennis Canute.

  He realized quickly that Mrs Crawshaw had been more subtle and thoughtful in her arrangements than he had given her credit for. The three men he was playing with had been selected on the basis of character as well as skill. They seemed genuinely pleased to see him here and genuinely anxious to integrate him into the sporting ethos of the club. They treated him easily and naturally as an equal, when experience had taught him to expect at best a calculated reserve.

  They were kind to his mistakes in their first game or two on court, as they would no doubt have been kind to the efforts of any new member. Clyde found himself more grateful than ever to Elaine Brockman and the reinitiation to tennis she had offered to him on the public courts in the park four days previously. He made mistakes, but far fewer than he would have done without that practise night, and not many more than the people he was playing with. He held his first service game, which he was sure he would never have done without Tuesday night’s practise with Elaine. He managed to finish it with a cannonball ace down the centre line, which brought congratulations from partner and floundering opponent alike.

  Clyde was pleased to find that Olive Crawshaw wasn’t amongst those watching from outside the high metal fencing. She was in fact playing a women’s doubles on the adjoining court, more than holding her own with companions to whom she was conceding twenty years and more. He was conscious between points in his own game of her darting about at the net, shouting ‘mine’ or ‘yours’ to her partner with the same certainty she had accorded to his application for membership, and congratulating and commiserating with friend and foe on the court.

  Clyde would have thought she was completely unaware of him, had she not given him a surreptitious wink as they both stooped to collect balls at the back of their courts.

  His game in the men’s doubles was close. It demanded all his concentration, and as the set moved towards its climax he found himself more and more involved. He was pleased with a couple of winning volleys he made at the net, disgusted with himself when he dispatched an easy forehand well over the baseline. The other three men were equally involved in the contest, and Clyde became no more than another amateur player trying his best to ape the professionals.

  There were spectators, of course, at this time on a Saturday. A host of eyes were trained upon this most noticeable of new members. Clyde’s immaculate white shirt, shorts and socks made his colour even more striking than his height and his muscular physique, so that a growing number of members paused to watch the closely contested match on the club’s premier court.

  Most of them approved of what they saw. But there was one spectator who was not pleased. The chairman of the club, the man who had reluctantly accepted the inevitability of Northcott’s membership only three days previously, was disturbed by this inescapable manifestation of the new man’s presence.

  Arthur Swarbrick watched for a few minutes with a face of stone, then disappeared into the clubhouse to reflect upon what he had been compelled to accept.

  The following week, Anne Grice had been duly appointed as PA to Robert Walmsley at Fitton’s Metals. After a week, Walmsley knew that she was as good as her previous experience and her references had said she would be. Bob was normally reserved and cautious, but after a fortnight he was prepared to reveal to her information he had previously regarded as confidential. A good PA inevitably gathered such confidences, he told himself. She even needed them, if she was to do her job properly.

  It was in her third week in her new post that she sat for a moment in front of his desk clutching a file against her desirable but discreetly clothed bosom. Anne wasn’t one for cleavage at work. Fashions had recently encouraged it, but in her view it wasn’t efficient clothing for the wearer and it was likely to distract other people who worked around her. Anne was no frump. She looked attractive as she moved around the thr
ee offices where her word was already becoming law. As far as she was concerned, though, low necklines were for leisure wear, in other places and at other times.

  Bob Walmsley wondered why his new PA had paused in her chair when he had finished dictating letters to her. For the first time since she had come here she looked a little uncertain. Perhaps she was wondering how to make the next move. He smiled at her and said, ‘Was there something you wanted to raise with me, Anne?’

  Mrs Grice responded immediately and without any further hesitation. ‘I wanted to ask you a question. If you think it’s impertinent, please tell me to go away and get on with my work.’

  ‘I’m intrigued. Fire away, please – I shan’t be offended, whatever it is you want to ask. You’ve already given me the right to refuse an answer, so I can’t lose, can I?’ Walmsley liked this intelligent, efficient, occasionally humorous woman. He found that he already trusted her more than the woman she had replaced. That surprised him, when Mrs Grice had been less than three weeks in post, because over the last few years he had grown used to being quite secretive about anything concerning work.

  She looked straight into his face as she said, ‘I was wondering about the present state of the business. I’ve read through various files, as you invited me to do to ensure that I was suitably informed. Frankly, I don’t like what I’ve seen.’

  ‘And what exactly have you seen?’

  ‘I’ve seen a business that’s being starved of investment. Ten years ago you were ahead of the field, fifteen years ago even more so. The profits were healthy and the technology in use was bang up to date. I’m no engineering expert, but that doesn’t seem to be the case today. We’re still in profit, but for how much longer?’

  ‘Have you spoken to anyone else about this?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t do that without speaking to you first. Perhaps I’m drawing the wrong conclusions. I might be quite wrong.’

  He gave her a grim smile. ‘You’re not wrong, Anne. You’re absolutely right. I didn’t think you’d work it out as quickly as this.’

  Her wide mouth was rather thin-lipped as she nodded. ‘I don’t understand all the technical processes involved in reprocessing metals, but I can read balance sheets. The ones over the last five years make for grim reading if you’re looking for progress.’

  Bob Walmsley nodded. ‘We used to spend generously on research and development, in the old days when Derek Fitton was in charge. And it paid off. We were ahead of the field, as you said. That was because we looked into all the latest American and Swedish technology and found out what worked and what didn’t. Then we spent heavily on installing the best plant. It was all justified, because we recouped our investment and much more in profits. People in other, smaller businesses in the Midlands used to ask to come here and study how we were operating. That doesn’t happen any more.’

  ‘Why?’

  Bob looked at her quizzically. ‘I suspect you already know that. The man in charge doesn’t want to spend money. He has other priorities. Jason Fitton is a very different man from his father.’

  The thin lips grimaced. ‘And more’s the pity, you almost said. Does no one ask the kind of questions I’ve been putting to you?’

  ‘We’re not a public company, with shareholders and meetings where they can question policy and the chairman. The whole country’s been passing through a prolonged recession. Most people don’t ask questions. Even the few who have reservations about policy seem to be content to keep their heads down and congratulate themselves on still being employed in trying times.’

  ‘You sound frustrated. You sound as if you wished there were more people questioning what’s going on.’

  He looked at her steadily for a few seconds. ‘Right now, Anne, I’m asking myself why you are concerning yourself with matters like this. I’m all in favour of people taking an interest in the business that pays their wages, but your concern is stretching beyond what would be normal for a PA.’

  This time her smile was wide, seemingly untinged by any other concern than pleasure. She liked this man who was fourteen years older than her, who had already proved a considerate and generous employer. He had answered her questions fully, because he was a naturally honest man. A man of great integrity where business affairs were concerned, she had decided, after less than three weeks in his company. A man who shared all the reservations she had about Jason Fitton, the man who now controlled their destinies and those of numerous other people. She said, ‘Thank you for being so frank, Mr Walmsley. I share your feelings about the present Mr Fitton.’

  He should leave it at that, he thought. They’d been more frank with each other than was customary and probably wise for managing director and PA. Instead, he said, ‘It’s high time work was finished for the day. Do you fancy a quick drink in the White Hart?’

  She smiled at him again; her dark brown eyes seemed in that moment to look right through him. ‘I’m a divorced woman, Mr Walmsley, as you clearly remember from the enquiries you made when I was appointed. Some people think that a divorced woman is desperate to leap into bed with any man who offers his services. As long as you don’t put me in that category, I’m very willing to go for a drink.’

  He tried not to show how nettled he was by her words. ‘I was asking you for half an hour’s conversation in a non-working context, Anne. I wasn’t planning on starting an affair.’

  ‘And in the light of that assurance, I’m very happy to go for a drink with you, Bob. I’m sure that I shall enjoy your company in a non-working environment.’

  It was the first time Anne Grice had used his forename, denoting that she was dispensing with the formalities of their working relationship in this social context. She was daring enough to tease him a little, and her smile today was wide and genuine.

  The relationship between Clyde Northcott and Elaine Brockman was proving itself eminently useful to both parties. At work, Elaine found the detective sergeant’s advice soundly based and more useful than he knew. He spoke as if such things were obvious, but as a raw recruit who had come to the harsh reality of Brunton Police Station straight from the freedoms of university life, she was enormously grateful for his common sense and experience.

  They were sitting in a corner of the canteen and she had just confessed to him that she was disturbed more than she had expected to be by the string of obscenities and scatological insults she had received that morning from a couple of the choicer representatives of Brunton’s youth culture. ‘It’s depressing more than anything, I suppose. I was surprised by the violence of the delivery more than the stream of F and C words. They really managed to convince me that they’d rape me violently and bludgeon me and take great pleasure in both things if they had the opportunity. I hope I didn’t let them see they were annoying me, but—’

  ‘That’s important. You must never let them see that they’re getting to you, even when they are. You’ll find that in time it becomes water off a duck’s back – irritating more than disturbing. Until that happens, you just have to behave as if you’ve heard it all before and it’s merely tedious.’

  ‘It’s that all right. Even though I have heard it all before. There are plenty of unsavoury characters at universities, especially when they get a few drinks down them. It was the violence that was upsetting. I wouldn’t want to be alone with some of those people – females as well as males.’

  ‘They just go for whatever they think might be a weakness. The fact that you’re pretty means that you get a sexual tirade from them.’

  Elaine smiled wanly. ‘You’re suggesting I should regard it as a compliment?’

  ‘You’re a woman. They’ll test you out in any way they can. I don’t know how many times I’ve been called a black bastard and a black cunt in the last few years. Once you’re a copper, you have to learn not to react. That’s been a good thing for me. I’d have been on GBH charges if I’d been an ordinary citizen.’

  She hadn’t expected him to understand so thoroughly what she had regarded as a weakness;
she’d been depressed by her morning, but she wouldn’t have confessed that to anyone save him. She realized now how much she had come to rely on his advice and support at the station. Elsewhere, and pre-eminently in the exalted social echelons of Birch Fields Tennis Club, she was his mentor. In the mean streets of Brunton and in the sometimes even meaner confines of the Brunton nick’s locker rooms, Elaine was a novice who needed to learn quickly. But at the tennis club she was a veteran at twenty-two. She had been a member since she was ten, when she had been welcomed on to the courts as a promising youngster who knew her manners and knew her place. She had passed through the rigours of adolescence and into womanhood with the club as one of her constants. Other considerations had ensured that she had remained ‘promising’ rather than the fully rounded sporting talent some had envisaged, but she remained a popular member of the club, known and liked by almost all its members.

  It meant that she could give the newest recruit to the club, her colleague DS Northcott, experienced guidance in the nuances of tennis club membership, an area where Clyde was defiantly ignorant. ‘I want to play tennis, not smarm my way around!’ he announced to her with a vague but sturdy determination.

  ‘I agree. You’re not built for smarming. You haven’t had the practice,’ Elaine said with a very straight face.

  ‘And I’m not going to start now!’ His features set into an uncompromising ebony mask.

  ‘No one’s expecting you to do that, you great daft ha’p’orth.’ One of her gran’s expressions had jumped out when she least expected it. That was a sign of her affection for this big, awkward man who was so reluctant to dissimulate. She’d love to see what her beloved gran, who’d been born when there was scarcely a black face in Brunton and none of the Asian ones that were now so prominent, would make of Clyde Northcott. ‘You enjoyed your game on Saturday, didn’t you?’