14

Wednesday 21 & Thursday 22 August 1985

‘Here it is! This is the one’

For four weeks, Chaite has been staying with Mercia, searching diligently for a suitable job. Now the Foxworth Evening Telegraph has yielded an attractive possibility. Mercia comes and looks over her shoulder.

Such agonising there had been at WEL about that advertisement, first drafted by Bob Wilkinson himself. Should they use the unheard-of title People Person? Should they use the words banausic and technofear?

‘I want the sort of person who either knows what banausic means, or will look it up. I don’t think we need a technical person, but they shouldn’t be put off by the fact that we’re a technical company’

Bob had got his way, and, by some stroke of Providence, that particular edition of the Foxworth Evening Telegraph had been seen by the one applicant WEL needed — Chaite.

‘It looks weird’

‘Have you got a dictionary? What’s banausic?’

Mercia was looking:

‘I see. Well, I can process words ... and I don’t know what technofear is — I mean, I don’t suffer from it. Do you think I’m good at people, good humoured, good at organising ...?’

‘Didn’t you have to be — weren’t you — all these things before?’

‘I suppose so. Doesn’t everybody have to be like that?’

‘To a certain extent, maybe. No — I don’t think so. I think this job looks very like you’

‘So?’

‘So I should go for it’

‘How far’s Foxworth?’

‘About forty miles from here. The road’s pretty rotten as well. Especially when people are travelling to and from work’

Chaite mused on a sudden vision: ‘I ought to be able to get a flat there’

She saw herself independent again. She had come a long way since her accident, but she had always lived with one of her sisters — first Mercia, then Cepha (admittedly self-containedly), now Mercia again. A new job, a new flat, a new Chaite.

She rang the number at the foot of the advertisement — Foxworth 494494. ‘W—E—L — can I help you?’

‘Oh, hello. Ted Crowe, please. I’m enquiring about the advertisement in the Telegraph for a People Person’

‘Putting you through’

’Ted Crowe’

’Ah — I’m enquiring about the advertisement in the Telegraph. For a People Person’

‘Yes. What can I tell you?’

‘When can I come for an interview?’

‘Oh ... well ... Can I take your name and address, and we’ll send you a form and some information about the job’

‘Fine — then what happens?’

‘You send the form back — after you’ve filled it up of course — and we let you know if we want to interview you’

‘Oh. Well, I wondered if it might be possible to come over and fill in the form and then you could interview me after that’

Chaite the pushy — or perhaps it was Chaite the decisive. She hoped that she sounded organised enough to get her way.

‘May I have your name and address first, please?’

Chaite revealed the details, concluding:

Ted is under her spell: ‘Right ... I’ll leave a form in an envelope in reception, and we’ll pencil in ... ten o’clock on Thursday. Bring the form in before that. But I can’t promise to see you ...’

‘I quite understand that, Mr Crowe. Thank you ... And good bye’

Chaite terminated the call on her own terms. Had she impressed them, or antagonised them? Time alone would tell.

Ted felt quite exhilarated. He rang Bob: ‘I’ve just had the reply to the People Person’

‘And ...?’

‘I said it was the reply. She’s just right’

‘Good. What does she do now?’

‘I ... ah ... didn’t ask her’

Bob laughed: ‘She must have made an impression’

‘Yes, it was her ... her ability to improvise’

‘Ah. So what’s happening next?’

‘She’s picking up a form tomorrow and provisionally coming for interview on Thursday. If she’s any good on paper’

‘She will be, won’t she?’

‘I rather think so’

Chaite rang Foxworth 494494 again.

‘WEL — can I help you?’

‘Yes. I’m coming to WEL tomorrow, and I’d like to know how to find you’

‘Oh, you’re the People Person who rang Ted Crowe just now’

‘Yes, I didn’t like to waste ... take up his time asking him for directions’

‘Oh, he wouldn’t mind. How are you coming, by the way?’

‘By road, I should think. From Little Bygrave’

‘Ooohhh ... there’s no problem, then. You come towards Foxworth along the Bygrave Road, and you’ll see a sign pointing to the right saying "By-road to Addercote" — before you get to Foxworth itself. We’re about a quarter of a mile down there on the right — there’s a sign pointing to Foxworth Manor, and you’ll see our sign at the gates ... [Chaite waited for it ... ] ... you can’t miss it’

How Chaite dreaded those words. The speaker could see the whole route so clearly in the mind’s eye — to that eye there was no way of missing it. The listener, without that visual advantage, might as well be blind.

‘Just one thing’

‘Yes?’

hand side of the market on Church Road, and then turn left back on to the Stanfield Road when you see a large red-brick building on the corner’

‘Thanks ... [reeled Chaite] ... I’m sure I won’t be able to miss it. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon?’

‘Yes, I’ll be here. Goodbye — and thanks for calling — again’

Mercia was in the kitchen. Chaite went through: ‘I think I’ve fixed it’

Mercia wiped her hands on her apron and flung her arms round her elder sister: ‘Well done! What happens now?’

‘I’m coming over to Foxworth tomorrow, to pick up an application form at WEL. I’ll stay the night to be ready for Thursday morning, and suss the place out ... and then I’ll look for digs if I get it. Which I think somehow I will’

‘I don’t think you ought to tempt Providence like that’

‘It’s Providence that’s tempting me’

So the next day, Chaite was up early. She had decided not only that she wanted this job very much, but that she was going to get it. She would drive over to Foxworth in good time, to give herself time to have a look at the place and find a B&B.

Nothing untoward happened; she arrived at about half-past ten, to find it was market day. Providence had saved her a miraculous parking place in Church Lane. She walked across the green churchyard to the Market Square.

The first thing she wanted to do was to buy a map. She looked around the Market Square, and saw Twiney Family Newsagent next to the church. What was a Family Newsagent? What was a Family Butcher, for that matter? What was a High Class Family Butcher, apart from some aristocratic chainsaw massacrist, despatching his kin as seemed to appear more and more frequently in the annals?

What about a Family Off Licence? Claret for boys, port for men, brandy for aspiring heroes.

What did a Family Butcher supply? Beefburgers for boys, white meat for women ... but he who aspires to be an hero should eat ... stallion??

Perhaps a Family Newsagent offered photography, soft porn and motoring on the top shelf; cookery, knitting and homes beautiful in the middle; Bunty, Whizzer & Chips, the Beano etc at floor level.

Chaite ventured in to Twiney Newsagent. The bell jangled mercilessly. Imagine having to live with that.

‘Good morning, dear, what can we do for you?’

The Royal we? Or some grandiose notion that she spoke on behalf of the management of the emporium?

‘I’d like to buy a map. Of Foxworth’

‘Certainly’ said the old lady, as if they boasted an extensive map department. She shuffled down to the end of the shop, and tugged at a drawer: ‘I think they’re in here’

The handle came off.

‘I’ll have to go and get Mr Feste’

‘Mr WHO?’

But Twiney was gone. Chaite expected Mr Feste to enter in cap and bells. How had he got a name like that? She waited, wondering whether it was worth all the trouble — for her, or for Twiney.

Should she run away? It would be a bad start to what she expected would be a continuing liaison with Foxworth and its denizens. She turned over a hobby magazine, and looked to see if WEL was advertising. It was ... and here was an article about the company. Bon chance — she would be on the ball.

‘Here we are’

Twiney returned; judging by his garb, Mr Feste was the butcher — High Class Family, Chaite didn’t doubt. He was carrying a small jemmy:

‘Where is it?’

‘That one. Mind you, there’s no call for maps today, everybody going by car and all’

Chaite was anxious not to be forgotten: ‘I’m calling for one’

Mr Feste was examining the drawer with interest: ‘No wonder th’andle come orf — see — you got the worm, missus’

‘Don’t tell me about the worm, just open the drawer. This young lady ain’t got all day’

‘Festina lente ... [said Feste] ... you know what that means’

‘Yeh, sLatin fer pull yer finger out’ cackled Twiney.

There was a crash; the front came off the drawer, and maps cascaded on

to the floor.

‘First prise ... [exclaimed Feste] ... You wanna throw this out, missus, fore th’ole lot goes’

‘Get along with you. My husband built that, before the war’

‘In the Crimea, wazzy? Ere, I gorra go; carn stan roun gosspin’l day’

Chaite, who now realised that she should never have asked for a map in the first place, thanked him profusely.

‘It says three and six — and the magazine — here’s a pound. That’ll be all right’

‘Very well, dear. If you say so. See you again, I expect’

‘Yes — I hope so’

Chaite emerged into the brightness of reality, and sat down on a bench to look at the map. There was Foxworth Manor ... and there was the scale. Yes — she measured roughly with her fingers — she ought to be able to walk it in less than half an hour.

She refolded the map — thank God for a still day — and looked around. She spotted a sandwich bar, and felt hungry. She’d have a snack, then find her B&B, then walk to WEL. Or perhaps she’d find one on the way. You never know. The sandwich bar was clean and inviting; the choice endless. Chaite settled for egg, anchovy and gherkin — testing herself, for it was not very easy to eat — and a diet Coke off the rocks, sat at a non-smoking table and watched the people of Foxworth going about their daily doings.

At length, she walked back across the churchyard to check on her car as though it were some powerful talisman ... and it was, for she found that she’d parked opposite a sign saying ‘Ruskin House, B&B, Vacancies’.

She looked the place up and down; decided it was Meant; up to the door; press the bell. A somewhat willowy-green lady answered: ‘Yes?’

‘Er — I wondered if you could put me up for the night. Perhaps two’

‘I’ll have to know’

‘I’ll be able to tell you tomorrow. I’m going for a job, you see, and if I get it I might want to stay another night. While I find some permanent accommodation’

‘Well, if you book provisonally, it’ll only cost your deposit’

‘How much is the deposit?’

‘A pound. That’ll be two pounds, please — tonight and tomorrow’

‘Well ... er ... could I see the room ...?’

Would this unleash a fury? No: ‘Of course. I’m Mrs Taylor, by the way. Come in’

‘Thanks. My name’s Chaite Slatterthwaite’

‘Oh. Ah. There’s the TV lounge; the dining room’s through there ... [Upstairs] ... There’s the bathroom ... [then Mrs Taylor threw ope a door as it were a royal chamber] ... THERE!’

reeling slightly. She regained her composure — she could always wait until it was dark and go to bed with the lights out. She was pleased to see a washbasin, with soap and towels. She felt in her pocket and sorted out two pounds; handed them to Mrs Taylor:

‘It’s WONderful. Thank you very much’

‘Right you are. Thank you. Now, it’s eight pounds for the bed and breakfast — per night — only it’s high season, so I charge eight pounds fifty’

‘Fine’

‘And tea’s at seven o’clock sharp — three seventy-five if you want it’

Chaite looked meaninglessly at her watch: ‘What’s on the menu?’

‘Tomato soup or fruit juice; shepherd’s pie with beans and broccoli, pineapple chunks with ice cream additionally, or cheese and biscuits, or cheese and biscuits additionally. And coffee or tea. Additionally’

Chaite carried out a quick mental survey: ‘Are there any pubs round here?’

Mrs Taylor mounted an high horse: ‘Well ... if you want to eat in a pub, that’s up to you. It’s not wholesome — they don’t have to comply with the rules and regulations like we do. There’s The Trident up the road ... but I’ve never been in there — of course’

Of course not.

Chaite decided to eat at Ruskin House for the sake of good PR: ‘No, no, I was just asking, I’d like to eat here’

‘Right. Seven o’clock sharp. Will you want tomato soup or fruit juice?’

Chaite thought to get her money’s worth: ‘Tomato soup, please’

‘Very good. Here’s a key. Don’t lose it’

‘Of course not. See you later’

By this time, Chaite had managed to make the front door, and was trying to let herself out. Mrs Taylor pushed forward: ‘Here — you need two hands’

‘Uh-huh’

Mrs Taylor opened the door; Chaite escaped with a smile and a wave; started to walk to Foxworth Manor.

It was the Foxworth ‘we’ again, thought Chaite: ‘I’ve come to pick up an application form’

He did the Boyhood of Raleigh act: ‘Go over to that door where you can see the sign saying "Reception". That’s reception. Ask in there’

‘Thanks — see you on the way out’

Chaite walked across to reception, fascinated that all you had to say was ‘I’ve come to pick up an application form’ and the whole need for security melted away. An imposing portico; one of the great double wooden doors stood open; she entered, passed through an inner door, and into the Great Hall with its crystal chandelier. Bob Wilkinson had always been adamant that the Great Hall should remain as unspoilt as possible — the only apparent anachronisms were electrical in origin. There was even an hyper-restrained lack of product on show.

‘I’ve come to collect an application form. And some information about the company — and the job’

‘Aha! You’re the People Person ... [she picked up an envelope] ... how do you pronounce that?’

‘Chaite — to rhyme with mighty, and with a hard CH’

‘Chaite. I see. I’m Jinny — to rhyme with spinney, and short for Virginia. You’re coming in tomorrow, I believe?’

‘Am I?’

Chaite questioned in order to clarify. Jinny looked at her diary:

‘Yes — ten o’clock’

‘Cor-rect ... [she looked around] ... I like your lovely home’

‘Ummm. Hope you’ll come and join us’

Chaite felt she shouldn’t say things like that. She picked up the envelope: ‘Right, then. See you tomorrow morning’

‘Fine. Oh, excuse me ...’

Jinny attended to the telephone as Chaite slipped out of the door.

Exhilarated, Chaite strolled back meanderingly across the lawns, enjoying the arboretal trees, waved at the gateman who was craning up at a lorry-driver who seemed to have taken a wrong turning, and sauntered back to Ruskin House.

Turn the Yale key, and turn the knob. Easier said than done. Normally, you could find a way round, catch one back while you worked the other. She could probably get it with practice, but the knob was too smooth. Mrs Taylor opened the door. Chaite withdrew the key: ‘Thanks’

‘It takes a bit of getting used to. Needs two hands, like I said’

‘Can we put the Yale lock on the snib while I get the things out of my car?’

‘Oh, that’s your car, is it? I was just about to take its number’

‘It’s all right — I know the number’

This was lost on Mrs Taylor. Chaite went out to get her cases. She put one in the hall, went for the other, and locked the car. Surprisingly, Mrs Taylor had taken the first one up to her room, so Chaite went up with the other.

‘Thank you’

‘That’s all right. I expect you’ll want to wash and change before tea. It’s at seven o’clock sharp. Mr and Mrs Moore are staying as well. You’ll be on table two’

Delusions of grandeur.

‘Thank you. I won’t be late’

Mrs Taylor left the room, and Chaite closed the door. She looked at herself in the mirror. Wash and change before tea, eh? Did she look dirty? Did they dress for dinner here? But a wash would be nice, and she could change her blouse and put on a scarf. But first ... she sat on the bed, opened the WEL envelope and drew out its contents — a folder containing an application form, a copy of the advertisement from the paper and some sheets stapled together headed ‘Welcome to WEL’.

Looking round the room for a suitable surface, and finding none, she decided to take the form down to the TV lounge to complete it. But first, she washed and changed as she had promised herself.

Tucking all her papers under her left arm, Chaite descended to the TV Lounge. Mr and Mrs Moore had got there first; she had the choice of withdrawing — which might look rude — or joining them. She joined them, just as Mr Moore switched on the television: ‘Time for’t’regional news. Moost see what’s appning’

Chaite sat down: ‘Good evening’

‘Good evening’

She had no chance of concentrating on the application form, so she chose to look through it and mentally compose her answers. But she must have dozed off, for the next thing she knew was Mrs Taylor coming in, pulling out the plug of the television set with the finality of a true penny-pincher, and announcing: ‘Three minutes to seven’

Mrs Taylor came in on the attack: ‘What about sweets?’

Everyone opted for the cheese and biscuits. Chaite had hardly expected a five-star cheeseboard; the strip of Cheddar and the three selected biscuits per person were as she had predicted to herself. Hard cheese. Say ‘mycella’ to Mrs Taylor, and she’d think you referred to your underground storeroom. Now she was standing in the doorway: ‘Coffees?’

‘‘‘Yes, please’’’ they chorused.

‘Additionally’ murmured Chaite.

‘I’ll bring it to you in the TV Lounge’

They herded themselves into the TV lounge.

Mr Moore took up a tabloid.

Mrs Moore produced some knitting.

The coffee came in silence.

Chaite decided to take hers black rather than try to open the little carton of UHT cream.

‘Would you like me to open it for you, dear?’

Chaite knew Mrs Moore had noticed. But it was not her policy to be the first to mention it.

She smiled at Mrs Moore: ‘No thank you ... I take it black ... [not true, but ... she paused] ... Are you staying here long?’

‘Till next Frideh’

‘We came last Saturdeh’

‘We coom every ye-ar’

‘Yes, we bin here, what is it, six ye-ars now, isn’t it Bill?’

‘Soomat like that. Seven’

‘Six. It were seven ye-ars ago we went to Fileh’

‘Six, then’

‘Mrs Taylor looks after you right royalleh’

God save the Queen.

‘That shepherd’s pie was very good, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. Mark you, t’s out o’t’freezer. She cukes em individualleh and hots em int’mahcrowave’

‘Oh, ah — all mahcrowaves now’

Chaite feels defensive for no reason she can divine: ‘Still, it must be very convenient in this sort of business’

‘Oh, ah — you’ve got to move wi’t’imes, ah say’

They’d done the food; Chaite tried another tack: ’Foxworth seems a friendly place’

‘Aye — that’s why we coom ere — mark you, t’place could do wi livenin oop o’nights’

‘Yes, where we coom from, we’ve bingo, and whist drives, and a cinema woonce a fortnight ...’

‘... an five poobs’

Chaite wonders at the attractions of Foxworth.

‘Our son allus says it’s good as Lon’n’

‘You’ve a son in London?’

‘Aye, he’s a lecturer oop at t’NELP’

‘Doon very well for hisself, e as ...’

‘As matter o’fact, I’m knitting this for his birthday’

Mrs Moore holds up the pattern — a handsome young man with his family, all clad in immaculate knitwear, all leaning against a tree, all smiles.

‘Do you have other children?’

‘There’s our daughter, Susan. She’s trained as a teacher — junior school. She’s married to a doctor — they’re in Canada now’

Canada ... Australia ... New Zealand ... crammed with teachers and doctors presumably trying to get away from their parents staying in boarding houses back in the Old Country.

‘Doon very well for erself ...’

‘I don’t know where they get the brains from — must be Bill’s side of the family. Yer father was clever, was’ne Bill?’

‘Oh ah. Mark you, e’d’ve got further if e’d ad t’opportunities they ave today’

‘My sister’s been to Canada. But just to do a study for the government. She’s a geographer’

‘Yes, our Susan studied geography. Did very well at it, too — didn’t she, Bill?’

‘Oh, aye’

‘My other sister lives in Shalthorpe’

‘Shalthorpe? There’s a zoo there, isn’t there? I always say we should go there — don’t I, Bill?’

‘Oh, aye. Mark you, I’m not shuer I old wi’animals beeng shoot oop. Snot natrl, like’

‘No, I don’t hold with it, real-leh’

It now became a point of honour with Chaite to get them to follow up just one remark she might make, instead of relating everything to their own experience: ‘I took my sister’s children to Shalthorpe Zoo. She’s got two boys and two girls’

‘Oh, aye. Mark you, she’s got a good job over theer. She’d ave to give it oop if she ad children’

‘My sister had her four quite close together — the last two were twins. She got an au pair in to help.

‘That Mrs Milliken had an au pair, din she Bill?’

‘Noo ... were Mrs Wilson’

‘It was Mrs Milliken — she had one of those spotted dalmatians used to walk along beside the pram’

‘I thought it was Mrs Wilson had the alsatian — dalmatian’

‘No, it were Mrs Wood ad t’alsatian. I’fact, she ad two on em, cos woon got roon over ont’Good Frideh’

‘Oh, aye’

‘Noo-o. She were a ... she used to work in t’off licence’

Chaite thought hard. She’d have to pull out all the stops:

‘My occupational therapist’s called Mrs Wood. I don’t know what I’d’ve done without her after my accident’

‘I don’t think Mrs Wood with the alsatian was an occupational therapist, was she Bill?’

‘Occupational what? Coom to think of it, t’were Mrs Milliken that ad t’o pair’

‘I thought so’

Chaite gave up. She’d have to go up and fill in her form. She stood up:

‘Well, I must be off to bed, if you’ll excuse me’

‘Tired, are you? Had a long journey?’

‘Not too far — from my sister’s at Little Bygrave. But I’m going for an interview tomorrow morning, so I want to get some sleep’

‘Interview? You’re going for a job, like? What do you do?’

Chaite, triumphant, resisted the urge to sit down again — after all, she’d won: ‘I’m in personnel management’

Not quite true, but good enough.

‘We’ve got a nephew in personnel management — haven’t we, Bill?’

‘Oh, aye ... you ave ...’

‘It’s a wonderful career ... [cut in Chaite] ... I expect I’ll see you at breakfast’

‘Oh, aye. Brake-fast. Eight o’clock sharp’

Was that a twinkle in his eye?

‘Good night’

‘Good night’

‘Good night’

‘You ought’ve asked er, Mildred’

‘I were gettin roun to it ... I expect that’s what makes her tired’

Up in the tranquility of her room, Chaite prepared herself for bed; arranged the pillows so that she could sit up comfortably; climbed in and started to work on the application form. She was quite proud of her handwriting now. There were no medical questions and she had no qualms about not elaborating under: ‘Is there anything else you’d like to tell us about yourself?’

She completed the form, read it through, put it away carefully, turned out the light and went to sleep almost immediately.

The next morning, Chaite put on her business suit — of dark material which looked as though she meant business without being institutional. She sorted out things she might need, and put them in her shoulder bag along with the application form. She went down to the dining room.

Brake-fast passed off quietly. Surreptitiously, Mildred and Bill watched Chaite eating, but didn’t get round to satisfying their curiosity.

Having ascertained that it would be OK to leave her things in her room since she had paid the deposit, Chaite went up and took one last look at herself in the mirror: ‘I’m going to get a job at WEL today’ she said firmly, looking intently at the girl in the business suit. Thank you, Emil Coué.

The walk still took about twenty mimutes. The gateman came out to greet her again.

‘Good morning. I’ve got an appointment with Mr Crowe at ten o’clock’

‘Very good, Miss. Come in here and sign my book for me, will you please?

While she did that, the gateman was consulting a form. Now he got out a dog-eared telephone list: ‘Let’s see ... you’re for Mr Crowe wasn’t it? Crowe ... Crowe ... Crowe ... Ere it is ... 2424’

He drew a telephone towards him: ‘What was that number again?’

‘2424’

But he was reconsulting his list: ‘Here it is — 2424’

He keyed it and waited: ‘Oh, hello. Main Gate ere. I’ve got a Miss ...?’

‘Slatterthwaite’

He rose from his chair and led the way outside; Boyhood of Raleigh again: ‘If you go across there, you’ll see a sign saying "Reception". That’s Reception. Go in there, and the receptionist will look after you’

‘Jinny. Thank you very much. See you later’

He returned to his hermitage.

Chaite walked across to the Manor, marvelling that, if they knew who you were it was far more difficult to get in than if you were an anonymous stranger. She made sure that she could pull the application form in its envelope out of her bag easily. No fumbling necessary; any ordinary person could fumble; if Chaite fumbled, she looked upon it as failure.

The Great Hall; Chaite received a wondrous smile from Jinny:

‘Morning Chaite — to rhyme with mighty’

‘Morning Jinny — to rhyme with spinney. I’ve come to see Ted Crowe’

‘I know. He’s on a call; I’ll tell him as soon as he comes off’

‘Thanks. ... [Chaite thinks] ... How long have you been here?’

‘Me? About six years — almost longer than anybody else — but then you have to know everybody when you’re on the board — mind you, we used to have the old sort like a piano you knit when I first came here, but now it’s just pressing buttons which is easier to use when you’re busy, which I’m not at the moment ...’

The switchboard emitted an effete noise; Jinny ministered unto it:

‘Your visitor’s here ... Right. ... [to Chaite] … Dawn’s coming through to get your form — would you like some coffee?’

Chaite felt saturated: ‘Not at the moment, thank you’

Dawn arrived, emerging from a corridor: ‘I’m Dawn Waters. You must be Chaite Slatterthwaite’

‘Yes ... [they shook hands] ... Here’s my form’

‘Right, I’ll just take it through to Ted Crowe. Have you been offered coffee?’

‘Yes, thanks. I don’t want anything at the moment’

Dawn disappeared down her corridor.

‘Would you like to sit over there?’

‘No thanks — I’ll have a look at the baronial pictures’

glass doors on the right at the end, along that corridor, and Ted Crowe’ll meet you there. See you later — and good luck’

‘Yes. Right. Thanks’

Chaite set off up the corridor and through the doors, her heart pounding; she knew that Jinny’s thoughts were following her. She wondered if Jinny always talked like that, breathless and incessant.

The corridor was very long, with anonymous doors opening off it; it was lit only by daylight filtering through high windows above the partitions from what she supposed must be offices on either side.

Chaite was suddenly oppressed by the hemmed in, déjà vu feeling that long corridors gave her. She tried to capture the feeling, stopping and leaning against the wall, closing her eyes, trying to recall why it happened; what archetypal corridor had initiated the reaction.

She heard a voice: ‘Miss Slatterthwaite?’

‘Yes’

It was Ted Crowe; they shook hands as he introduced himself.

‘Come through here’

He ushered her into an office which could hardly have been more different from what she might have imagined lay behind those anonymous partitions. It was decorated in greens and browns — botanical rather than institutional — and wherever there was a flat surface, there was a plant. Chaite had never seen so many plants outside a display greenhouse — they were on the filing cabinets, on the desk, on tables, on the window sill, on the floor.

She stood, lost in wonder, love and praise: ‘What a magnificent Euphorbia splendens!’

Ted beamed. It was the signal for a lecture, where this plant had come from, how this one had grown, how they were fed and watered:

‘... but do sit down. Would you like a coffee?’

Chaite was now ready: ‘Thank you’

Ted, sitting at his desk, picked up the phone masterfully and keyed four digits. A connected phone could be heard to ring not far away. Apart from that, nothing happened. Chaite knew that he was going to peer, cross and puzzled, into the mouthpiece. He did. He tried again. Nothing still happened. He replaced the receiver, wilting, a strong specimen of Homo technologicus reduced by its very creation. Chaite affected not to notice.

‘Oh well ... [Ted resignedly] ... I’ll go and get it myself. How do you like it? It all comes out of a machine, I’m afraid’

‘Yes, I should think so. Have a look at this — I got it last week on the market’

He passed a heavy book to Chaite — a Victorian natural history. It was the moment of truth; she couldn’t manage it it in her right hand, and had to bring her left arm into play.

‘Oh!’ gulped Ted. He went for the coffee. Chaite composed herself and admired the book, wondering what was going to happen next. Ted returned: ‘I didn’t know about your arm’

‘How could you have done?’

‘Jinny didn’t mention it. Dawn didn’t mention it’

‘A lot of people don’t notice. It doesn’t make a lot of difference to me ... [not quite true] ... Anyway, would you have not interviewed me if you had known?’

She gave him the chance to respond.

‘Of course. Your form’s very impressive — er — your application form, that is’

‘Well, I can assure you that my present job ... the job I’ve just left ... has been a wonderful training — I think I’ve got the qualities you need ... and I’d be very willing to come for a trial period so that we can get to know each other ... You know, I want this job very much ... [am I selling myself too hard?] ... ’

‘I can see that. If you’re as good an emissary for WEL as you are for yourself, we should get on all right ... But perhaps I’d better interview you, since that’s what you’ve come for’

And so Ted turned to Chaite’s application form and the interview proceeded in a more conventional manner — school ... university ... job experience ...

‘And you can type?’

‘Yes ... I use — used — a word processor in my previous job. To make up all the catalogue entries. I could take a typing test if you like ...’

‘If you say you can do it, I’ll believe you. I should think you can type better than a lot of people with — ah — two hands ... [Chaite forebore to comment on his assumption] ... When can you start?’

‘You’re offering me a job? What about salary, holidays, things like that? I need to know before I can accept ... or not ...’

Ted knew that Chaite knew that she was going to take the job anyway. He pulled out a folder; passed her some sheets of paper: ‘Here you are. That’s the contract. How long do you want to think about it?’

that, to Ted, she seemed heaven sent — for he had supported Bob Wilkinson’s unusual advert and, until her call, it had seemed doomed to failure. Not that he minded failure, but he had been so convinced that the advert was the right approach ... Anyway, she had offered herself for a trial period; it would cost him another few hundred at least to get someone else as competent sitting there. Just because there was unemployment, it didn’t mean that the recruitment exercise was cheaper — or easier.

‘When do you want me to start?’

‘How about next Monday?’

‘WOW! Suits me fine’

‘Right; I’ll write. Come and meet a few people ... if you’ve got time’

So Chaite had signed a confidentiality agreement, and gone on her first tour of WEL, and been initiated into some of its secrets. The tour ended. Ted showed her out through a side door, so she had no chance to say good bye to Jinny. She could go to reception again ... but when she looked in, Jinny was no longer there, so she made her way back to the B&B on cloud nine.

How she had landed the job, she was not sure. She could not know that, as far as WEL was concerned at least, Robert Townsend — he of Up the Organisation fame — had come back into fashion. Bob Wilkinson, founder and chairman, had suggested to the management (or leadership) team that they should read (or re-read) the book to see if there was any wisdom which they could apply; thus had the concept of the WEL People Person emerged:

evolved the system (such as it was) that Chaite was picking up. Ted had three criteria:

• Did the candidate have the technical knowledge needed to fill the vacancy?

• Did it seem as if the candidate would be able to grow with the company and take responsibility?

• Did the candidate present him or herself well and get on easily with people — particularly putative colleagues?

Balancing a number of assessments of these criteria had enabled WEL to make some good choices; now the system needed formalising and organising, and Ted had no doubt that Chaite was the person to do it — according to his criteria.

After he had made his decision, and Chaite had floated on her way, he had spoken to a few of the people they’d stopped to chat with on the Grand Tour. All were pleased to hear that Chaite was joining. None appeared to have noticed anything untoward about her.

As she approached Church Lane, Chaite started to work out ways of opening the front door — but was saved by Mrs Taylor approaching from the other direction with bags full of shopping.

‘I’ve got the job ... [damned if I’m going to let her see how pleased I am] ... so I’ll be staying the night. I won’t be in till later — going to see a friend’

‘Very well. Don’t be too late — I go to bed about eleven o’clock myself’

‘[So you’ll be able to let me in] ... Oh, I should be back before then. See you later’

Chaite made her way to the Market Square and back to Twiney Family Newsagent. She reflected that as time went on she would know every nook and cranny; every jigger, jowler, ginnel, twitten or snicket; every place where one could slip through from one street to another, find a parking place, eat well and economically.

‘Hello, dear. Back again? Find what you were looking for? How can we help you this time?’

‘I’ve got the job I went for ... at WEL — so I’m looking for somewhere to stay. I thought you’d be able to help’

‘Job is it? Up the Lectric? That’s nice’

‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? Do you know anywhere?’

‘Oh yes. there’s some cards in the window, though I think they’re mostly the other way round’

‘Do you mean I have to look at them from the inside?’

Twiney cackled.

‘No the other way round — people looking for rooms, not rooms looking for people, as you might say. Or you could buy the Telegraph ... [she pushed one towards Chaite, and scooped up 20p in exchange] ... Or you could try opposite at Primrose Cottage. That’s Mrs Primrose. She often takes people in’ How ambiguous, thought Chaite:

‘I’ll go and see if she wants to take me in. Thank you very much. I expect I’ll see you again’

‘I expect so, dear. They all do’

Chaite emerged into a world that now seemed unreal compared with Twiney’s. The market was beginning to wind down. She looked for opposite, and there it was — Primrose Cottage. Why hadn’t some greedy developer got his mitts on it long ago? Thankful that he (for it would hardly be a she would it?) hadn’t, she set about the task of finding the way in. There was a notice hanging on the railings: ‘Go down to basement door and knock’.

Chaite picked her way down the unfamiliar stone steps, wondering if time would be when she would be running up and down them in all weathers without difficulty — in the dark, even.

There was the basement door, nestling under the steps leading up to the front door. It was wonderfully cool. And damp — ferns grew out of the wall. Chaite knocked. She had expected to wait, perhaps even knock again, but the door opened almost at once. Did Twiney have a grapevine? Or a secret tunnel?

‘Good evening. Mrs Primrose? I’m Chaite Slatterthwaite and I’ve just

got a job up the Lectric — so I’m looking for a room. They thought over at Twiney’s that you might be able to help’

She switched into what she hoped was the vernacular, watching Mrs Primrose’s expression: ‘The tall lady’s stern grey face broke into a charming smile’ thought Chaite to herself — my God, that’s a real old Sylvie Krin sentence, if ever I framed one.

Are there any doors that the name of the Lectric won’t open in Foxworth?

‘Thanks’

Tall Mrs Primrose was pale blue and grey from top to toe. The basement was surprisingly spacious, full of furniture and ornaments — mainly Victorian. It made something to do, dusting everything whether it needed it or not, like painting the Forth Bridge. Chaite was in her element — indeed she recognised some of the pieces as having passed through her saleroom at Sellis’s. She was able to launch into instant conversation; Mrs Primrose was clearly a collector rather than an inheritrix. After half an hour or so, during which they had drunk a delicious pot of tea without stopping for any of the pleasantries of sugarwork or milkplay, Mrs Primrose suddenly stopped: ‘You’re the girl with one arm from Sellis & Toker’

Wincing at the name, Chaite admitted that she was.

‘You look different in that get-up’

‘I often wore this sort of thing in the office. Oh ... I used to wear a floral overall if I was helping Charlie with the lots’

‘What are you doing up the Lectric, then? ... [Mrs Primrose normally calls it WEL, but thinks she’s pleasing Chaite; thus can myths spread] ... You were looking for a room?’

‘Yes. they said in Twiney’s ...’

‘Well, you’re in luck. Mr Mason’s already moved out, so we’ll be able to talk about antiques. Come and see’

Chaite didn’t feel she’d been given much of a chance, and wondered how much antique talk would be required; interesting as it was, there were other topics up for grabs, and she wasn’t sure that Mrs Primrose could sustain them.

She suddenly felt some unaccustomed alarm at the fact that there appeared to be no television in the Primrose sitting room. They climbed the narrow stair from the basement to the ground floor, and were confronted by a stripped pine door; a brass card-holder announced: ‘E Mason’. Mrs Primrose knocked, more from habit than expectation. There was no reply. She got out a key and led the way in.

Primrose now threw open; from a small vestibule there was the kitchen to the right; to the left, stairs leading up. Chaite noted with secret approval that none of the doors except the entrance had handles; all were fitted with ball catches. She followed Mrs Primrose up the stairs to a bedroom containing a not-quite-double bed, built-in wardrobe, and a view over the Market Square from an even higher vantage point. Opening off the bedroom was another door to an enormous bathroom equipped with everything anyone might ever want in a bathroom, including an exercise bicycle.

So far, Chaite had said nothing. She was overwhelmed:

‘How much of this belongs to Mr Mason?’

‘Nothing. He’s gone. That’s my exercise bicycle — but I don’t use it. Just having it makes me feel better. Do you ride?’

Chaite laughed: ‘Exercise bicycles, yes. Horses no. I can’t believe that I can possibly afford to live here. How much are you asking?’

‘Thirty-eight pounds a week’

‘WHAT?’

‘I could come down a bit if that’s too much’

‘No ... no ... I thought it was very reasonable. I’d love to take it’

Chaite suddenly became conscious of being in someone else’s house — stupid, she told herself, since she was about to take it on. She led the way downstairs, entering the kitchen for the first time, pulling open cupboards from that obscure impulse to which we are all liable to succumb — perhaps in the hope that some arcane secret will be revealed — and turning on taps.

Satisfied that everything worked — and quite prepared to accept anything that didn’t on the grounds that it could be fixed — Chaite returned to the basement, Mrs Primrose following her.

She got out her chequebook: ‘A month’s rent in advance?’

‘Don’t worry about that, dear, and don’t be afraid that I’ll let it to anyone else — you’re Meant; the cards said so’

Chaite asked no questions, but felt Meant. She prepared to go: ‘May I move in tomorrow?’

‘Of course you can. I’ll be in all day ... I’ll tell you what — here’s your key. You can come and go as you please’

‘Thanks ever so much. I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow, then’

She took her leave, wondering why she attracted — deserved — so much good fortune.

She was part of a new something — all on her own merits. ‘The girl who’s tired of Foxworth is tired of life’ she said to herself. She wondered where the cosmic catch was.

Bursting with her news, she found a phone box and telephoned Mercia. Then she returned to Ruskin House. She performed the door-opening sequence she’d been practising mentally; it worked. Mrs Taylor came bustling out of the innards: ‘You’re back early. You don’t want to eat, I hope’

‘No ... in fact, I’m very sorry, but I’ve just rung my sister ... I’ve got to get back to her ... family matters ... I’ll pay for the night’ [she pulls out three prepared fivers] ... that’s seventeen pounds with the deposit ... hope that’s OK’

Looking disdainful, Mrs Taylor accepted the notes in silence. Chaite smiled uncertainly: ‘Right ... I’ll just go and pack my things, and then I’ll be off’