Just Another Day at the Office

DAY ONE

Have decided that life might as well mirror art. Though I’m not sure if my scribblings (the fact that, at least sometimes, it is on screen, and therefore legible still does not stop it being scribbling) qualify as art. 

     This is where I’m supposed to pretend this is a sudden brainwave that came to me in a dream. Well my response to that would be, as my little stepsister Morgan (we’re a complicated family) describes as dollops. Mind you, the little minx (who knows full well I worship the ground she walks on) is perfectly well aware that it’s not some childish mishearing but good old fashioned swearing with just a bit of a consonant shift. Though, precocious as she is for 9, I doubt she knows what a consonant shift is.

     Still, this isn’t supposed to be about Morgan, much as she’d love the thought whilst muttering whatever with an air of nonchalance that would put Sarah Bernhardt to shame.

     For quite a while I’ve been toying with the idea of telling a story in the form of a diary so I might as well practise what I preach. 

     Like most teenage girls I had a spell of pretty intense diary-keeping decades ago. The usual kind. How virtually everything was unfair from double maths, to not being allowed to go to the concert that everyone else was allowed to go to – they weren’t, of course! I was also convinced I was adopted, and much as I adored my parents, well, most of the time, fantasised about my real parents, who were glamorous and gifted and free-thinking. That carried on for longer than it does with many teenagers, but in the end I put aside such childish things, though even when I was sixteen it got my hopes up when someone said in passing that I bore a certain resemblance to a famous writer.

     I subsequently found out that the writer in question had died eighteen months before I was born, so that soon put paid to such notions. There’s such a thing as biology. 

     I have decided that my heroine will be called Carla. I like the name Carla. It’s more exotic than mine – which admittedly, when you’re called Ann without even an “E” – and LM Montgomery knew what she was talking about! – isn’t hard. Not to mention it being embarrassing for someone who’s left-leaning in politics and voted Remain being a namesake of Ms Widdecombe.  But it’s exotic without going to extremes. It’s not the sort of name that alienates people. 

     Carla keeps a diary.

     Carla is roughly my age and like me, works in an office, though not necessarily the same kind of office.

     This is going to stick to that old Creative Writing principle of writing what you know. Mind you I wonder about that at times. I can’t quite believe that CS Lewis knew what it was like to meet a faun who lived on the other side of the wardrobe, and then there was that wonderful book about Canada written by the person who never left their own apartment. Still, I’m not in the mood for creating fantastical words nor for doing too much research, so this time I’ll write what I know.

     But this is NOT going to be autobiographical. Totally fictitious. Which, of course, is also dollops. If you believe that business about the characters in a book bearing no resemblance whatsoever to anyone alive or dead then you still put a tooth that comes out under your pillow. That or you know one heck of a lot of people in the public domain. 

No, Carla is not me, nor I Carla.

     She will be tall, and I am below average height. She will have fair hair, and mine is dark; she will be a tea-drinker and I prefer coffee. I think I will let her share my weakness for mint choc chip ice cream, but everyone likes mint choc chip ice cream.

DAY TWO

     Funny sort of day at work. I don’t know why I’m stating it here when I know it perfectly well, but I work in the local Tourist Information Office. Still not sure where Carla will work. 

     Politicians are fond of talking about the “Third Way”. Well we have what I term the “Third Sort of Customer”. There are the nice ones, and they’re fine and also in the majority. There are the nasty ones who don’t appreciate a single thing and treat you like their servant. They’re a pain in the posterior but we don’t lose any sleep over them. Then there are the others. They’re by no means all clones, but a frequent “other” is the person who is scrupulously polite and grateful, indeed, to the point of embarrassment, but seem to labour under the impression that saying over and over “I don’t want to be any trouble, but….” means that they aren’t being any trouble. This is not so. 

     We had one of those with bells on this afternoon. A man in his fifties I’d say, though I’m not much good at guessing ages. Even though he wasn’t wearing a hat I had the feeling he was tipping it. He was wearing a tweed suit that had seen better days, but was clean, and had that pleasant, well, tweedy smell. 

     “I’m asking about Aniston Hall,” he said.

     Well, at first we thought he’d just mixed up a couple of names. Not far away there are stately homes called Annadale Hall and Coniston Hall. But no, he was quite insistent he had it right – and it was written down, complete with directions, in legible but minuscule handwriting. “If you could just have another look, not that I want to be any trouble,” he said. We just had another look. Then another. Finally I said I would take a photocopy of the directions and would look into it and if he would please come back tomorrow. He looked wounded and mildly offended, but tipped his non-existent hat again, and said, “Thank you, Carla.”

     I misheard, of course. He was really speaking to my colleague, and her name is Charlotte, which isn’t that different when you’re stressed and there’s traffic noise.

     It was still a funny sort of day.

DAY THREE

     It was our half-day closing today, though we stay open all day every weekday in the holiday season. To our relief the man in the tweed suit didn’t darken our door. Charlotte is one of those people who always lets you know if she’s seen you doing something surreptitiously. I can never make up my mind if I find that engagingly honest or decidedly irritating. Anyway, she saw me pick up the piece of paper with the photocopy of the directions on it. “You’re going to chase it up!” she said. 

     “Well it beats doing the vacuuming,” I said, though as I knew perfectly well, my using my afternoon off for housework was a fantasy in the Narnia league.

     “Wild goose chase, you know. Still, if you must, you might as well blow it up so you can read it.”

     It would have been sheer perversity not to follow up such a sensible suggestion because it hadn’t occurred to me.  So I blew it up.

     The initial directions weren’t a wild goose chase at all. They led me out of town and into what we nicknamed Heritage Territory. You know, where the drives are wider than the road and rather than car boot sales they have curio conventions. I knew that Annadale Hall was here – I’d had a spell as a tour guide there. And Mr Tweedy (as I’ve nicknamed him) had kindly – and very accurately – marked that. I was tempted to pull in and revisit old haunts but decided I wasn’t really in the mood for admiring Sevres Porcelain and Chippendale chairs. He had indicated a telephone box two miles to the south of Annadale Hall – and it was, indeed, there – one of the old-fashioned, red kind. Well, even though phone boxes are much rarer than they used to be, they’re not (yet!) into eye-popping weird territory. So the fact it was there didn’t make me slam on the brakes in a state of shock the way you see in the movies. I turned down the lane indicated, which was winding and pot-hole scarred but no more than a lot of the so-called major roads round here. I had the vague niggling worry that I might be on private property, and this was heightened when a gentleman stopped me and asked in the polite manner of a parking enforcer who won’t be inclined to be lenient about your fine “May I ask your name, Miss?”

     “I’m headed for Aniston Hall,” I told him. Of course I hadn’t answered the question. But someone in military uniform came up to him and exchanged a few words, and then I was let through, and carried on down the lane to – well – to Aniston Hall!

DAY FOUR

     I meant to carry on last night but my mind was whirring round and anyway I had all kinds of official stuff to go through. Aniston Hall wasn’t one of the most impressive of Stately Homes. Not on the surface. It was almost as if it were determined to keep itself to itself with its soft grey bricks and lines that were clean without being sharp. Instinct told me that even if it was, or had been, home to collections of porcelain and chairs, admiring them, or showing them to others, wasn’t the reason I was there. 

     I had the curious sensation of knowing and not knowing at the same time. Maisie, who’s my room-mate, said just the same thing of her own volition. I’m not wild about having a room-mate, but also knew better than to argue with Captain Morton. With Ma’am. And I suppose if I must have a room-mate, I could do worse than Maisie. She’s chatty but also knows when to shut up and at least she doesn’t snore. “I know. It all seems unreal, doesn’t it? It did to me at first and still does sometimes, but you just have to get on with it and concentrate on what you’re doing. Like all of us, they’ll have chosen you for a reason and will have had their eyes on you. Which are you? A crossword genius or a demon chess player?”

     “Well – neither –“ I said, and I like to think she thought it was false modesty. It wasn’t. Oh, I’m pretty good at crosswords, and a passable chess player, but wouldn’t describe myself as wonderful at either. 

     “Don’t do yourself down, Carla. Though given your name I suppose you speak German,” there was not the faintest hint of hostility in her voice. She laughed – she has a rather nice laugh, a Goldilocks laugh, neither a guffaw nor a titter – and put a hand on my arm. “It’s fine, you know. We don’t blame the regular people, not people like you, and never have. Elfriede was one of the best workers and most decent people I’ve ever known. Darned pretty, too, though she wasn’t a bit vain. Old Tweedy certainly didn’t think so. Now he’s only upped and married her, which is cutting off his nose to spite his face, as married women aren’t supposed to work here – ruddy silly rule, I reckon!”

     “Er – Old Tweedy?” I asked.

     “The head honcho, for all Ma’am likes to think she is – and I reckon she fancied him, too, and is still sulking about it. Proper name Major Dalkeith. But he’s a bit of a rebel and likes to wear his tweed suits rather than military uniform. And he’s had a wigging for it from his aboves more than once.”

     I was relieved to discover that Aniston Hall does have modern sanitation and electricity. Well, I say modern but – the funny thing is, I’ve got used to it. Charlotte has a saying that you can get used to anything.

     I’m having more of those contradictory feelings. I miss Charlotte something rotten even though she could get on my nerves, and I daresay I could get on hers, and yet at the same time I find it hard to see her face in my mind’s eye. Maisie reminds me of her, though. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.

DAY FIVE

Though the room I share with Maisie is comfortable enough, at first I was disappointed to discover that there wasn’t a desk or even a chair in it – just the two beds and the wash-stand. But to my relief, we do have access to what she calls the Writing Room. In fact, she’s not the only one who calls it that – there’s even a brass plaque outside the door that says that. And it’s not to be confused with the library which is a separate room altogether. There’s no rule against reading in the writing room, or writing letters in the library, and so far as I know, even Ma’am has never tried to enforce or instigate one, but somehow you just don’t. I like the writing room, even though at the moment it’s a bit shabby and today there was a pile of luggage in it, and the windows filtered the sunlight – it was a lovely day – through a patina of dust. It has huge oak panels that could certainly do with a polishing, but I’ve already learnt that it’s best-advised not to say that or someone might suggest I’m the one to do it. I know from my own days as a tour guide (we were short-staffed and got roped into things!) that while beeswax smells glorious and it can be therapeutic for a while, attacking one of those panels would leave me in dire need of some muscle-rub and Ma’am would probably, whilst harrumphing at the feebleness of girls nowadays, would suggest camphor oil. That is her cure for everything. 

     This is the first time I’ve had to myself all day. Not that I’m alone in the Writing Room, but though there’s no code of silence here (the library is another matter) there’s an unwritten rule that unless there’s some pressing reason not to, we leave each other to get on with our letters or journals or whatever. Whatever. When I wrote that I had a sudden mental image of a little girl with a cheeky smile and long ginger braids, wrapping me round her little finger. I felt myself tearing up and nearly cried out “Morgan”! then realised, just in time, that the others would think I were wishing them good morning in German, and apart from anything else, it’s evening.

     Maisie has warned me that I must not fall into the trap of thinking that this work is always glamorous and fascinating. “Because if you did, you’d be disappointed. I worked in an accountant’s office before the War, and don’t feel compelled to say, oh, that must be fascinating, because it wasn’t. But it sometimes was compared to this. Still,” she broke off. I’ve noticed that from time to time a look comes into her eyes, and her bluff expression fades and it’s as if she’s looking at some horizon only she can see, “It’s worth more. It matters more. I keep reminding myself of that.” She has a photo of a man with a rather grave, sweet expression in RAF uniform taped to her locker. She’ll tell me about him when she’s ready. But I have this feeling, and oh God, I hope I’m wrong, that it’s already too late for a happy ending.

     I had to break off. Ma’am came into the room, and we all dutifully jumped to our feet. To her credit she told us to sit down and not stand on ceremony at once. I have never seen her on parade, but fancy she is very good at marching. Though in fact she was quite light on her feet I still could have sworn I heard a military band accompanying her progress. Again, credit where it’s due. She did not intrude into anyone’s personal correspondence nor appear to think she had any right to. She’s not such a bad old stick after all, though I have to admit I could quite see why Tweedy preferred Elfriede (I’ve seen a photo of her Maisie showed me – well, a group photo – and she’s lovely) – Ma’am is far from ugly, but she’s the first person of either gender I’ve ever seen who really does remind me of a horse. Quite a handsome horse. “Not writing letters, then, Peterson,” she said to me.

     “No, Ma’am. It’s my journal.”

     “I keep meaning to keep one of those. Don’t have the way with words, somehow. Nor the patience. I gather you’re doing well. I have good reports of you.”

     “I try my best, Ma’am.”

     “You keep on with that journal, Carla,” her use of my forename caught my attention. “Who knows – it may be a valuable document some day, though I suppose some of it is personal. I reckon there’ll be a time when we’re allowed to talk about what’s going on here, perhaps when you’re an old lady. “ She broke off and cleared her throat. “But none of that glamorising and romanticising, mind, girl. When it comes down to it, it’s just an office.”

     I said I would set my story in an office ……