looked at the litter on his desk and wondered how he had come to be manacled to these invoices, how many years he had spent transferring days from the in-tray to the out-tray. It would be some time yet before he could go home, but the thought was merely a reflex, no longer carried any deep regret. Marie would be waiting there with a detailed report of how much hoovering she had done today and what the Brussels sprouts cost. Jennifer would be doing her usual impersonation of a foundling princess who can’t understand how she has come to be unloaded on such a crass family and Robert, fruit of his loins and heir to his ulcers, would be playing songs in which the lyrics only surfaced intermittently and incomprehensibly.
His mind dwelt on the still sheen of silence from the factory, played with it briefly, chased it with fancies. The men and women would be packing up, raucous and ribald. There would be jocular assignations, male threats of dire sexual damage to be done and female mockery of the capacity to carry out the threats. There would be visits to the pub by some before they went home. There would be noisy family meals, clean clothes donned, nights out. There would be unexpected things to happen. For him there were more invoices, roast beef since it was Friday, and News at Ten.
Sally Galbraith knocked at the door and looked in. She waited until his attention returned from contemplation of his own headstone. Her breasts were neatly framed in the doorway, an idyllic scene observed from an express train.
‘It’s Duncan MacFarlane again,’ she said.
‘Just now, Sally?’
‘Third time today, Mr Watson.’ Her expression was a plea on behalf of Duncan. Bert Watson could understand it. He liked Duncan too. Most people did. ‘And it’s the fourth day this week he’s asked to see you.’
‘You know what it’s about?’
‘Personal. But it must be important.’
‘I give in,’ Bert Watson said and nodded.
He was working on a form when Duncan came in. It was a few moments before he glanced up and saw Duncan standing there, awkwardly. Duncan must have been about twenty but he wore his years lightly. Bert Watson knew that Duncan’s father was dead and that he lived with his mother. He wondered if that early bereavement was what had given Duncan his aura of unselfconscious vulnerability, made women want to mother him and men want to give him fatherly advice.
‘Have a seat, Duncan. With you in a minute.’
The invoice couldn’t be right. How did two dozen dresses, which were the most expensive item they had, cost less than two dozen women’s sweaters?
‘Yes, Duncan. What can I do for ye?’
‘What it is, Mr Watson,’ Duncan said. ‘Ah’d like a loan of five hundred pounds and three months’ leave of absence.’
Perhaps it was the number of items that was wrong. It depended which one of those two entries was right, if either.
‘Yes, Duncan. You were saying?’
‘Ah’d like a loan of five hundred pounds and three months’ leave of absence.’
The cost of the sweaters was correct. Bert Watson looked up. Duncan’s blue eyes were staring at him steadily. Their quiet patience defied Bert Watson to hear what he had heard. He glanced at his watch, not sure whether he was checking the hour or the date or the fact that time still functioned.
‘I can’t have heard what I thought I heard, Duncan,’ he said. ‘Come again.’
‘I was just wondering,’ Duncan said. He paused and chewed his lip. ‘If I could have a loan of four hundred pounds and three months’ leave of absence.’
Bert Watson looked at the Pirelli calendar on his wall. Samantha, her see-through blouse wet from the sea, appeared to be pouting more outrageously than ever. She couldn’t believe Duncan either. It occurred irrelevantly to Bert Watson that she was dressed very inappropriately for March.
‘Four hundred pounds?’ Bert Watson said, as if by interviewing the incredible you could get it to make sense. ‘I thought you said five hundred pounds at first.’
‘Well, yes. Ah did.’
‘What made you change your mind, then?’
‘Well, it’s maybe a bit much,’ Duncan said.
‘That’s certainly one way of looking at it,’ Bert Watson said.
‘Mind you,’ Duncan said with the air of a man anxious that the scale of his needs shouldn’t be underestimated. ‘That’s really what Ah need. Five hundred pounds is just the bare minimum. But Ah would settle for four hundred. Ah mean, Ah can understand your situation as well.’
‘Thanks, Duncan.’
Both sat letting the generosity of Duncan’s self-denial sink in. Bert Watson’s eyes strayed towards Samantha again, as they often did.
‘So,’ he said, looking back at Duncan and finding him not much less exotic than Samantha. ‘Let’s see. You want four hundred pounds. Right? You’re sure that’s the final figure?’ Duncan hesitated briefly before nodding. ‘Four hundred then. And you also want three months’ leave of absence. There’s nothing you’d like to add to that? Like a magnum of champagne?’
Duncan smiled at the preposterousness of Bert Watson’s suggestion.
‘Duncan,’ Bert Watson said. ‘I hope you won’t think me nosey or carping. But who’s supposed to give you this money? I mean, you’re asking me to give you four hundred pounds?’
‘Well, Ah was thinkin’ of the firm, really. Through you, like. You’re the head man. Ah mean, Ah’ve worked here since Ah left the school.’
‘What age are you now, Duncan?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Uh-huh. It’s a wee bit early for a golden handshake, is it not?’
Duncan was mildly outraged.
‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Nothin’ like that. Ah said “a loan”.’
‘So you did, right enough.’
‘Ah would pay it back, obviously.’
‘How?’
‘Off ma wages, like. When Ah come back to work.’
‘Duncan. That’s a bit of money. You would just about make it before your pension’s due.’
‘Ah’ve worked it out,’ Duncan said. ‘Say, a tenner a week. Do it inside a year.’
‘Uh-huh. As long as the malnutrition doesn’t keep you off your work.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Duncan, are you in trouble?’
Duncan was mystified.
‘Trouble?’
‘Why do you need this money and the leave
