pounds is a candidate requirement, is it?’
‘It seemed the right thing to do at the time,’ said Arthur and Gwyneth simultaneously. Then they looked at each other.
Sir Eglamore studied his papers for what seemed like a month. Then he looked at them from under his craggy eyebrows.
‘Well, I don’t approve … but I don’t know how we can back out now. I’ve told all my friends at the – well, yes, you don’t need to know about that.’ He plumped up the papers on his desk, slightly embarrassed. ‘Of course, it won’t be happening again, you understand? Or even anything like it. I don’t know what all this modern fuss is with photocopiers, anyway. Just get a couple of the boys to copy them out by hand. Keeps them quiet and out of mischief.’
Arthur could have wept with relief. ‘I’ll try and stay away from all heavy office equipment, sir.’
‘I’m going to put someone in place to watch out for you. In fact, my nephew is looking for a job. He can come and cast an eye over your figures, what?’
He looked rather dodgily at Gwyneth for a second, who effortlessly ignored him. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll send Rafe along to you. Heard he’s the best man for the job, what.’ He turned to his PA. ‘Right, right, next? And do hurry it along – it’s venison for lunch.’
‘Rafe? Who the hell is Rafe?’ said Arthur, once they’d got back to his office. ‘It sounds like Sir Eglamore’s helping out the local orphanage! Who asked him to interfere, anyway?’
Gwyneth shrugged. ‘No clue,’ she said. ‘Presumably one of Sir Bufton Tufton’s useless inbred Cyclops children.’
‘Yeah,’ said Arthur. ‘He’ll be a complete burden. And anyway …’ He knew this much from countless boring personnel conference evenings with Fay. ‘We can’t just take someone on. We have to advertise it and then interview all the one-legged people who apply or something.’
‘No, really? God, yeah. I forget this is a public service organization.’
‘That’s cos we hate serving the public and what we do is actually invisible.’
‘And what’s he going to do?’
Arthur scratched his head. ‘Well, now we’ve got our money back, I’m sure we’ll find something … yes?’
Marcus put his head round the crack in the door. ‘It’s here!’ he said excitedly.
‘What?’
‘What are we waiting for?’ said Gwyneth.
‘I don’t know – what’s up, Marcus? Have they just announced that they want all the accounting in base thirteen?’
‘No, no, look.’
He entered the room, and brought out from behind his back a long roll of paper. ‘The mighty scroll,’ he announced with some reverence and placed it in front of them on the table.
‘The what?’ said Arthur and Gwyneth, simultaneously.
Marcus looked around. ‘Um, I mean the official European application form.’ He looked slightly embarrassed. ‘It just came by fax. So I just thought it would be – you know, more fun – if I delivered it in the form of a mighty scroll.’
‘It’s okay.’ Arthur picked up the scroll and unrolled it flat. It covered the entire length of the table and dropped onto the floor. ‘We already know your job is boring.’
Gwyneth looked over his shoulder. ‘Good God, it’s immense.’
‘That’s because it’s in fifteen different languages.’
‘God, so it is. Look, it’s in Welsh! Who on earth thinks Swansea would be made European City of Culture?’
‘I’m from Wales,’ said Gwyneth.
‘Most beautiful countryside in the world, isn’t it?’ said Arthur hurriedly.
‘Wow, this goes to the European Parliament,’ said Marcus, reading the small print.
‘That’s the least exciting parliament ever, though,’ said Arthur. ‘It’s like the Saturday superstore of parliaments.’
‘This is going to take a lot of serious work, even just in English,’ said Gwyneth, looking worriedly at it.
‘I don’t think putting porn plugs in park benches is going to pass for the required “Three Major Cultural Events”, do you?’
‘Just the one,’ said Marcus.
‘No, none.’
Marcus looked at it again. ‘Ooh, look, we have to support and develop creative work, which is an essential element in any cultural policy. Like, Sven’s expenses.’
‘Is that someone taking our name in vain?’ asked Sven, walking in eating a hot dog with Sandwiches at his heels.
‘Can’t you knock?’ said Arthur, still sitting slumped in his chair.
‘Cool down, el power-crazed Nazio.’
Sandwiches, meanwhile, had scrambled in ungainly fashion onto the meeting table and was clacking across it, looking for custard cream traces.
‘You should get that dog’s toenails trimmed,’ observed Gwyneth.
‘What? What?’ Arthur turned round to look at her. ‘Is that really your first reaction? Maybe you should have been a vet. Why didn’t you say, you should get that dog out of the office – or, you shouldn’t let your dog onto other people’s tables …’
‘Or, you shouldn’t let your dog eat the mighty scroll,’ said Marcus in horror, staring at where Sandwiches was happily tearing away at the edges. Drool advanced down the paper.
‘Nooo!’ Arthur lunged for it, causing Sandwiches to slide backwards across the polished wood and disappear, ears last, over the end, giving an anguished yelp.
Sven rushed to his aid and Sandwiches – wounded only in pride – hid his head in Sven’s meaty armpit. Rather him than me, Arthur found himself thinking.
‘Don’t shout at Sandwiches,’ said Sven.
‘I’m sorry, but I reserve the right to shout at anyone who eats the proposal guidelines,’ said Arthur.
‘It was only that we have to “exploit the historic heritage, urban architecture and … something about life in the city”,’ said Gwyneth, unravelling the slobbery bundle. ‘And by the way, how come I’ve only been here a fortnight and I’ve already become an expert in dog kablooie?’
Marcus and Sven started an argument about expenses as Gwyneth and Arthur bickered over who was going to pick up the scroll, and it took them a while to notice the shadow in the doorway.
The man standing there nearly filled the doorway. Tall and fine-boned, with a mop of long, curly blond hair, he looked, as the light fell upon him, like a
