of the real directors and the Business Unit Manager were waiting outside Miserable Mecklenburg’s office when Alan arrived.
“He’s on the phone to Brian,” said Peaches, for Alan’s benefit, “but he won’t be long.”
“Perhaps we should come back later,” said one of the directors.
“Yes, things don’t stop happening because we are being abolished,” said another.
“He does know you’re here,” said Peaches.
“In fact, I’m busier,” said a third director, “because we are being abolished.”
“If he wanted to reschedule, I’m sure he’d have told me,” said Peaches, as the branch head’s door opened.
“Sorry to have kept you all,” said Miserable. “Come in.”
The table seated eight, comfortably. Alan as the ninth, last and lowest ranking attendee, took one of the two vacant seats against the wall.
“Still no Lorrae?” asked Miserable, looking at Alan.
This might have been an opportunity for him to announce, in a jocular tone, that he was impersonating his absent leader. However, the events of the morning – topped off by the message about the staff freeze and the assault on Hemingway – disinclined him to make light of matters.
“She sends her apologies,” he lied.
“I think I’ll dispatch one of my minions to cover for me next week,” said one of the directors, in a voice just loud enough to be heard by the rest.
“Me, too,” said a second.
“Now, now,” said Miserable. “I think we’re aware that Lorrae hasn’t been herself. And it would be a pity, wouldn’t it, to deny her our empathy and compassion at this late stage in the piece?”
No one seemed much impressed by this plea.
“Or to be discarding our collective sense of purpose, unity and mutual respect.”
Alan had little doubt that this last line had been perfected in the course of repeated earlier use in the offices of the various disgraced ministers. The directors around the table looked to be unmoved by it.
“And I’m sure we all welcome Alan.”
Alan smiled and looked along the twin rows of attendees. No one smiled back.
“Now, I’ve been, as you probably know, on the phone to Brian, trying to get some understanding of what this staff freeze means for us and for our redeployment prospects … and I think it’s fair to say that at the moment, the situation isn’t exactly clear.”
“When do you think it will become clear?” asked one of the directors.
“I can’t honestly say,” said Miserable.
“If not clear, then what about, say, a bit limpid or pellucid?” asked a second director, straight-faced.
Miserable looked the enquirer in the eye, probably trying to discern whether the question was a joke or not. “I don’t think I’m currently in a position to speculate on a specific time when all will be certain,” he answered, seeming to give the enquirer the benefit of the doubt.
“If ‘clear’ is too hard to predict,” said a third director, getting into the spirit of things, “what about a date by which things might be intermittently opaque, assuming, of course, that “translucent’, ‘diaphanous’ and ‘see-through’ are all states too difficult to envisage.”
This enquiry confirmed Alan’s suspicion that any previous sense of propriety concomitant with courtesy, custom or a concern for promotion had been made superfluous by the prospect of redundancy.
“Are these serious questions?” said Miserable in his best Principal Media Adviser’s voice.
“Most certainly,” answered the initial enquirer. “I have people who want to know where they stand: long-term staff who’ll want to scale-up Christmas, if they are to be awash with redundancy cash, and short-term staff who will want to scale down, if they’re going to be at the dole office in the new year.”
“People need to have some idea of what the future holds for them,” said the second enquirer.
“And it isn’t just a matter,” said the third, “of whether they’ll be having chicken nuggets for Christmas lunch or—”
“— the whole turkey,” said a fourth.
The hybrid, nonsensical expression “chicken nuggets or the whole turkey” was repeated in approving tones around the table but Alan resisted the temptation to make a note of it in his workbook.
“I take all of that on board,” said Miserable. “And I want you to know that Brian and I are doing all we can to resolve matters. We certainly hope for some clarity by the end of the week or early next week.”
“Will that include finding out why we are being abolished in the first place?” said a heretofore silent director.
“I want an explanation as much as you do,” said Miserable.
“People need closure,” said the chicken nugget director. “They demand and deserve it.”
Alan wrote “All deserve closure” in his notebook, while wondering what people did to achieve a sense of finality in times before it had been identified, named and regarded as a right.
“Closure,” said Miserable. “Of course.” He wrote a note in his own workbook. “Now, before we each report on upcoming meetings and work in hand, there are a few matters I need to make brief mention of.”
Alan settled himself into his seat. Reference to a ‘brief mention’ was a sure sign that they were in for a long session.
“The first matter is one of some sensitivity and concerns an incident which some of you will know took place in the photocopy room last week.”
Around the table directors tried to disguise happy faces at the recollection of Quentin Quist being taught a thing or two about the gentlemanly arts by Azure Faraday, following a flagrant unsolicited bum fondle: him of hers while she was bending over to refill an empty paper tray.
“While neither of the individuals concerned has elected to take the matter further and no formal complaint has been made, Personnel arranged, last week, for one of the individuals to be temporarily transferred to another branch.”
“And good riddance, too,” said the whole turkey director. “The man is a disgrace.”
“Hear, hear,” said his chicken nugget equivalent.
Even the special projects director – who was usually silent at their meetings, lest he let slip something about the secret work he was engaged in – joined the murmurs of agreement. Quentin Quist had clearly made no friends in the weeks he’d insisted on attending directors’ meetings in Lorrae’s place.
“For my
