dissatisfaction with any outcome, there was organisational advantage in the person responsible having left the department.
He was also aware that he had at his disposal credible excuses not to be involved, including his final committee meeting for the year, the need to devise and deliver the blitzkrieg filing workshops, and the need to prepare hand-over materials for whoever was being given custody of his committee. And his capacity to complete even these tasks would be constrained if industrial action was taken by clerical union members, or if he was caught up in an investigation of the toilet incident.
He knew, too, that most of his colleagues would have felt no obligation to work on a fiendishly complex issue, once they’d been earmarked for redundancy. They’d have claimed to owe their employer nothing or would have concluded that, if they weren’t skilled, experienced and talented enough to be kept in harness, they obviously weren’t skilled, experienced and talented enough to take on an intractable problem.
But Alan still harboured hope for a stay of vocational execution and briefly imagined himself presenting an ingenious proposal to Gulliver that not only solved the Friday amenities room problem but earned him a retrenchment reprieve and assorted honours: perhaps a departmental scholarship or speaking invitations from professional bodies or even a public service medal or two.
“I’ll do my best with it,” he said.
“Good,” said Gulliver. “But in secret.”
This last requirement made Alan even more keen to take on the task.
“Any preliminary brainwaves?” Gulliver enquired.
“Merit selection would be first on my list.”
“Anything else?”
Alan was a bit hard pressed for more brilliant ideas off the top of his head. “I’d also consider slotting in an activity that is more germane to the role and functions of the department,” he answered, too brightly. “Something to fill the Friday spot and thereby make the problem go away.”
“Such as?” asked Gulliver, puzzled.
“Perhaps a weekly meeting of departmental history enthusiasts.”
“People interested in the history of the department, rather than history enthusiasts on staff?”
“Yes,” said Alan, beaming.
“Do you think you’ll be able to drum up the necessary 20 members?”
“You don’t think people would find the subject fascinating?”
“I have my doubts.”
“Then what about a study group, rather than a recreational club, minimum numbers unnecessary: Great Achievements in Public Administration. That’s bound to be popular.”
“Can you think of any?’
“Any?
“Any great achievements?”
Alan could recall quite a few but, sensing a want of enthusiasm on Gulliver’s part, pressed on with an alternative.
“Then, something a bit meatier like great moments in the history of record keeping.”
“Even if you can find someone who’s interested in the subject, it seems unlikely, doesn’t it, that you’d have enough material to take you past Easter.”
Alan was undeterred. “Or public administration through the ages, commencing with the Sumerians. By Easter we’d be barely into the post-classical period.”
“Well, give the problem some thought,” said Gulliver, seemingly unconvinced by any of Alan’s suggestions, “and report back to me by the end of the week.”
They stood up and the Alan took receipt of the file.
“I know you’re the man for this,” said the first assistant secretary.
For the third time that day, Alan’s chest swelled with pride, even though he knew, instinctively, that flattery was no antidote to the poisoned chalice, and that praise from someone unwilling to save his career was probably no praise at all.
Chapter 8
In the Committee Support bay, the Christmas lights were on and O’Kane was doing single-handed push-ups on the floor. Hemingway was eating a pastry while reading a fashion magazine. Morton was preparing to leave for lunch. It was 12:25.
“You survived section heads’, then,” said O’Kane, changing hands.
“I’ve been up with Brian,” said Alan.
“Are you any the wiser?” Morton enquired.
“I gather everybody is still in the dark,” said Alan, regretting his words as soon as they were out. They seemed to be both subversive and likely to encourage one of Morton’s favourite metaphorical excursions on the shared experience of public servants and edible fungi. “But there seems to be no suggestion that the committee meeting shouldn’t go ahead.”
“One last chance for us to influence affairs of state,” said Morton, “before we fade away and committee members get their “services no longer required” letters.”
“No one seems to be talking about dissolving the committee,’ said Alan.
“So, they’ll make us all redundant,” said O’Kane, ascending on his left arm, “even though the committee will continue.”
“And how did you go with the social committee?” Alan asked Morton.
“Low scores for futility and boredom – I rated both of them at just 2 – but there was quite a bit of nastiness and finger pointing, so I gave it an overall score of 5.”
“… making it one of your better meetings of the year,” said Trevithick.
“And the party arrangements, themselves?” Alan asked.
“All good re solids and pay-as-consumed beverages,” Morton replied, “but not so good with the secret Santa.”
“How so?” asked Alan.
“Up by a single vote, with the meeting dividing strictly along gender lines: women unanimously in favour, men unanimously against.”
“And the third-party livestock?”
“In the final vote, narrowly avoided.”
Alan breathed a sigh of relief. “That only leaves the sharp objects, the personal hygiene products and so forth.”
“Also very close, but regrettably, lost again by a single vote.”
“How unfortunate,” Alan said.
“The women were determined to have their moment of Christmas danger,” said Morton.
For the second time that day, Alan recalled the humiliation of “Rhonda the Reliever”.
