Free Excellent Women by Barbara Pym Page B

Square and then into an anonymous-looking entrance in a back street somewhere beyond it.
    Grey-looking men like William, some even greyer, were hurrying in. He greeted one or two of them; they seemed to have double-barrelled names like Calverley-Hibbert and Radcliffe-Forde, but they did not look any the less grey for all that.
    ‘Here we are!’ William flung open a door with his name on it and I went in. Two elderly grey men were sitting at a table, one with a bag of sweets which he hastily put away into a drawer, the other with a card-index which he naturally did not attempt to conceal. William did not acknowledge them in any way nor did they take any notice of him. He sat down at an enormous desk in the centre of the room, which had two telephones on it and a line of wire baskets, importantly labelled and stacked with files. I had no very clear idea of what it was that he did.
    ‘This is a nice room,’ I said, going to the window, ‘and what a lovely desk you have.’ I felt embarrassed at the presence of the grey men and did not quite know what to say. But suddenly a rattling sound, as if a trolley was being wheeled along the corridor, was heard and the two men leaped up, each carrying a china mug.
    ‘Oh, excuse me,’ said William, leaping up too and taking a china mug from a drawer in his desk, ‘I think I hear the tea.’
    He did not offer to get me any, nor did I feel I really wanted any as it was barely three o’clock. I wondered why the grey men, who were obviously of a lower grade or status than William, had not fetched his tea for him, but perhaps there was a rigid etiquette in these matters. Also, knowing William’s fussiness, it was quite likely that he would insist on fetching his own tea. I began to wonder whether important-sounding people like Calverley-Hibbert and Radcliffe-Forde were also at this moment hurrying along corridors with mugs. Perhaps even the Minister himself was joining in the general scramble. I went on standing by the window and looked out at the view which was of another office building, perhaps the same Ministry, where there were rows of uncurtained windows and the activities of the rooms were exposed as if it was a doll’s house. Grey men sat at desks, their hands moving among files; some sipped tea, one read a newspaper, another manipulated a typewriter with the uncertain touch of two fingers. A girl leaned from a window, another combed her hair, a third typed with expert speed. A young man embraced a girl in a rough playful way and she pulled his hair while the other occupants of the room looked on encouragingly … I watched, fascinated, and was deep in contemplation when William and his underlings came back with their steaming mugs.
    ‘Is that another Ministry across there?’ I asked.
    ‘Ah, yes, the Ministry of Desire,’ said William solemnly.
    I protested, laughing.
    ‘They always look so far away, so not-of-this-world, those wonderful people,’ he explained. ‘But perhaps we seem like that to them. They may call us the Ministry of Desire.’
    At that moment a clock struck a quarter past three. William jumped up, and picking up a paper bag from one of the wire trays, walked over to the window and flung it open. There was a whirring of wings and a crowd of pigeons swooped down on to the flat piece of roof outside the window. Some hopped up on to the sill and one even came into the room and perched on William’s shoulder. He took two rolls from the paper bag and began to crumble them and throw the pieces among the birds.
    One of the grey men looked up from his card-index and gave me a faint, as it were pitying, smile.
    ‘Does this happen every afternoon?’ I asked William.
    ‘Oh, yes, and every morning too. I couldn’t get through the day without my pigeons. I feel like one of those rather dreadful pictures of St. Francis—I’m sure you and Dora had one at school—but it’s a good feeling and one does so like to have that.’
    I could not help smiling at the