Free The Sleep of Reason by C. P. Snow Page B

manhood.
    “And I’m still getting less than my own daughter. It isn’t right. It can’t be right.”
    I should have liked to avoid what was coming. Playing out time, I asked if his firm knew that he was considering another move. He gave a lofty nod.
    “Are they prepared to recommend you?”
    “They certainly are. I have a letter over there. Would you like to read it?”
    It did not matter, I said. Mr Pateman gave me a knowing smile.
    “Yes, I should expect you to read between the lines.”
    I was saying something distracting, meaningless, but he was fixing me with his stare: “I want an opportunity. That’s all I’m asking for.”
    I said, slowly: “I don’t know what advice I can possibly give you–”
    “I wasn’t asking for advice, sir. I was asking for an opportunity.”
    Even after that higgledy-piggledy life, he was undefeated. It was easy to imagine him at the doors of big houses, talking of his vacuum cleaners, impassively, imperviously, not down and out because he was certain the future must come right.
    Nevertheless, I was thinking of old colleagues of mine considering him for jobs. Considering people for jobs had to be a heartless business. No man in his senses could think Mr Pateman a good risk. They mightn’t mind, or even be interested in, his odder aspects. But he carried so many signs that the least suspicious would notice – he had been restless, he had quarrelled with every boss, he had been unrealistically on the make.
    Still, nowadays there was a job for anyone who could read and write. Mr Pateman was, in the mechanical sense, far from stupid. He had a good deal of energy. At his age, he would not get a better job, certainly not one much better. He might get a different one.
    He was sitting with his hands on his knees, his head back, a smile as it were of approbation on his lips. He did not appear in the least uneasy that I should not find an answer. The slack fire smoked: the draught blew across the room: among the fumes I picked out the antiseptic smell which hung about him as though he had just come from hospital.
    “Well, Mr Pateman,” I said. “I mustn’t raise false hopes.” I went on to say that I was out of the official life for good and all. He gazed at me with confident disbelief: to him, that was simply part of my make-believe. There were two places he might try. He could possibly get fitted up in another radio firm: I could give him the name of a personnel officer.
    “Once bitten, twice shy, thank you, sir,” said Mr Pateman.
    Alternatively, he might contemplate working in a government office as a temporary clerk. The pay would be a little better: the work, I warned him, would be extremely monotonous: I could tell him how to apply at the local employment exchange.
    “I don’t believe in employment exchanges. I believe in going somewhere where one has contacts at the top.”
    He seemed – had it been true before he met me? – to have dreamed up his own fantasy. He seemed to think that I should say one simple word to my old colleagues. I tried to explain to him that the machine did not work that way. If the Ministry of Labour took him on, they would send him wherever clerks were needed. He could tell them that he had a preference, but there was no guarantee that he would get what he wanted.
    Anyone who had been asked for such a favour had to get used to the sight of disappointment – and to the different ways men took it. There were a few who, like Mr Pateman now, began to threaten.
    “I must say, I was hoping for something more constructive from you,” he said.
    “I am sorry.”
    “I don’t like being led up the garden path.” His eyes were fixed on mine. “I was given to understand that you weren’t as hidebound as some of them.”
    I said nothing.
    “I shall have to consider my course of action.” He was speaking with dignity. Then he said: “I expect that you’re doing your best. You must be a busy man.”
    I got up, went into the back kitchen, and