Free The Husband's Story by Norman Collins

seemed more pleased. Then he looked up again.
    â€˜Now tell us about your pleasures, Mr Pitts.’
    â€˜My pleasures?’
    â€˜The things you enjoy. What you get out of life.’
    Stan hesitated. Not that it mattered. To Dr Aynsworth, hesitation was every bit as significant as a reply; very often more so, in fact. He counted six, and helped Stan out again.
    â€˜You are married, are you not?’
    The picture of Beryl rose up sharp and clear in Stan’s mind; Beryl,in her Mexican housecoat with the big Sun-God buttons, and with her hair piled high on top. He only wished that she could have been there to show them.
    â€˜Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘I’m married all right.’
    Dr Aynsworth awarded Stan one more tick as soon as he heard the words, ‘all right’. They might not have conveyed very much to other people; indeed, they would probably have passed entirely unnoticed. But, to a properly skilled psychologist, they said a lot. They meant that the little fellow with the blue tie and the crew haircut was one of the lucky ones. Unquestionably he was living in the security of a marriage that was cloudless.
    â€˜And have you any children?’
    It was all down in black-and-white in the staff file in front of Mr Hunter-Smith. But Dr Aynsworth was careful never to read any of the personal particulars before an interview. The answers to questions, even the apparently aimless ones, were always so much more revealing.
    â€˜Just one. A girl. Marleen. She’s eleven.’
    Even though Stan did not know it, he had just come up with another winner. Dr Aynsworth always gave half a point whenever the candidate confided in them by mentioning the name of a child. It was all part of the same secure family pattern.
    â€˜And now about yourself, Mr Pitts. Have you any hobbies?’
    This was the point at which Mr Hunter-Smith found that he could stand it no longer. He disapproved of all psychologists, and had been against having this one. The man had simply been forced on him from above and, in his opinion, he had wasted quite enough of the board’s time already.
    â€˜Mr Pitts is our prize photographer,’ he explained. ‘You win the competition nearly every year, don’t you, Mr Pitts? Three Firsts and two Special Mentions, I believe it is…’
    But the intervention had been fatal. The whole train of Dr Ayns-worth’s questioning had been destroyed. It had ruined everything. The light inside him flickered and went out. Pushing his pad away from him, he sulked.
    â€˜No more questions, thank you, Mr Chairman,’ he said.
    The sun had come out while he was speaking and was now shining full into Stan’s face. He screwed up his eyes again. Dr Aynsworth started. He had just remembered his real role at interviews like this. Itwas, with his trained mind, to spot things that ordinary laymen might otherwise miss.
    â€˜One supplementary, Mr Chairman, please,’ he asked. ‘Do you ever feel the need to wear glasses, Mr Pitts?’
    That was all there was to it. A moment later Stan was back in the corridor, and it was all over. Fifteen minutes flat, he made it. And those fifteen minutes had taken it out of him more than he had expected. He felt all drained and empty; like a blood donor coming away from a transfusion station. And depressed. Depressed by the very thought that, in Room 737, they would have restarted the stop-watch, and the race would be on again. By now, Mr Hunter-Smith would be remembering all about the man from Chatham, and Dr Aynsworth would be getting ready to ask more unanswerable questions in that Little Bo-Peep voice of his.
    It was eight floors down to the sub-basement where Stan worked. But, when he got to the lift, he pressed the button to go up. It was the canteen that he was making for. He needed a cup of tea just to revive himself; and, by way of a little comfort, he picked up a chocolate cupcake at the service counter. Then, sipping and