Free The Husband's Story by Norman Collins Page A
Authors: Norman Collins
munching, he thought about all the things that he would have liked to say to Dr Aynsworth if only he had been given the opportunity.
Stan sat on in the canteen longer than usual. That was because he knew just how it would be. As soon as he got back to Records they would all start asking him about it. He was right, too. Even Miss Mancroft, a temporary from the typing pool who couldnât have cared less about what happened to him, looked up from her machine as soon as he came in.
âThey kept you long enough, didnât they?â she said. âWas it third degree, or something?â
But Stan took no notice of her. Just shrugged his shoulders, and walked past. Stanâs desk was over in the corner by the radiator. It occupied the best position in the open office. Stan remembered envying it when he had first joined the department; and now it was his through sheer seniority. Whatâs more, with Mr Miller still up in the interview room, Stan was exactly where he wanted to be. He was in charge.
It was nearly quarter to six when Mr Miller came down and went through to his private cubicle for his hat and coat and scarf and glovesand umbrella. Mr Miller was a conscientious dresser, and believed in being well-protected. He was clearly tired, and a bit surprised to find Stan still sitting there. Stan usually left at five-thirty exactly.
But he could guess how Stan must be feeling. And, with the office empty, he could speak freely.
âI shouldnât worry if I were you,â he said. âNo one else suitable in that lot. Not the right experience. But there it is: once theyâve applied youâve got to see them. Itâs staff regulations.â
The words comforted him. Stan was glad then that he had waited.
Even with so much going on, there had been no difficulty about getting time off to go and see the bank manager. It was simply that Stan had been reluctant to ask. He didnât like to think of what might be happening in the department if he wasnât there to keep an eye on the place.
Ten oâclock was when Mr Winters had said that he could see them; and that was one comfort. It meant that, with any luck, heâd be able to get back to Frobisher House before midday; it was in the afternoons when people were beginning to slack off a bit that things mostly went wrong.
In the end it was her medium-length black dress with the high collar, the almost new one, that Beryl chose, because that meant that she could wear her long black coat with the big cuffs. Admittedly, gloves and shoes were a bit of a problem. Black was, she felt, quite out of the question because the whole effect would have been too dismal, too funereal. Pale beige was what she finally settled on. And, though she had never liked beige with black, particularly when it was one of those warm, rather biscuity shades of beige, she knew instinctively that they would serve to brighten things up. And her beige handbag with the zip. Beige earrings were something that she hadnât got. But that didnât really matter. Because she had her large flat white ones that showed up so strikingly against the sheer blackness of her hair.
Then, at the last moment, she remembered Cliffâs headscarf with the huge red peony. She didnât actually wear it; just carried it loosely festooned across her forearm as a decorative afterthought. And, standing in front of the long mirror in the bedroom, edging further and further back so that she could see more of herself, she felt satisfied.
On the way round to the bank, Beryl decided to have a word with Stan.
âAnd when we get there,â she told him, âyouâd better let me do thetalking like. I want you to be with me because itâll look nicer that way. But Iâm the one to tell him. About the job, I mean. I can say things you canât.â
Because Beryl didnât want there to be any possible doubt about the outcome, she decided to make her announcement straight
Stan sat on in the canteen longer than usual. That was because he knew just how it would be. As soon as he got back to Records they would all start asking him about it. He was right, too. Even Miss Mancroft, a temporary from the typing pool who couldnât have cared less about what happened to him, looked up from her machine as soon as he came in.
âThey kept you long enough, didnât they?â she said. âWas it third degree, or something?â
But Stan took no notice of her. Just shrugged his shoulders, and walked past. Stanâs desk was over in the corner by the radiator. It occupied the best position in the open office. Stan remembered envying it when he had first joined the department; and now it was his through sheer seniority. Whatâs more, with Mr Miller still up in the interview room, Stan was exactly where he wanted to be. He was in charge.
It was nearly quarter to six when Mr Miller came down and went through to his private cubicle for his hat and coat and scarf and glovesand umbrella. Mr Miller was a conscientious dresser, and believed in being well-protected. He was clearly tired, and a bit surprised to find Stan still sitting there. Stan usually left at five-thirty exactly.
But he could guess how Stan must be feeling. And, with the office empty, he could speak freely.
âI shouldnât worry if I were you,â he said. âNo one else suitable in that lot. Not the right experience. But there it is: once theyâve applied youâve got to see them. Itâs staff regulations.â
The words comforted him. Stan was glad then that he had waited.
Even with so much going on, there had been no difficulty about getting time off to go and see the bank manager. It was simply that Stan had been reluctant to ask. He didnât like to think of what might be happening in the department if he wasnât there to keep an eye on the place.
Ten oâclock was when Mr Winters had said that he could see them; and that was one comfort. It meant that, with any luck, heâd be able to get back to Frobisher House before midday; it was in the afternoons when people were beginning to slack off a bit that things mostly went wrong.
In the end it was her medium-length black dress with the high collar, the almost new one, that Beryl chose, because that meant that she could wear her long black coat with the big cuffs. Admittedly, gloves and shoes were a bit of a problem. Black was, she felt, quite out of the question because the whole effect would have been too dismal, too funereal. Pale beige was what she finally settled on. And, though she had never liked beige with black, particularly when it was one of those warm, rather biscuity shades of beige, she knew instinctively that they would serve to brighten things up. And her beige handbag with the zip. Beige earrings were something that she hadnât got. But that didnât really matter. Because she had her large flat white ones that showed up so strikingly against the sheer blackness of her hair.
Then, at the last moment, she remembered Cliffâs headscarf with the huge red peony. She didnât actually wear it; just carried it loosely festooned across her forearm as a decorative afterthought. And, standing in front of the long mirror in the bedroom, edging further and further back so that she could see more of herself, she felt satisfied.
On the way round to the bank, Beryl decided to have a word with Stan.
âAnd when we get there,â she told him, âyouâd better let me do thetalking like. I want you to be with me because itâll look nicer that way. But Iâm the one to tell him. About the job, I mean. I can say things you canât.â
Because Beryl didnât want there to be any possible doubt about the outcome, she decided to make her announcement straight