someone was not pulling his weight might easily be interpreted as proof that a department could run as efficiently with one less member. And, empire-builders to a man, the Departmental Heads did not like the idea.
The result was that almost every annual report filed was bland and uncontroversial.
But it needn’t be. That was the thought which comforted Graham Marshall. Over the last couple of years, as George Brewer’s assistant, he had been writing most of the departmental reports. It was one of those routine jobs which George had been happily shedding and, though his signature appeared on the relevant pink form, the words above it were Graham’s. Indeed, on occasion the signature had been Graham’s too — or rather Graham’s version of George’s. He had found the ability to forge his boss’s writing useful more than once, and even kept a Parker fountain pen and bottle of blue ink in his desk drawer for the purpose. The skill was not one he had used for criminal applications, merely for convenience and — particularly as George grew more dilatory with age — for speed.
Graham had also, as his annexations of responsibility increased, begun to conduct more and more of the interviews. For George it was a routine chore, one that he had happily relinquished to the man who, after all, he had regarded as his heir apparent. The Head dealt with the more senior members of the Department, but the lower echelons had their annual interviews conducted by his assistant.
By Graham’s reckoning, Terry Sworder was just about junior enough to fall into the second category.
It had to be done quickly, before George retired.
Whistling softly between his teeth, Graham left his office for the room where the personal files were stored. Robert Benham, rumour had it, planned to put even these records on computer, but the change-over had not yet taken place and Graham had no difficulty in finding the box-file which contained the history of Terry Sworder’s life with the company.
He had been there for seven years. Each previous annual report had been enthusiastic, a little more enthusiastic than the required establishment-preserving minimum. Graham recognised his own sentences on the previous year’s form. He even thought — though he couldn’t be certain — that the George Brewer signature at the bottom was one of his.
The date confirmed what he had hoped. Terry Sworder’s next annual interview was almost due. And on the report for this one, Graham thought with a smile, there would be a few lines that would stop — or at least delay — the further progress of Robert Benham’ protege up the company ladder.
‘Oh, Terry,’ he said casually as he went back into their office. ‘Think we ought to fix a time for your annual interview.’
He went home early, so that there would be someone there when the children arrived from school. Now that he knew he would not long be troubled with them, he found himself able to be a model father. They had been told that morning that their grandmother had been taken ill in the night. The exact nature of her complaint had not been defined, but they were told it was not serious and they were not to worry.
‘How’s Granny?’ was Emma’s first question.
The model father was able to supply an up-to-date bulletin. A doctor from the hospital had rung him at the office just after lunch. ‘Of course there are no worries medically,’ he had said. ‘The cuts were little more than scratches, as you could see. Obviously it’s her psychological state we’re more worried about. Even a suicide attempt as botched as this one is a sign of pretty severe mental disturbance. Of course it’s reaction to the shock of her daughter’s death — and I gather some boyfriend died recently too, but there may be more to it than that. One of our psychiatrists is going to talk to her. The worry is obviously that she might try again. We’ll keep her in another twenty-four hours for observation, but I’m afraid we’re going to need the bed tomorrow. We’ll liaise with her G.P. for some sort of follow-up, of course, but. . I’m very sorry, Mr. Marshall. I’m sure, after what you’ve been through over the last few weeks, this is all you need.’
Graham had liked that bit of solicitude at the end. There had been a few such unexpected benefits from Merrily’s death. After the children had gone back to school, there had been a good few condoling calls from mothers of their friends, offering practical help in looking after the children and invitations to meals ‘if he was at a loose end and could face going out’. Suffering nobility was a new pose for him and one he rather enjoyed.
Like that of the model father. ‘Granny’s better,’ he replied to Emma’s enquiry.
‘Can we go and see her?’
This was not an idea he relished. ‘No, darling. She just needs to rest. She’ll be coming out of hospital tomorrow.’
‘Back here?’ asked Emma. ‘She will be coming back here, won’t she? I mean now that Mummy’s dead. .’
Graham watched unmoved as his daughter dissolved into tears. Judging her by himself, he regarded such behaviour as being merely for show. Judging her by her grandmother, he wondered what she wanted.
‘I hope she’s not coming back here,’ grunted Henry. ‘I’m sick to death of the old bat.’
Instinctively, Graham was about to remonstrate. Now you mustn’t talk like that, Henry. But he didn’t say it. Why should he? Why should he pretend any more? The children would soon be separated from their grandmother, the arrangements had been made, and it was about time they were informed. Henry’s antipathy to Lilian (a facet of his adolescent antipathy to everything) was a bonus, something which could be used to make the news of their future more palatable.
Henry, Graham thought, might not object anyway. Charmian had more appeal for his son than Merrily ever had. Her fading connection with the pop world and her constant use of four letter words were both recommendation in Henry’s eyes. Given the fact that she was an adult, a member of a species he despised, she was less unattractive to him than most of them.
Graham didn’t feel so confident of Emma’s reaction.
She was like her grandmother by nature and Lilian’s cloning process had intensified the likeness. Also, knowing his mother-in-law’s divisive instinct, he had no doubt that Emma had been turned against her aunt. As Charmian herself had observed, there were no half-measures with Lilian, no truces, no alliances; in her world it was all either for or against. Since Lilian was so firmly opposed to her surviving daughter, there was no doubt that she had enlisted the support of her creature, Emma, in the conflict.
Still, the arrangement he had agreed with Charmian was too convenient for Graham to want to change it. Telling the children their fate was an unpleasant duty, but necessary, just one of those tedious details which he must deal with on the route to his ideal lifestyle.
‘Henry, Emma,’ he announced, ‘there’s something you should know.’
He got no further. The doorbell rang.
The timing was perfect. It was Charmian.
He had rung her in the morning and told her of her mother’s graceless gesture. She had come to the Boileau Avenue house from the hospital, where her mother had refused to see her. Any hopes of a rapprochement between the two had been dashed.
Both Graham and Charmian took strength from this. He was reassured, fearing that a reconciliation between the two women might lead Charmian to withdraw her offer, fuelled as it had been by hatred of her mother. And Charmian’s guilt was assuaged; she had made the gesture, she had tried, she had offered the olive branch and it had been thrown back in her face.
Charmian’s behaviour on arrival could not have been better. She dried Emma’s tears, treating her with a brusqueness that contrasted with Lilian’s customary maudlin reaction to any scene of distress. Emma, Graham could see, was partly offended by this matter-of-fact approach, but also partly drawn. What Charmian offered her was the chance of being treated as an adult, whereas Lilian, despite her identification with her creatures, always cast them in a subservient role.
His aunt’s approach with Henry was also just right. When Graham offered her a drink, Charmian suggested that the boy should have a small one too. It was the first time he had (at least officially) tasted alcohol, and, though he didn’t care for the taste much, he, like Emma, was reminded that Charmian regarded him as an equal.
The evening, which could have been sticky, turned out rather jolly. And when, at bedtime, Charmian revealed the plan that both children should go and live with her, even Emma greeted the suggestion with enthusiasm.
‘Thank you for that,’ said Graham, as they sat over what Charmian had described as ‘one for the road’.
‘For telling them?’
‘Yes.’
‘I gathered you hadn’t got round to it.’
‘I was about to tell them when you arrived. I think it came a lot better from you.’
‘Yes, I think it did.’
