At my previous firm, where I’d started in accounting, punctuality had been drilled into me. Consequently, I arrived at my new employer, Griffith Miles Sully & Co., shortly before 9 a.m. Instead of a converted Victorian house, I was installed on the second floor of a modern office block at the bottom of the high street. The glass door opened at my touch. I called out a greeting.
No answer.
A narrow corridor led to the partners’ offices. To the left was an open area shielded by grey cloth partitions, six feet tall. I poked my head around them. A typewriter confirmed it was the secretarial pool. To the right, a door opened to a large room with several desks facing each other. Oversized windows overlooked a car park at the back of the building. A high-rise commercial tower on the opposite side of the car park blocked all other views.
The place was deserted. I found the kitchen and made myself some tea. My trepidation alternated between boredom and disappointment. The day’s Daily Telegraph lay on the floor where the paperboy had chucked it. Having nothing else to do, I attacked the crossword puzzle. By 9.30 a.m., the puzzle conquered and the news and sports sections perused, I had no idea what to do next.
Someone opened the door. The first of the “boys” walked through. “Oo’ r you, mate?” the man questioned suspiciously. His sky-blue and purple West Ham scarf gave me the impression of a football hooligan.
I didn’t know what to say. Surely, they knew I was arriving, didn’t they? Without waiting for a reply, the man disappeared back where he had come from. A few minutes later, I heard the kettle whistling in the kitchen. Two more of the team showed up and examined me. They too disappeared.More minutes passed. I could hear chatting in the kitchen but couldn’t make out the conversation.
They all came back together. “Are you the new recruit?” the first asked. “I’m Paul, the office manager. This is Ian”—he nodded at a scrawny five-footer, so young-looking he seemed to have graduated from school yesterday.
“I’m Dennis.” The third of the band was six foot and broad-shouldered. With that, they completely ignored me, all the while discussing between themselves the latest football results and the squash game they’d played the night before.
It was almost eleven before Paul came round with, “Alright, boys, time we started.”
Expected to be directed to a file to work on, I instead saw Paul stretch out for the Telegraph. “Now, let’s put the crossword to bed.” As he opened the page, there was a sudden halt to his patter. The others waited for him, presumably to call out the clues.
“Bloody ’ell! Oo’s gawn an’ dun the puzzle?” Paul cast an accusatory frown at the recruit. “Ev’ry mornin’ for twenty years we’ve bin ’avin’ a go first fing in the morning. Now you’ve dun it,” he glared at me again. “You’ve ruined ev’ryfing.”
No one spoke to me again. They took to their desks with a sniff, leaving me with the only desk available—cleared of all files.
Now what was I going to do?
