Jen consults her diary: period due tomorrow. She’d better be prepared. She hasn’t been clockwork-regular this year — stress, she presumes. She inserts a tampon, checks her make-up, and leaves for the Thursday lecture. For once Kat is waiting for her and leads into the lecture room.
“Bloody hell!” says Kat pausing in the aisle. “Look at that!”
The large desk is heaped with sanitary pads, hundreds of them, a snowy-white mountain of feminine protection. As the students shuffle to their usual seats, embarrassment registers all around the room. The Philippine couple have their eyes resolutely buried in lecture notes. Even Steve appears to be having a problem knowing where to look. Only the Wiccan trio look unconcerned. They natter in a huddle, bright-eyed with expectation.
Sarai breezes up to the lectern. “Today we are going to consider the interesting juxtaposition of the seriously ill 12-year-old girl and the woman who suffered an issue of blood for 12 years. Twelve is a likely age for a girl to begin menstruating but we can presume her illness was more than the onset of a sometimes painful, but normal, function. The girl is believed to be near death. That Jairus the ruler of the synagogue seeks the help of Jesus, an itinerant, peasant healer shows enormous humility and faith — or was it desperation? Here we see a biblical father who truly loves his little girl. Most appear to take no interest in their girls until they are old enough to be offered in an advantageous marriage.
Now let us consider the other woman in this story. For once a woman is granted thoughts. She says to herself, If I only touch his garment, I shall be made well. She is a desperate woman — a woman who has been haemorrhaging for 12 years. What would that mean? Such a condition would be debilitating for any woman in any age. But to the Hebrews she was a filthy outcast. The purity laws were oppressive, all blood except sacrificial blood handled by priests was unclean, as were all corpses, human or animal. Any menstruating woman was considered unclean. At such times of the month women stayed apart from the family. To merely brush against a menstruating woman would make a man unclean. Banished for seven out of every 28 days was a manageable hurdle that some women welcomed. A continual blood flow would make the afflicted a permanent outcast consigned to a living death. That she dared mingle with a crowd was shocking but to deliberately touch a male was unthinkable.”
Sarai moves to the desk and extends her arms toward the white mountain. “What you see here is my estimate of six months’ supply of sanitary protection for this woman. We can presume her flow was not heavy, for if it was it would have killed her. I am allowing only two pads a day. I ask you to multiply this in your imagination by 24, and you have some idea of the magnitude of her problem.” Waiting for the class to create the full visual picture Sarai plants a flag on the snowy-white peak, a flag consisting of a tampon mounted in an applicator. “Of course, this woman did not have access to any modern sanitary devices. How she coped we can only guess … a life consumed by isolation and washing rags.” The students shuffle uncomfortably. “Imagine this woman’s absolute horror when Jesus noticed her. The unclean one had deliberately touched the healer. He had felt power go out of him. She will surely die for this atrocity. But Jesus beheld her with eyes of understanding and said, ‘Take heart daughter; your faith has made you well.’ She is made well, truly well, she knows it, she feels it — amazing, fantastic, and true! She will be able to rejoin the living. And, unbelievably, the great healer called her, vile outcast that she is, daughter — what an incredible honour. Amidst her private rejoicing a servant from Jairus’ household informs him his daughter is dead. Has she caused the death of the ruler’s child by daring to touch the healer? Imagine her panic and guilt. Let’s hope she heard of the second miracle — the miracle of Jesus breaking further taboos by touching a corpse and restoring the 12-year-old girl to life.”
Jen wipes a tear from her eye and thinks, as she so often does, what an amazing teacher Sarai is.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Over her solitary lunch of soup and fresh fruit Jen recalls being 12. She was tall for her age and matured early. She made a point of dressing in the bathroom to avoid embarrassing interest from her younger sister. One day, running late for netball practise, she forgot.
“You’ve got tits,” her pre-pubescent room-mate informed, looking from her naked Barbie doll to Jen’s blossoming bra. Jen turned her back and wriggled into her gold sports shirt. “Soon you’ll have a boyfriend and you’ll be k-i-s-s-i-n-g.”
“Get out,” Jen grabbed her sister and pushed. “This is my room, I had it first. Can’t I even get changed without you perving at me?”
“I’ll tell Mum you’re being mean to me.” Jen’s grip tightened. Lindy’s voice rose to a shriek. “It’s my room too!”
“Shut up. I hate sharing a room with you. You’re so infantile.”
“You’re mean, meean, meeean. It’s my room, it’s my room …”
“Have the room, you little creep.” Jen spun Lindy back into the room, flinging her against a bed. “Play with your pathetic dolls. I’m going out.”
“Tits, tits, you’ve got tits. Cinderella dressed in yella went downstairs to kiss her fella,” her sister hurled over the banisters at Jen’s retreating back.
For a while Jen had become round-shouldered in an effort to hide her developing assets but it wasn’t long before other classmates were filling junior bras and Jen slowly realised she had a figure to be proud of. Home life was improved by her father building a sleep-out for their older brother and Jen moving into his room.
Jen became one of the most confident girls in her year. Even so it took gut-screwing courage to do what she did during a home science lesson near the end of her final term at primary school. She recalls the incident with a wave of sympathy for the teacher. Mrs Ranstead was a kindly woman who had returned to teaching after raising a family. Considering her too motherly and elderly for teaching, some kids tended to give her a hard time. She was probably in her forties, Jen realises with sudden surprise.
This particular day there was an inspector in the room. It was obvious Mrs Ranstead was flustered. The kids had nothing personal against the woman so made an attempt to behave reasonably but as the dried fruit was being mixed into the flour there were nudges and smothered giggles from one side of the room. It was only when Mrs Ranstead bent over to check the loaf tins had been placed on the right oven rack that everyone saw a bright red patch seeping through her white cooking coat. Titters rippled through the class. The teacher stood bemused and confused. Eyes lowered and everyone became intent on cleaning their work benches. Shoulders heaved as strangled sniggers escaped. Jen was at the back bench. She didn’t want to but someone had to. She felt all eyes tracking her feet as she walked to the front of the class. Her words were too low for the kids to catch. She had rehearsed them on the long trek, and 25 years later can still recall them. ‘Excuse me,’ she had muttered, flushed but determined, ‘you need to know you have blood on your white coat.’ The poor woman had gasped and rushed into her storeroom, returning some minutes later wearing another cooking-coat, her face as red as the stain had been.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
“Wilkin, this lands one hundred per cent on your shoulders.”
The chairman of the board is one of the few men Wilkin genuinely respects, and, when he thinks about it, his respect is 90 per cent fear. Wilkin understands fear equalling respect. It is an equation he is comfortable with, a tactic he uses with his own senior managers. Men should fear their leader, just as Christians should fear God. Love and mercy only work with a great whack of fear setting the tone.
Wilkin is in trouble and knows it. He has ridden his Chief Financial Officer way too hard for way too long. Iain Christianson left Smith, Upson and Stopforth at eleven-thirty on a Tuesday morning, and placed a personal grievance against Wilkin that afternoon. By Friday he had lodged a claim suing the company for loss of earning, reputation and emotional stress. Those who saw it coming were uncomfortable. Iain had been a school friend of Wilkin’s. They played rugby together and in later years, golf. The golf had stopped over a year ago. Last Christmas Iain took pains to rig the seating plan for the work dinner so he would not have to sit near Wilkin.
SUS paid better than any other consulting firm in Christchurch but pay alone did not produce magic. Wilkin ran a tight ship, very tight. While things were good the board loved him and things had been good for a long time, long enough for Wilkin and the board to grow rich. But over the last couple of years cracks had appeared in the once impenetrable reputation of Smith, Upson and Stopforth. Some blamed economic circumstances, others a run of poor decisions at a senior level. Nearly everyone knew that Wilkin was losing his mana as the company’s head. Business was still coming in but staff were less inclined to give 100 per cent to that work. Two years ago the senior management put in closer to 200 per cent, gaining the reputation as the best consultants in the South Island. They were confident, cocky, and robust. But something indefinable had shifted. Wilkin no longer inspired the fanatical work ethic that had been his to command. Company gloss was fading and the tone slipping from kings of consulting to slaves of consulting. What once felt like a shining cause had become hard slog without much thanks.
When things started sliding Wilkin went with what he knew: up the pressure, tighten the belts, and put the magnifying glass up to any perceived weakness. Iain happened to be the prime target. Wilkin sank Rottweiler teeth to the bone. Finger pointing and private rows became public. As Chief Financial Officer, Iain Christianson was responsible for cash management, its equity and liabilities. His job was making the tough calls on resources, and as far as Wilkin was concerned Iain didn’t know the meaning of tough.
The personal grievance that Iain pursued was direct: work-place bullying. Wilkin used his position as Iain’s superior as a platform for systematic blame for the company’s problems. Wilkin was called before the board. His defence failed to impress. The board knew Hawthorne had driven Christianson too hard but they had to support Hawthorne because he was the best CEO material they had. They were searching for a way to discipline him without risking losing him and didn’t come up with a strategy because suddenly they had bigger issues on their hands. Christianson’s departure opened a floodgate of discontent and business was suffering. Chargeable hours were down 30 per cent on the previous year, a major account had sacked them, and several others were shaky. The board had to take action fast. Secret conversations about sacking Wilkin concluded he was too valuable to lose. However, cuts must be made, jobs must go. Support staff, junior consultants, maybe some middle management. They had considered the cost of redundancy and decided it was a better option than the risk of salaries. Board decisions were made round the almost century-old oak boardroom table. Wilkin flayed into the concept punch drunk. Redundancies would be a direct reflection of his failure. His position must be defended. He heard conversation silence when he came into a room and chat change when he turned up at the water dispenser. He knew they were blaming him; he didn’t have to hear what they had been saying. How could they be so blind! Warning smoke had been seeping from the company for months and now the flames were licking he was not taking the rap as the arsonist.
“I won’t do it.” Wilkin’s face twists in defiance. “It will cost more to pay out redundancies than to keep people working.” He is on his feet. He wants to take his jacket off, but that would signal stress. He is better than that. There will be no show of fear from this battler. “You can sit in your million dollar homes and fire the guys in the trenches — but if you think I’m going to do the firing you obviously don’t know me.”
Ralph Stopforth had seen it all before. He had stood in Wilkin’s shoes some 15 years earlier and made pretty much the same speech. Feigning concern for the workers was ‘CEO one-hundred-and-one per cent.’ Once Wilkin had cared about the little people at SUS but that was ancient history. The now Wilkin cared only for his own job and was at his best dealing with the cut-throat world of corporate takeovers and IP disputes. The bigger the Goliath the faster his slingshot swung. The little people were minions. Ralph is at ease with the scenario. He doesn’t judge Wilkin for posturing, he admires it — a good tactic that half the board will lap up. Ralph knows what has to be done. He composes the conversation he will have when Wilkin runs out of steam.
Wilkin paces the perimeter of the boardroom table demanding justice for the workers. Some of the seated lower their heads, not wanting to catch Wilkin’s eye, or anyone’s for that matter. Others follow his every move with wolf focus.
Wilkin’s oratory takes him a full lap. He stands behind his own chair and eyeballs Ralph. “If there are people who don’t deserve to be in this company I will drive them out. They will leave with their tails dragging behind them. But, I won’t be paying a cent of my money, or yours. There will be no redundancies.” He spits the words softly then walks toward the large window. He moves so slowly some tighten, wondering if he is really losing it, slipping into a trance or something. Placing a hand high on the heavy frame he looks at his beloved city. The gothic lines of the museum and the old university rise to his gaze. He breathes in the stone blocks and slate tiles, filling his soul with dark resolve. What storms have these stones weathered? He is of this city; he too is stone. With his back to his audience Wilkin plants his closing kicker. “If anyone doesn’t like my course of action, I suggest they step down from the board, or step into my job … Good luck to you.”
Hands stroke chins, eyes meet and roll, feet shuffle. The room feels degrees warmer than five minutes earlier. Ralph’s chair makes a cracking sound as he heaves his body from its confines. “It’s what I like to see, when the going gets tough the tough get going, that’s why …” For a moment Wilkin thinks he is going to be sacked in front of the entire board. His mind leaps to the law suit where he takes Smith, Upson and Stopforth for everything they have. Ralph continues, “That’s why you’re a magnificent leader, Wilkin … magnificent. Let’s take a break, gentlemen. We’ve done enough for today. I need to discuss something with the sheriff before he shoots all the deputies.”
His single sentence of levity relaxes the 12 men around the table. Ralph is on to it, everyone is grateful to pretend all is well. Ralph puts an arm on Wilkin’s and says quietly, “Let’s take a walk son.” It isn’t a request. Ralph leads past the lifts to the staircase. Wilkin knows this tactic, the stairs are the most unused space in the building. “Listen to me, Wilkin. Don’t speak, just listen.” His voice is low, punching at kidney level. “You are going to announce seven redundancies on Monday. And you are going to front a press conference acknowledging the challenging economic circumstances we are facing and swear your commitment to taking this company back to the top.”
Wilkin whips his face toward the old man to protest. Ralph raises a finger. “Those are the public things, Wilkin. We know the public things are easy compared to the private issues of life.” His underlining of private sends a chill down Wilkin’s neck. “I will help you with Iain Christianson,” he confides. “Company money will get rid of that one. But you, Wilkin, are going to spend your own money to get rid of that other dirty little problem that has got you so off your game.” Wilkin has no idea what Ralph is talking about. He searches but can find no words.
Ralph extracts an envelope from the vast interior of his double-breasted suit and takes a photo from the envelope. Wilkin’s image frozen to matt-print is emerging from Amber’s motel. It could be any motel. Anyone can have legitimate reason for leaving a motel. Ralph savours the moment, knowing Wilkin is on edge and thinking there is nothing to hang on him. “I have a second photo.” The second is the back view of a man in shirt and socks — it could be any man but facing the camera is a beautiful young woman wearing nothing but a frilly apron, cap, and high heels. “A very interesting note came with these,” informs Ralph, with expansive camaraderie.
Wilkin’s blood supply evacuates his head and arms. Sweat replaces the chill down his back. He needs to sit. He grabs the balustrade rail. “Chin up, Wilkin, old boy. I will help you, but you are going to get this sorted quietly and quickly. There WILL NOT be any little bastards in the Smith, Upson and Stopforth nursery.” In a normal tone he adds, “Just big bastards … like me.” He pats Wilkin on the back. It nearly knocks him over. “Seven jobs go, Iain’s PG goes, and that whore’s unborn baby goes. And for God’s sake, Wilkin, lighten up. You’re casting a shadow way bigger than your problems.” Ralph turns, ready to leave, and throws over his shoulder, “Maureen and I are coming for dinner, soon. Invite some other members of the board. I haven’t seen Jennifer for too long. She is an asset, Wilkin. Maureen adores her, so do the board, use her. Let’s do it next week. Set it up.” Ralph strides with the delicacy of a large man and the pace of a junior executive. Wilkin can hardly breathe. Ralph feels the best he’s felt in years — this is what being chairman is all about. Five minutes later he is driving his Nordic gold Porsche Carrera beside the Avon and singing along to Frank Sinatra. “I did it myyyyyyyy way.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~