‘I’m afraid I have some bad news.’
Thomas jumped. Mr Bagnoli’s son, Robert Bagnoli Jr, rarely came into the store, let alone spoke to Thomas directly. But now, early on a cloudy Tuesday morning, on the other side of Thomas’s desk in the cramped space Thomas called his office, stood Bagnoli Jr, arms crossed and glaring. The man was an image of Bagnoli senior minus seventy odd pounds. (Thirty-five kilograms, Thomas reminded himself. He had better get used to metrication, whether he liked the blasted system or not.) Like his father, Bagnoli Jr was short and block-like, and moved with the gruff, determined gait of a man very much convinced of his own right to existence.
‘My father died last night.’
‘What?’ Thomas half-rose from his chair. ‘How?’
‘Heart attack.’
‘Christ.’ Thomas sank back down, stunned.
Bagnoli Jr’s gaze skated over the walls, the ceiling, and back to Thomas. ‘Shit of a spot you’ve got here. Stinks like arse.’
‘Fertiliser factory,’ Thomas mumbled. ‘Over the highway. Comes through the vent up there . . .’ His boss was dead. Bagnoli was dead. ‘Listen, sir –’
‘Bob.’
‘Right, Bob. My god, I’m terribly sorry for your loss. What happened?’
‘Last night. Heart attack. Wasn’t his first, but has proven to be his last.’
Thomas stared at the man in shock. Now what?
‘The funeral is Thursday. The store will be closed for a few hours.’
Thomas didn’t know what to say. He heard the front door buzzer sound, announcing a customer entering the store, and he pictured one of the reps in the showroom greeting the customer, smiling, leading them to a product. Oblivious, hopeful for the sale. Bagnoli was dead, yet people would still need toasters and fridges and vacuum cleaners. Sales reps would still need their wages.
Bagnoli Jr went on, ‘In the meantime, business will continue as usual. That’s what the old man would have wanted. This place can run without him.’
Thomas blinked. Bagnoli was as much a part of the running of the whitegoods store as the products inside the store. This twit impersonating Bagnoli would know that if he had spent more than a sniff and a piddle of time doing the job he was supposed to be doing as Bagnoli senior’s second-in-command.
Oh, Christ, Thomas thought, with the sensation of the floor giving way. This prick would now be his boss.
Immediately, Thomas thought of his family. After being summarily kicked out of her knitting group, Elsie was devastated. It wasn’t only the humiliation and the fear of further reprisal or ostracisation that caused his wife’s melancholy, but the loss of something she had found fulfilling, something she was skilled at. Camaraderie through craft.
‘Mullet, I know you know the ropes. Look,’ Bagnoli Jr thumped his palms on the desk and leaned towards Thomas. ‘Let’s not bullshit ourselves that I want any of this. I don’t. I never have. But it’s mine now so I get to say what happens.’
Thomas and Aida had been encouraging Elsie to find another group, or even to start her own. Poach some of the ladies from Mrs Watson’s group – run classes, teach her skills to others. But how far had Gloria Watson’s smear campaign gone? Further than women’s circles? Had Bagnoli Sr heard, but by chance appreciated Thomas enough to protect him? If so – what now?
‘Right,’ Thomas said again, feeling dizzy.
Bagnoli Jr glared at him. ‘I say: you run it. I want you to run the whole show. Kit, caboose and crap house.’
The buzzer sounded again. The same customer leaving, or another customer entering. Invisible motes of crushed dried offal floated between them. Thomas looked on.
‘Did you hear me, Mullet?’
Thomas blinked. ‘I think so.’
‘You good with that?’
‘You . . .’ he cleared his throat. ‘You would like me to oversee things for the time being, sir?’
‘Bob, shit, you hearing me?’
‘Right, sorry –’
‘Not for the “time being”, I’m saying I want you to take over management of the store. Entirely.’ He spread his arms wide, demonstrating a broad expanse of time. ‘Now and into the future.’
Thomas’s mind raced. He wasn’t being sacked.
He was being promoted.
Store manager? In all his efforts, it was a possibility he had never considered. Head of Sales felt as far as Thomas would ever go, because the final frontiers, the only step higher, would always be held by a Bagnoli. Either the senior or junior variety. How could Bagnoli be dead? Yesterday afternoon he’d been unloading crates of vacuum cleaners in the warehouse; Thomas had interrupted him with a trolley load to sign a purchase order for Remington. There Bagnoli had been, seemingly fit as an Olympic swimmer, paused in his heft of the trolley to deftly take the book from Thomas, sign it, and hand it back, then off he shoved with his crateful of Electrolux. Was his heart giving out on him then? Did he know, wheeling those vacuum cleaners, that it would be his last delivery? Locking up the store last night, was his heart already labouring and misfiring? Thomas pictured the fatal organ inside the man’s ribcage, blood-fattened and faltering. The image made him queasy. We’re only ever as strong as our greatest weakness, he realised.
Bagnoli Jr was still speaking. ‘Like I said, funeral’s Thursday. I’ve got a heap of paperwork and crap to do with lawyers and accountants but leave all that to me. You, get your shit out of here and take Dad’s office.’
‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly,’ Thomas protested, this time getting fully to his feet.
‘Don’t argue, just fucking do it. I’m not subjecting myself to this shithole again. So move.’
‘Right, then,’ Thomas said. ‘Okay.’
Bob made for the door, then stopped and turned around. ‘What happened to that other guy, the other sales rep?’
Thomas was still reeling. ‘Which one?’
‘Watson.’
Thomas looked up. ‘Bert?’
‘Yeah, that one.’
The door buzzed again. Thomas said, ‘A few months ago. Regional transfer. Melbourne.’
Bagnoli looked surprised. ‘Didn’t realise Dad had that much sway with Electrolux.’
‘Oh, he did,’ Thomas said with a nod. ‘Your father was a very respected man.’ He didn’t add, And your father respected me, too.
Fertiliser odour wafted around and Bob curled his lip. ‘Watson wanted to move away, then?’
‘Ah,’ Thomas hesitated, cleared his throat. ‘I think there were some questions raised over some of his, uh, conduct . . . around the secretary.’
When Thomas had told them his idea, Elsie and Aida were aghast. You can’t do that, Elsie said. He doesn’t really . . . with the secretary, does he? Aida said, warily. But Thomas would protect them. He would protect his family.
His boss’s son stared at him. Hairs stood up on the back Thomas’s neck. Bagnoli shrugged and walked out. The door slammed.
Store manager.
Thomas had worked there for eleven years.