By working faithfully eight hours a day, you may eventually get to be a boss and work twelve hours a day.
(ROBERT FROST)
GLADYS TAYLOR WOULD be very sorry to leave ‘The University of Oxford Delegacy of Local Examinations’. It was all a bit of a mouthful when people asked her where she worked; but the Examination Board’s premises, a large, beige-bricked, flat-roofed building in Summertown, had been her happy second home for nineteen and a half years now – and some neat streak within her wished it could have been the full twenty. But the ‘Locals’, as the Board was affectionately known, insisted that those women like herself – ‘supernumeraries’, they were called – had their contracts terminated in the session following their sixtieth birthday. These ‘sessions’, four or five of them every academic year, varied in duration from three or four weeks to nine or ten weeks; and the work involved in each session was almost as varied as its duration. For example, the current short session (and Gladys’s last – for she had been sixty the previous November) involved three weeks of concentrated arithmetical checking of scripts – additions, scalings, transfers of marks – from the autumn GCE retake examinations. The entry was very much smaller than the massive summer one, comprising those candidates who had failed adequately to impress the examiners on the earlier occasion. But such young men and women (the ‘returned empties’, as some called them) were rather nearer Gladys Taylor’s heart than many of the precious summer thoroughbreds (she knew a few of them!) who seemed to romp around the academic racecourses with almost arrogant facility. For, in her own eyes, Gladys had been a bit of a failure herself, leaving her secondary-modern school at the beginning of the war, at the age of fifteen, with nothing to show any prospective employer except a lukewarm testimonial to her perseverance and punctuality. Then, at the age of forty-one, following the premature death of a lorry-driver husband who, besides faltering in fidelity, had failed to father any offspring, she had applied to work at the Locals – and she had been accepted. During those first few months she had brought to her duties a care over detail that was almost pathological in its intensity, and she had often found herself waking up in the early hours and wondering if she had perpetrated some unforgivable error. But she had settled down; and thoroughly enjoyed the work. Her conscientiousness had been recognized by her supervisors and acknowledged by her fellow ‘Supers’; and finally, over the last few years, she had been rewarded by a belated promotion to a post of some small responsibility, part of which involved working with inexperienced women who came to join the various teams; and for the past six months Gladys had been training a very much younger woman in the mysteries of the whole complex apparatus. This younger woman’s name was Margaret Bowman.
For the past three sessions, the two of them had worked together, becoming firm friends in the process, and learning (as women sometimes do) a good many things about each other. At the start, Margaret had seemed almost as diffident and insecure as she herself, Gladys, had been; and it was – what was the word? – yes, such vulnerability that had endeared the younger woman to Gladys, and very soon made the older woman come to look upon Margaret more as a daughter than a colleague. Not that Margaret was ever too forthcoming about the more intimate details of her life with Tom, her husband; or (during the autumn) about the clandestine affair she was so obviously having with someone else (Gladys had never learned his name). How could anyone not have guessed? For the affair was engendering the sort of bloom on the cheek which (unbeknown to Gladys) Aristotle himself had once used in seeking to define his notion of pure happiness. Then, in the weeks of late autumn, there had occurred a change in Margaret: there were now moments of (hitherto) unsuspected irritability, of (hitherto) uncharacteristic carelessness, and (perhaps most disturbing of all) a sort of coarseness and selfishness. Yet the strangely close relationship between them had survived, and on two occasions Gladys had tried to ask, tried to help, tried to offer more than just a natural friendliness; but nothing had resulted from these overtures. And when on a Friday in mid-December the last session of the calendar year had finally come to its close, that was the last Gladys had seen of her colleague until the new-year resumption – on January 2nd, a day on which it hardly required the talents of a clairvoyant to see that there was something quite desperately wrong.
Smoking was banned from the room in which the Supers worked; but several of the women were moderately addicted to the weed, and each day they greatly looked forward to the morning coffee-breaks and afternoon tea-breaks, both taken in the Delegacy canteen, in which smoking was allowed. Hitherto – and invariably – during the time Gladys had known her, Margaret would sit patiently puffing her way through a single cigarette a.m.; a single cigarette p.m. But on that January 2nd, and again on the 3rd, Margaret had been getting through three cigarettes in each of the twenty-minute breaks, inhaling deeply and dramatically on each one.
Margaret’s work, too, during the whole of her first day back, had been quite unprecedentedly slack: ten marks missed at one point in a simple addition; a wrong scaling, and a very obvious one at that, not spotted; and then (an error which would have made Gladys herself blanch with shame and mortification) an addition of 104 and 111 entered as 115 – a total which, but for Gladys’s own rechecking, would probably have given some luckless candidate an ‘E’ grade instead of an ‘A’ grade.
At lunchtime on Friday, January 3rd, Gladys had invited Margaret for a meal at the Chinese restaurant just across the Banbury Road from the Delegacy; and over the sweet-and-sour pork and the Lotus House Special chop suey, Margaret had confided to Gladys that her husband was away on a course over the New Year and that she herself had been feeling a bit low. And how enormously it had pleased Gladys when Margaret had accepted the invitation to spend the weekend with her – in Gladys’s home on the Cutteslowe housing estate in North Oxford.
Mrs Mary Webster, the senior administrative assistant who kept a very firm (if not unfriendly) eye upon the forty or so women who sat each day in the large first-storey room overlooking the playing fields of Summerfields Preparatory School, had not returned to her accustomed chair after the coffee-break on the morning of January 6th. Most unusual! But it was the intelligence gleaned by Mrs Bannister (a woman somewhat handicapped in life by a bladder of minimal capacity, but whose regular trips to the downstairs toilet afforded, by way of compensation, a fascinating window on the world) that set the whole room a-buzzing.
‘A police car!’ she whispered (audibly) to half the assembled ladies.
‘Two men! They’re in the Secretary’s room!’
‘You mean the police are down there talking to Mrs Webster?’ asked one of Mrs Bannister’s incredulous colleagues.
But further commentary and interpretation was immediately forestalled by Mrs Webster herself, who now suddenly entered the door at the top of the long room, and who began to walk down the central gangway between the desks and tables. The whole room was immediately still, and silent as a Trappist’s cell. It was not until she reached Gladys’s table, almost at the very bottom of the room, that she stopped.
‘Mrs Bowman, can you come with me for a few minutes, please?’
Margaret Bowman said nothing as she walked down the wooden stairs, one step behind Mrs Webster, and then into the main corridor downstairs and directly to the room whose door of Swedish oak bore the formidable nameplate of ‘The Secretary’.