When Margaret got up that Monday morning, Clifford had already left for work. She finished washing her face and looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. Not bad for middle age, she thought wistfully. She was a mature woman, wasn't she? Ageing gracefully?
She went downstairs and looked at the big clock on the kitchen wall: it said half past eight. That wasn't to late, surely? She had tried to keep getting UP in time to make his breakfast she used to do it when they were younger - but these days he seemed determined to get to his office desk by eight. Even though he was older now, and often talked about retiring early, he was putting in more hours than ever. That didn't seem fair. It was HIS business: why shouldn't he be Able to choose the hours he put in? Why did he have to put ill so many?
She made herself a cup of tea and a piece of toast. She looked at the cereals lined up on the unit by the sink. She LOVED those flaky things; they were so crunchy. But she'd promised herself that she HAD to lose some more weight She'd been trying to cut down since Christmas, and now it was summer, but still she Was nowhere near her ideal number. What harm can one helping do, she thought sullenly, as she poured wheat into a bowl and covered it in sugar and milk.
Ten minutes later Margaret had brushed down her skirt, adjusted her single string of pearls round her high-necked cardigan, and had gone into the hall to put her topcoat on. Then she saw the suit hanging from the back of the door. Clifford had put it there to attract her attention. He told her about it last night, but obviously he didn't trust her enough to remember that he wanted it cleaned. It was his plain blue one. What did he want it for, anyway? He hadn't Worn it since his deputy's wedding last November. Whatever occasion was coming up now, she wondered?
The note, pinned to the lapel, said; 'Please dry clean, darling.' She screwed the note into a ball and threw it behind the door, fighting down her irritation. What point was there in feeling bad'..' She knew he was selfish the day she married him, but she still went ahead. As her mother used to say: she'd made her bed and now she had to lie in it.
No, it wasn't fair. He treats me worse than his secretary, she thought angrily, then asked herself how he DID treat his secretary She didn't know. Margaret hadn't met the new one. Janice had left after Christmas, and she only went into Clifford's work once a year, for the office party. Margaret didn't even know what the new one was called. Judith? Jane? Margaret threw the suit over her arm And went out.
It was a nice sunny day, so she didn't need her car. It was safer in the garage, she decided. There was no telling whether it would get stolen outside her C.A.B. office. It was a rough neighbourhood down there. She looked at the houses in her road as she walked along. It's getting rougher round here, she had to admit. All these young people moving in now. Who were that new couple at number 54? She didn't know. She liked to get to know her neighbours,' and she'd tried to get round to dropping in, but hadn't managed it yet. Still, they hadn't called to introduce themselves either. Maybe young people nowadays weren't interested in people her age. Maybe Clifford was right: they SHOULD get a house in the country. She quite liked the idea of moving out of the city. Maybe they'd hear bird songs in the morning. But it would be so far to the University! How would she finish her course?
It wasn't yet nine o'clock as she reached the shops, so, of course, the Dry Cleaners wasn't open yet. She felt let down, but tried not to show it, as she turned into the side street where the little shop that housed the C.A.B. was. Laura had arrived, her powder blue car was parked right outside, but Margaret had to use her key to get in. The Bureau didn't officially open till ten on Monday morning: it allowed time for the weekly staff meeting.
Laura was the manager, and had been for nearly two years. I wonder if she's serious about leaving? Margaret thought abruptly. No. It was ridiculous, planning to have another baby at her age! Laura was busy in her office. Despite the bright weather she had the light on, and Margaret could hear her shuffling papers and opening and closing the drawers of the filing cabinet. Getting ready for the meeting, Margaret thought wearily. She went through the small reception area, past the first interview room and into the back room, the kitchen. She filled the kettle and rinsed out some cups. Whose turn is it, really? she wondered. Months ago, she had tried to start a new rota, but the page had fallen down behind the sink. It was very tiring trying to keep everyone in line.
There was the scratching of a key in the front door and someone else came in. The cheery "Hello!" shouted out told Margaret immediately who it was: Jeanette, the youngest member of their team. She had been with their Bureau a matter of months, but was already making a valuable contribution. She was SO keen, and knowledgeable. She had signed up for an Extra-Mural Studies course on Welfare Rights after Christmas, and was now their authority on all the new legislation. Even Laura referred to her for answers, but that was only because things were moving so fast. There seemed to be a new White Paper every month. It was all very confusing.
"I've got the kettle on," Margaret announced.
"I'll do it," Jeanette said, flinging her coat onto a chair. "Now: milk, no sugar. That right?"
"You have an excellent memory," Margaret told her. "Will you help me set the chairs out, after?"
"Let's do it now, before the 'Boss' arrives!"
"She's in her office," Margaret said. "I heard her working."
"All the more reason," Jeanette said, sweeping back her loose blonde hair and pretending to roll up her sleeves. "I like getting in early, then we can get things ready before Graham arrivess. So he's got nothing, absolutely nothing, to complain about. Do you think it's possible?"
Margaret laughed at her silliness. "Try to stop Graham complaining? That's impossible," she said.
The meeting was a disaster for Margaret. Graham was sitting next to her, and was in a foul mood, complaining endlessly about traffic wardens, for some reason. Laura sat opposite, her notes on her knee. She had so many things for Margaret, it didn't seem fair.
"Mrs McGrath?" Laura asked, checking a name off the list.
"I tried to 'phone for her three times," Margaret said, straining forward. "But it was late on Friday afternoon. I just couldn't get through."
"Housing Benefit?" Graham snapped. "They're all pigs, Pigs. All of them."
He looked older than his thirty years, Margaret realised for the hundredth time. He was so sour and full of loathing for the whole world, the lines were etched deep in his face. Laura kept saying that he 'was good in his place'. He was certainly persistent and never took 'no' for an answer from Civil Servants. He detested them all, and loved proving them wrong. He always managed to get his clients their full entitlement. He was good at that job.
Laura frowned at him for once. "There's no need for that sort of language," she said, reprovingly.
Graham took a sip of his tea and said nothing.
"Milk, two sugars?" Jeanette said to him, brightly.
"It's fine," he admitted. "You never forget."
"Mrs McGrath?" Laura said again.
"I'll try again after the meeting," Margaret said firmly, her fists clenched in her lap.
"We must straighten it out," Laura warned.
Jeanette looked at Margaret and noticed the characteristic vertical lines above her nose. She always screws her face up like that when she's worried, the young girl thought, suddenly feeling sorry for her older colleague. Abruptly, Jeanette smiled. "Let's think about it," she volunteered. "I think they may have put the silly old sausage on a lower amount while they wait for the Rent Officer to comment on the rent level. They may think she's paying too much and that means THEY may refuse to pay it at all."
Laura nodded, seeming to understand. It was all so confusing for Margaret; she thought the Fair Rent system had been abolished, so what was the Rent Officer doing with it? Did he still have anything to do with the setting of rent levels? How would that affect the level of benefit? She'd have to ask Jeanette after the meeting: perhaps she could explain it properly. There was so much to learn!
Margaret didn't get a chance. Laura announced the meeting was over then turned to Margaret and asked her to come into the office. The older woman tensed: what did the 'Boss' want now?
"Mrs McGrath is a special case," Margaret blurted.
"Come in and shut the door," Laura said kindly.
Margaret sunk into the chair dejectedly. Looking up at the younger woman, she put one hand to the side of her head, as if listening intently. But what could she say, she wondered?
Laura began by asking a question. "You were telling me about your University course last week. How's it going?"
Terrible, was the correct reply, but Margaret dodged it. "I'm learning a lot," she said cautiously, then realised what that meant: she didn't know much. Would Laura notice that?
"It sounds very difficult," Laura said, and looked sympathetic.
"I'm trying to make a go of it," Margaret said, her tone muffled and hesitant. She felt a little irritated. It WAS hard; was Laura trying to rub her nose in it?
"YOU'VE got the qualification," Margaret said. It just slipped out.
I've got a degree as well," Laura admitted, "but it's nothing to do with this work. I got this job on experience, really."
Margaret nodded her head. She knew: she'd heard it before.
"YOU'VE got the experience," Laura said. "You've been here longer than me. I think I might have mentioned at Christmas time, I'm thinking of packing it in next year. Would you like to take over?"
WOULD she? Of course. Margaret had hoped to get the job before Laura arrived. The interview hadn't gone very well, and she'd been passed over. The job belonged to her, really. She felt that.
"You could do the job, Margaret. I've no doubt about that."
Margaret tried to be kind. "I don't know as much as you," she murmured. Her voice sounded strange to her strangled.
"Nobody knows as much as Jeanette!" Laura said, laughing. "That's not important; anyone can pick up the facts. No, you know people. You know how to deal with the clients, and you can manage staff. I've teen you. You can cope With Graham. Few of us can!"
"I'm not sure - I'd have a damn good try!" Her sudden vehemence surprised Margaret, but the feeling was right: she wanted a crack at the job. Clifford might laugh at her presumption, but she DID feel she could do it, She wanted someone to give her a chance.
"Will you get your qualification this year?" Laura asked.
Margaret stared. She hadn't really thought about it.
"I can't - It's difficult - I don't suppose so," she said slowly.
Laura looked depressed. "You know, you let yourself down, Margaret. If only you could finish that course, get the certificate and show them, show them all, what you can do."
"I've been trying -"
"How many years?"
Too many, she had to admit. But this was getting nowhere. What did Laura want her to do?
She told her. "I've got a friend who teaches in the Extra-Mural Studies Department. I told him about your course. He seemed to think it was over the top, too much. He suggested the one-year Certificate. He said it was easier, less to learn, and it took more account of experience and maturity - your strong points! I've got the details here. I hope you don't mind: I made the first step, and picked Up an application form."
"It sounds Very exciting," Margaret said uneasily. She felt she was being rushed into something, and it didn't seem right. "I'm not sure I understand you, Laura," she added.
"Margaret, I'll be honest with you," Laura said, suddenly tense. "If you do this course next year, and finish it, I'll have no hesitation in speaking up for you to the Management Committee. I'll tell them you're my preferred successor. It may just work. But you'll have to give me some ammunition! I'll need to show you've got the intellectual stamina and the character to carry through a job. I don't mind admitting, there have been whispers, and some of them are about your University 'career' - the perinneal course you take, but never finish. Do this course, successfully, and I can almost assure you that you'll be stepping into my shoes this time next year. But if you drop THIS course too, why then you'll be the bridesmaid again, and never the bride! Listen to me, Margaret: I'm trying to help."
Margaret was stunned. She was speechless. She could accept that Laura was telling her something, thinking the was being positive And caring, but still it came over as an assault. Margaret winced she had never heard her superior be so direct. It unnerved her.
"Uh, I see what you're saying," she said at last.
"Believe it," Laura urged her. "Believe me."
"It's something that certainly needs a bit of thought."
"I'll talk to you later, then? Margaret?"
Margaret nodded, unsure. She was a trifle confused.
"Margaret? Take the brochure, please. Take the form."
She did so, left the office and went back into the kitchen. Thank goodness, Graham wasn't there. But Jeanette was.
"You look thoughtful," she said, still bubbling.
Margaret replied stiffly: "Laura thinks I might replace her."
"Of course you will!" Jeanette laughed. "How splendid. We'll make a great team. Graham will spit, of course, but let him!"
"What? I don't get you. Don't YOU want the post?"
"ME? The 'Boss'? Not on your life!"
She saw Margaret's puzzled frown and added! "Look, Margaret, I'm only here for the experience. It's temporary. As soon as I can get a proper job - I mean a FULL-TIME job - then I'll be off!"
The doorbell buzzed and Jeanette went in to see if it was a client. She left Margaret staring at the washing-up, blankly, and wondering what she ought to do. She could try and do the course that Laura had recommended. She would even try and pass it. But suppose something went wrong? Suppose she never finished the whole session, as she'd done before, many times? Who could predict depression, lack of motivation, despair even? She was prone to so many little problems, never anything grand but always enough to spoil her plans. She tried so hard, was it impossible for anyone else to understand how easily her plans could come unstuck?
The rest of the morning was a nightmare. Graham was interviewing someone, but came out, dismissed the client and immediately took on another caller, then another. Margaret hardly stirred, left in the kitchen with her thoughts. She began to wonder if anyone noticed she was there, or would care if she wasn't.
Even Jeanette was busy; Margaret wasn't sure if it was the same person, but she never seemed to emerge from the second interviewing room. Was the problem THAT difficult? There was a 'phone in there, so Jeanette could be calling the Social Security office, perhaps. Whenever Margaret turned to look at the extension on the unit in the kitchen, the light was on: busy. She never watched it long enough to spot when it wasn't being used. She felt lonely, distracted, unsure. She sat at the kitchen table and nursed a cup of tea.
It was nearly lunch-time when Graham came bustling in and announced: "I'm taking this client down to the Post Office. Tell Laura I'll be in tomorrow, usual time."
Margaret took the instructions without objection, feeling dejected, not like her usual bustling self. When Laura came through, a minute or two later, she relayed the message hesitantly.
Laura shrugged. "Margaret, do you mind if I go a few minutes early? I've got some dry-cleaning to collect."
Margaret winced, the coincidence startling her. What could she say? Could she ask Laura to drop in Clifford's suit? Somehow it didn't seem right. It was HER job: she would have to do it.
"Can you lock up? I'll see you tomorrow."
The Bureau was closed on Monday afternoon. Margaret reflected: Why? Oh, she knew, but suddenly she didn't feel sure, as though she really was getting old and couldn't trust her own memory. It was something to do with the funding; there was only enough to have the place open for five half-sessions a week, alternate mornings and afternoons. That was it, wasn't it? Who had told her that? Jeanette?
Margaret sat in the kitchen and listened to the buzz of conversation, as Jeanette kept talking to her client. When would they be finished? When could she go? When Would she be free? The thought shocked Margaret. She enjoyed her work, she knew she did. She was never keen to leave, never. She was often the last out of the office. What's happening to me, Margaret wondered, feeling tense.
Clifford. That was the problem. He had never understood why she wanted to do anything outside the home. He said to her so often - when was the last time? Maybe two weeks ago. She had been tidying the table after a particularly quiet dinner. He had said hardly a word. Now, he said, abruptly: "How's the course?" "No worse than usual," she said, trying to joke. "Why don't you give it up," he suggested. He always said that. He had been saying it since their daughter left home. She was a good girl, struggling to make ends meet as a nanny in France, learning the language and soaking up the culture. There would be big opportunities for her in 1992, even Clifford could see that - when he decided to be generous.
He was more concerned with their son, John. Always had been. He had decided to follow in his father's footsteps and go into industry, but not in the same business. He was working for a nice firm now, large, with international connections. They were moving him around a lot, but he was always getting promoted and Clifford was proud of him, as he kept telling his wife.
It was very irritating for Margaret.
"It's important for me," she said, trying to remind him that she was a person too, and had some thoughts of her own, after all.
"Your home's important to you, Aren't I important to you?"
"Of course you are!"
"Most wives would be happy to stay at home, in a nice house like this, looking after things."
She was becoming irritated by his tone, his patronising attitude. She thought that she had gotten used to it, over the years, and was quite surprised that he still managed to nag her into anger. Why had she ever believed she could change him, make him more loving? She was stuck with her marriage, she now realised, and it was empty - empty as their four-bedroomed house, now the children had left.
"What things?" she said, her tone muffled, unreal.
"He looked around, groping for words. "Cooking, cleaning -"
It was obvious he had no idea what housewives were meant to do. He had the old-fashioned assumption that women KNEW what to do. Maybe he thought it was lore, traditional, handed down from female parent to female child. He expected her to stay on the premises just BE here, at his beck and call, perhaps. He liked the IDEA of a wife at home. He valued her meeting him at the door each evening. It was a pity he made no effort to be consistent in what time he would come home, though, and never let her know if he was going to be late. He liked the thought of a hot meal ready and waiting for him, but never considered the practicalities of dinner becoming burnt and blackened in an oven while he discussed business past the official hour.'
She said: "It's what I'm interested in, dear."
She shook her head, not understanding. Why, HE spent most of his day out of the home, working with others. Why couldn't she?
"A pity," he said cruelly, "that you spend more time helping other people than looking after your own family."
'Looking after?' What did he want? What did either of them need? He kept reminding her that his income meant they wanted for nothing. Why ask for a wife? Maybe he needed a nanny too, like the people in France.
"I - I do the best I can," she reminded him. Her voice was weak, and seemed almost to fail her. She tried to do what he wanted, she knew she did, but she couldn't understand him really. Deep down. That was the problem. She had never understood him. But she was stuck-with him.
"I know you try," he said, "but how can you ever have enough time when you're down at that damned shop all the time!"
Five half-sessions a week, she felt like shouting. Weren't there enough hours in the day to take her out of this rut and into the world? Wasn't she allowed to think about people with problems, when THEY had none, (as he kept telling her). He didn't like her talking about her work, of course. He never seemed that interested that he wanted to ask.
"Will you take the exam this year?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. It was awful. He knew how to hurt her: reminding her of previous disappointments, let-downs. She wanted to pass the courses she tried to absorb the information. It was just so difficult for someone her age. Maybe her memory wasn't as good as it was.
I need that qualification! she said to herself, suddenly back at the Bureau and back in the present. If only Clifford would support her. She felt the stinging pain of his criticism, and wasn't surprised that warm tears were streaming down her cheeks. Her face was hot and flushed, and a kind of despair was overwhelming her.
Jeanette chose that moment to bound in.
"Nearly finished!" she called, then stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of Margaret. The older woman looked up at her, despairingly, unable to hide the feelings welling inside her, Jeanette looked thoughtful, then said quietly: "I'll get rid of him."
Margaret didn't feel much better as she heard Jeanette show the caller to the doors mumbling too low for her to catch any words. She heard the door-lock click and the sound of Jeanette's busy footsteps, then looked round to see the younger woman standing in the doorway.
"Tea?" Jeanette said. Margaret shook her head. She'd had too many that morning already.
Jeanette came up the other side of the table, sat down and took Margaret's hands in her own. The younger woman's touch was Warm and strangely reassuring. Her face was a picture of concern.
"Tell me," she said gently.
Margaret didn't want to say a word. Confessing things was not something she was used to, and she fought the urge to talk. But the wasn't strong enough to keep silent any longer. It all came tumbling out, one thing after another - the strain at home, her longing for promotion, her despair at college.
"I won't complete the course," she admitted. "I've failed again this year. I would have signed up again, if only - One more time? What's the point! I'm at the end of the road. Maybe, maybe I can't pretend anymore. I'm sorry, Jeanette."
The young woman brushed that aside. She wasn't about to let Margaret sink into self-pity. She turned over the brochure on the table, and turned up the application form that Laura had produced.
"What's this?" she asked briskly. "The 'certificate' course? I see. That's more like it."
Margaret told her that Laura had recommended it.
"It's just what you need!" Jeanette agreed. "Look: Margaret -" She stared at the older woman, her eyes searching the face. "You keep trying, even if you never succeed, even when nobody WANTS you to succeed. You've no idea how much I admire you! I do." She brushed aside the protests. "Nobody has told you that you can do it, but you keep right on going. That's amazing. It's the most difficult thing in the world."
"You succeed," Margaret protested.
"My mother always told me I could do anything I set my heart on," Jeanette said cheerfully. "Yes, I took a course. I passed."
"YOU could be Bureau Manager!"
"I don't WANT to be," Jeanette said, still smiling, still holding hands. "YOU want to be, and you could do it. If only you believed the people who say they believe in you. Laura has confidence in you. Me too. We'll support you. You CAN do it."
"I wish my husband shared your sympathy," Margaret said grudgingly.
"Men!" Jeanette admonished. "Who needs them? Margaret, let's stop pretending. You CAN do what you want. You want to finish your course? Then DO it. You want Laura's job? Of course you can! But that's the secret: you have to DO it. You want to start? We start now, today. No time like the present, as my mother used to say."
Margaret felt confused, bewildered. "I don't think -"
"Time enough for thinking!" Jeanette said brightly. "Later, Margaret. Let's put that aside for now, shall we? What's the first task? Why, to fill in this form and get you onto the proper course. You start that in September, you pass, and then you're on target for Laura's post when she leaves. That sounds like a fairly achievable ambition for now. Later, we can talk about really sorting your life out."
Margaret gazed at the younger woman in awe, impressed and hardly able to think straight. Jeanette was telling her all the things she wanted to hear, but fear and trepidation were almost paralyzing her. It seemed right, but how could she hope to do it? How could she ever imagine arriving at some place she really wanted? She was so used to travelling, she couldn't picture arriving. What should she do?
Jeanette started to show her. She pushed a pen across the desk.
"This form looks straightforward," she said, bossily. "You start with your name and so on. I'll help you with the rest. Any questions?"
Later, Margaret thought to herself. Yes, then I will have some questions. Not right now, thanks.
She picked up the pen. Let's DO it, she thought.
Now!