Willard (Ratman’s Notebooks) Read online

  “You’ve been given every chance,” he replied. “I understand your potential is rated as nil.” He turned over some papers and looked secretly at one of them. “Yes. ‘Potential Nil.’ ” Obviously this was the work of the Consultant.

  I had to keep on talking. If I kept on talking I might somehow be able to stay in my job. I wouldn’t be sacked till he actually told me so. He wanted to tell me, but he was having difficulty. I must have something about me. He feels that I am still the real boss’s son, and he’s frightened to sack me. Or perhaps it’s because I’m the boss’s son he wants to sack me. Much more likely. All these thoughts flashed through my mind. I said, “You mean there’s no other job in the firm that you feel you could promote me to?”

  “Exactly.” You could see that he got pleasure from using a word like that. It made him feel so competent. A man of decision, he thought to himself. A man of few words.

  “But I’m doing my present job all right.” I knew he couldn’t deny that.

  ‘You’re doing your present job reasonably enough,” he admitted in a lofty way, “but it’s a job you’ve been doing since you came out of your apprenticeship. We can’t go on paying a man to do work that could be done equally well by a girl, or a boy just into the place a year or two.”

  “But I’m not paid as much as the men in the store,” I pointed out. “I haven’t had a raise since before Father died and all other wages have gone up lots of times.”

  “We could get a girl to do it for less money,” he said. “We’d have liked to keep you, on your father’s account, but there’s no room for sentiment in business nowadays. Everything has to be streamlined, cut to the bone. Can’t afford an extra penny anywhere.”

  I saw a glimmer of hope. “If it’s just a matter of salary . . . I mean, if you really would keep me on Father’s account. I mean, I could maybe take a bit of a reduction.”

  “This is very awkward,” he grumbled. “We’d decided to have your job done by a girl. In fact there was one coming to see me this afternoon. Now what am I going to do?” He put on a worried expression.

  “If you could see your way to keep me, I’d do the job for whatever you were going to give her.”

  “That’s all very well,” he said, “but we don’t want you coming back in six months’ time, and asking for a raise. If you’re going to stay, you’ll have to take what we give you, and be thankful.”

  ‘If you let me stay, I won’t ask for a raise again. I’ll leave it to you to give me what you think fit.”

  “I’ll think it over,” he said, suddenly becoming just himself in the singular. “Now you’d better get back to your work and not waste any more of my time.”

  I sneaked out. I went back to my desk in the Cash Office. I sat down, but I couldn’t work. I felt covered in shame. So they didn’t want me any more. They thought a girl could do the work as well—and at less money. After all these years they’d just throw me on the street. My father’s old firm too. I hated Jones and his efficiency.

  After a while I got out of my daze a bit. People came in and I had to attend to them. Maybe I wouldn’t get the sack. Maybe he’d let me stay on with a bit of a cut in salary. And no one need ever know. It wouldn’t make all that difference. I hadn’t been able to manage before on what I was getting. I’d just have to speed up the start of my criminal activities.

  Presently the girl came along. There was no one in the Cash Office now but the two of us. She put her hand on my shoulder and leaned over me. I was conscious that she was female and attractive. Ordinarily I would have resisted such feelings, having long ago realized that they only lead to complications. But today I felt weak. I pressed my cheek against her arm. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “Nothing much. Just Jones being his usual charming self.”

  “What’s he up to now?”

  “Oh, apparently I’m unnecessary. The job could be done as well and more cheaply by a girl.”

  Why did I tell her this? I hadn’t meant to tell anyone. I didn’t know what had come over me. I realized presently that her left hand had moved from my right shoulder to my left cheek. Her right hand was on my right wrist. She was pressing my face into herself. I felt what I suppose must have been a kiss on the top of my head. I had an extraordinary sensation of comfort. All my troubles seemed to be wiped out. A feeling of bliss and peace. ‘You poor, poor man,” she murmured, kissing me again.

  Suddenly she drew away. The Book-keeper was returning. He came in, and looked at me—rather oddly, I thought. But I don’t think he can have seen anything. I mean me and the girl.

  Time passed. The girl went off to the Ladies’ to help with the afternoon tea-making. Later she came back with a cup for me and one for the Book-keeper. I noticed that I had been given a saucer. This was a special attention. Usually only Jones and the Book-keeper get saucers. The girl went back to the Ladies’ to have her tea with the other girls. Seems a funny place to have it when you come to think of it, but they’ve always done it that way.

  The girl came back and the Book-keeper was sent for by Jones. He stayed quite a while. I wondered if they were discussing me—whether I should be kept or not. I said to the girl, “I wonder if they’re talking about me.”

  She looked puzzled. “You mean Mr. Jones . . .”

  I gave a sort of little laugh. “Well, both of them. It takes two to make a conversation.”

  “You mean, Mr. Jones is telling him that he’s, he’s . . .” She looked embarrassed and then came out with it. “That he’s given you the sack.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m hoping that he’s telling him just the opposite, that . . .”

  She interrupted and of course failed to take in what I was saying. “I’m sure he must have told him beforehand.”

  “In that case, he may be telling him that he’s changed his mind. I hope so.”

  “But do you think he will change his mind?”

  “I don’t see why not. He said he’d think it over.”

  “Think what over?”

  “My proposition.”

  Suddenly she got quite cross. “What proposition? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I suggested that he should keep me on.”

  “You did? But what makes you think he’ll pay any attention?”

  “I offered very favourable terms.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I said I’d take less money. Whatever the female replacement was to get, I’d take the same. Complete equality of the sexes.”

  “Oh, you fool,” she exclaimed. “You bloody, bloody fool.”

  I was quite surprised at her language. “I don’t see there’s any sense calling names,” I told her.

  “But don’t you see, that’s what he meant you to do. It was a trap and you walked straight into it. He’d no intention of sacking you. He just worked out this little scheme to get you to take less money.”

  “Nonsense. I don’t believe a word of it.”

  And I don’t. I’m not sure I wouldn’t believe Jones’s word rather than hers. Specially after what I’ve thought of since. Jones said there was a girl coming in to see him this afternoon about my job. See above. But no girl came. At least no girl from outside came. The only girl he saw was her. When she brought in his tea. He’d been going to tell her then and she’d some idea of it. When he didn’t she didn’t worry, because I’d already told her I was getting the sack. She thought everything was going smoothly from her point of view. That explains why she was so cross when I told her I might be staying on. Just shows. You can never trust a woman. Not that I did trust her. But just think. Kissing me and all that.

  Today Jones sent for me again. It was like him to keep me on tenterhooks for a week. He’s a sadist. I’m to stay on, but it’s to be the way he said. I’m never to ask for a raise again. I’m to accept what they give me and be thankful. I promised. I’m being cut three pounds a week. I promised that I wouldn’t let it make any difference, that I’d still work as hard
as I possibly could in the best interests of the firm. So I will, but I’ll get even with him yet somehow.

  Some pal of Jones’s is going for a week to London and then doing a tour of the continent. Taking the wife. A second honeymoon, Jones calls it. Jones is green with envy. It’s not that he wants to go to the continent himself, or even London for that matter. It’s just he’s appalled that someone he knows can be in a position to spend so much money. For half an hour today he was with the Book-keeper, trying to work out what the whole trip will cost. Jones of course only understands one side of the business of money. Money for him is something you acquire and endeavour to keep. Every penny he makes is a pennyworth more of success. Every penny he spends is a pennyworth of failure. Perhaps that’s not altogether true. He wants a bit of show as well. He wants our house. I don’t think he’ll ever feel he’s really Boss till he gets it. Probably he plans to get it so cheap that it won’t cost him any more than the house he’s in. Besides he probably reckons that a house is just money in another form—so that buying a house isn’t really spending. But to spend a thousand pounds—and that’s what the Book-keeper says the trip will cost—and come back with nothing solid to show for it . . . I should like to tell him that I know people who go to the continent every year, but of course I can’t. I’m not included in the conversation. It’s the Robinsons. Not that I know them very well. It would be funny if the Joneses had to start keeping up with the Robinsons.

  I told the girl my joke about the Joneses keeping up with the Robinsons. I suppose it’s not much of a joke, but it made her laugh. I like making her laugh. It makes me feel happy. She always smiles when she says good morning. I suppose she smiles the same way to everyone—or at least to everyone she’s friendly with—but somehow I always feel it’s a special smile for me. I find myself looking forward to it from the time I wake up in the morning. I actually like going into the office.

  I don’t think she really can have been trying to take my job, though maybe Jones meant to give it to her. I wish I’d never even thought that against her.

  Jones was in great excitement again today about his friends the second honeymooners. They’re actually taking £150 in notes for the London part of their trip plus an undisclosed sum in travellers’ cheques for the continent. Mr. Honeymooner is to go to the bank on Monday to collect. They start off first thing on Tuesday. I pricked up my ears—£150 in notes. Just the opportunity I’d been waiting for. I couldn’t afford to let it slip. That amount would do me for a long time. It would make up for the cut in my salary for a whole year.

  “Who are these people?” I asked the Book-keeper, as soon as Jones was gone.

  “A couple called Malcomson. His father left him a bit of property near the center. There was an old clothes shop with a big yard behind it. It used to be used as a depot by some of the carriers from the country. He wasn’t getting a hundred a year for it before the war. In fact for years he was getting nothing at all, because it was lying vacant and no one would take it. Now it’s all part of the new development. They say he got ninety thousand from the developers. That’s how it happens these days and the lucky ones can afford to go off to the continent to celebrate.”

  “Very nice too,” the girl said. “I wish someone would drop ninety thousand into my lap.”

  “You wouldn’t know what to do with it,” the Bookkeeper told her.

  “Oh, yes, I would,” she said. “I’d marry someone with a hundred thousand. Money goes to money, you know.” At the same time she gave me a sly little look to indicate that she’d really marry me if she got ninety thousand. I’m quite sure she wouldn’t. She’d do just as she says—go all out for some chap with a hundred thousand, or more if she could manage it. They’re all the same. The biological urge plus a well-lined nest.

  “Did you hear Mr. Jones’s little joke?” The Book-keeper’s voice showed respect for Jones, but at the same time reserved the right to be patronizing about the joke. He let us know that it wouldn’t be a very good joke and that he feels as superior about Jones’s jokes as we do, without in any way being indiscreet.

  We simpered expectantly.

  “It seems the Malcomsons lived opposite Mr. Jones for about a year after they first got the money, in a house called ‘Mon Repos.’ Now they’ve moved a mile or so farther out to a big place called ‘Sandalmount.’ Mr. Jones says they didn’t repose in ‘Mon Repos’ very long.”

  We couldn’t have believed it. Jones in excelsis. We roared. All the same, I’ve now got the address. I shouldn’t have much difficulty finding it.

  I’ve just come back from reconnoitring Sandalmount. The house itself isn’t very large, about the same size as ours. But there are a lot of grounds round it, masses of rhododendrons with rustic walks going down the side of a glen to a stream with a little wooden footbridge over it. It’s the sort of place I wouldn’t mind having myself. The house is at the top of the glen, very quiet, very shut off. There’s not another house within half a mile. All of which suits me admirably.

  I parked the car in the road and walked boldly in the front gate. I’d no rats with me, not even Socrates. There’s this long avenue. I walked and walked under wet, dripping trees. I thought I’d never come to the end of it. At last it opened out and there was the house with lawns round it and a small kitchen garden at the back. I dodged in among the trees and worked right round the house without coming into the open. Eventually I decided that it would be safe enough to go even closer. There was no one coming in or out, or standing at the windows. Television was on in one of the downstairs rooms.

  I had three problems to consider—

  1) how to get the rats into the house,

  2) how to get myself into the house,

  3) how to get us all away safely, without danger of discovery afterwards.

  I came out of the shrubberies and on to the lawn. I kept as much in the shadows as possible. I avoided walking on the paths. I didn’t want to crunch the gravel. The daylight had gone, but it wasn’t very dark The stars and the lights from the house showed all I needed to see. I noticed a good many upstairs windows partly open. I felt sure they would be left open all night. There was a pile of painters’ ladders behind the garage. Evidently the house was to be painted while the owners were away.

  My reconnaissance was complete. I knew exactly what I intended to do. Then a whim came to me. I thought I would like to look at my victims. There they were, a couple about my own age, sitting side by side on a settee, watching the television—and the dog asleep on a rug on the floor. Very touching and domestic. Pots of money, but no little ones. Sad. The great tragedy of their lives. All their affection lavished on the dog.

  I looked at the dog distrustfully. I don’t mind dogs really. In fact before I became involved with rats I used to be fond of dogs. Now of course, as a criminal, I am on the other side of the fence from dogs and policemen. Dogs are the unpaid thugs of the Capitalists. At least dogs like that are. And come to think of it, they’re not unpaid at all. They live on the fat of the land. This all as I contemplated the dog’s excessive belly. (Note, added later. Little did I realize the cruel fate intended for the poor creature, or that I should be the means of saving him.)

  The dog turned over, sat up, yawned—and suddenly saw me. He shot across the room in a frenzy of barking. I dropped down below the level of the window. The window was open at the top and I could hear the voices of the man and his wife. “What’s all that about?” The man sounded mildly cross.

  “He’s been uneasy all evening. I think he’s maybe worried. Poor Toby.”

  “How would he be worried? He couldn’t know anything about it.”

  “You don’t know what dogs know. They’ve a sixth sense.”

  “Better let him out. Probably thinks there’s something there.”

  I ran swiftly for the trees, keeping close to the house till I was well out of the line of the window. A moment later the front door opened and Toby came tearing across the lawn after me. But by this time I was safely out of si
ght.

  Toby came to the edge of the trees and stopped. I saw at once that he wasn’t a very brave dog. He did a bit more barking and then began to sniff. “Rats,” he said to himself, and came cautiously in my direction. I had been standing quite still behind some bushes, but obviously he was now going to find me. It was no good waiting any longer. I turned my back on him and walked quickly towards the drive. Next moment he was barking close behind me. I knew he wouldn’t attack immediately. I didn’t really think he would attack at all, but there was a chance that if I did nothing he would bark himself into a sufficient frenzy to snap at my legs. I didn’t want a nip in the leg, or worse still, in the posterior. What would I say in the office if I had difficulty in sitting down—that I’d a boil on my bum. I suppose so. The girl would be all sympathy, but she couldn’t ask to see it. Anyhow, I turned round suddenly and made a rush at him. He was terrified. He could hardly put himself into reverse quick enough. He almost choked in the middle of a bark. I picked up a bit of broken branch and made a slash at him, I didn’t hit him, but he must have heard the swish of it through the air. He let out a shriek as if I had been skinning him alive. I saw no more of him.

  I stepped down into the drive, I was out of sight of the house. I walked down towards the gate, not hurrying unduly. Anyone coming in and meeting me would have thought I had just been paying a call—at the house I mean, not behind a tree, though I suppose they might have thought that too. At any rate, it was quite dark, specially under the trees, and there wasn’t a chance that anyone could have recognized me. More likely that someone might spot the number of my car parked on the roadside, but what of it? There are lots of cars parked at the roadside and it’s only when you actually look in and say would they mind telling you the way back to town that the heads pop up.

  But I met no one. I drove home pondering my plans. I went down to the cellar and made sure that the rats were comfortable. “I’m sorry I’ve no time to talk to you now,” I told them. “Great events are afoot.”