Sarah Wall sat at her new desk, in her new office, on her first day. Not the first day at work, but as her father told her, it is the first day of the rest of your life. That was when he gave her The Pen. A gold Waterman pen, a beautiful object in its own right and in the right hand capable of producing beautiful work. In Sarah’s hand, it would have to produce her best work if she was ever going to get the chance of succeeding. She had thanked her father sincerely; it was a wonderful gift and knew it was kindly meant, even though she knew it she would hardly ever get to use it. Now the main feature was not the pad of paper nor the typewriter that offices had in his day, but a computer screen and keyboard. A small laser printer discretely humming to itself awaiting her commands.
After the first interview, she knew she was riding high. High enough that she had to tell someone, and the only people that mattered to her, were her father and her brother. Dad was out and, reluctantly, she dialled her brother and told him the good news. For a while he was delighted, then he took each of the good points and destroyed them. By the end of the call, she knew that he was right. Every good phrase that she had remembered, rehearsed, rolled around her tongue, and practised saying to herself, he had questioned. Pointed out the falseness of their smile, taken each, word perfect comment, and turned it around. Reversed the meaning, in the way that can only be done in English. Eventually, she could hear the condescending tone in his voice as he destroyed her hopes. She had always known his final comment was true, it was easy to be kind to job applicant when you have no intention of hiring them.
She had put the phone down and gone into the kitchen, and poured a fresh coffee from the percolator, put her head in her hands and cried. She had fostered high hope of this chance, and they had been dashed. It was a low point but not her lowest.
She remembered her actual first job. As office temp, in a room full of middle-aged women. She liked the women, although they could intimidate her; Eileen, the department head certainly could. One word from her was worse than her head at school. She vividly remembered going red when she told her that she would be the Head Girl in September. One of the greatest days of her life, but she had still blushed to the roots remembering all the things she had said about the head, all the little pranks they had played. All the times, she had been late with her work or turned up without polishing her shoes. Every infringement of the rules came rushing back in that interview. As she had stood there, she remembered her first day at school, the years stretching ahead, the fear of the unknown, being a new girl when everyone else knew everything, and mostly, the fear of the bigger girls.
The frozen field where they would play hockey. Her trying to defend the goal, while a red-faced giant thundered towards her from another school. The sports master shouting ‘Man up girl’; and one of the braver girls shouting back – ‘open your eyes, she’s a girl’. Frozen cold, miserable and useless at the game. Her memories of her early school were not something she liked to dwell on. But as she passed through the school, more or less, unscathed, she found her feet, found her strengths and conquered her weaknesses. Most of them, she would always be useless at hockey. However, to be promised Head-Girl was a surprise, the best she had received up to that date.
But the surprise had been different the first day of her temp job. Again, like her first day at school, she had moved from the top to the bottom. From a position of knowledge and power to ignorance and dependency.
The morning had gone well, she had learnt all that she could have learnt on her new first day in an office. Then the real boss came in and sat on her desk, called her a pretty little thing and an asset to the dull office, and invited her to take a drink with him later. Of course, she had said yes, who would not?
Ten minutes after he had gone, she was still blushing, and Eileen asked her to come and sit beside her desk.
‘Don’t let him get away with anything this evening.’ She had said, and there was silence in the rest of the office, and Sarah could feel everyone looking at her. Then one spoke up.
‘He suffers from WHT.’ She looked at the faces of the others, confused.
‘Wandering hand trouble.’ And one of the others had laughed.
‘He’ll have his hand inside your knickers faster than you can with diarrhoea.’ Then they all laughed. Then Lesley spoke up from the back row, her neighbour.
‘He’s never tried it on with me.’ Lesley’s voice had an odd, quality that Sarah found comforting.
‘That’s ‘cause no one knows whether to spell your name, i.e. or ey.’ The entire office laughed, including Lesley.
‘You bitch.’ Lesley said.
‘OK girls, I think that Sarah’s has got the point,’ and as quickly the office returned to normal.
‘I thought he wanted to welcome me to the family.’ Eileen nodded, understanding.
‘You have been warned. He will try it on, and in his case, a refusal is expected and does not give offence. He might be a bit cold with you the next day, and as soon as there is another new girl, he will try it on again. Men do.’ And for a second, Sarah pictured biting into an apple and finding half a maggot inside, grinning up at her. She had lasted for the whole of the summer there and got to like them all very well. That seemed like only yesterday, and sometimes, she wished she was back in the back row with headphones on, laughing with the other girls, fending off advances, most of them anyway.
Two weeks after her first interview, she had received the call for a second interview. She had spoken to her father and telephoned her mother. Mother had said that she should wear a low-cut blouse. Father had told her to admit to not knowing everything.
‘Men are bullshitters and have excellent “bullshit” antenna. Five of them will be four against one, you can engage one, but not five. If you try to pull the wool over their eyes, they will rip you to shreds.’
And they had pushed her. She was reminded of a child that learns the word “why”. They kept delving until she had to say that didn’t know the answer. Children don’t really want to know “why”, they only want to find the edges of your knowledge. Eventually, or rather quickly, if the truth was told, they had reached the edge of her knowledge, and she had told them. She also told them that she would never tell them something she was not certain about. She liked to know the facts and loathed bullshitters.
She knew that she had blown the interview at that moment. You are not meant to say things like “bullshitter” in a formal interview. There are accepted terms of address.
Modern professional office ‘speak’ is acceptable. Sarah could have said she only had a “helicopter view” of the subject, or that she would need to “look under the bonnet” to “get a handle on that”. She might have said that was a “strategic staircase” and she would pursue it through an “idea shower”.
But she had said she did not know the answer and could not stand bullshitters, and as she said it, she could see their faces change.
All euphemisms; covers for the truth, avoidance of frank comment or merely ways to get you over a hump. Often, merely a way to hide your ignorance.
Tell the truth and shame the devil. It was her great aunt’s guiding phrase, and hers; as was her father’s. Best that you keep your mouth shut, and let them think you are stupid than opening it and proving it.
However, it was one of her mother’s phrases that she often lived by. Be confident in what you know, but don’t boast or show off your knowledge. Let them discover the depth of your knowledge, and they’ll never question your ability.
Someone in an interview, a woman in an interview, in particular, should never use anything other than the Queen’s good English. And that does not include the term bullshitters.
So, she travelled home on the bus, feeling ostentatious in her ‘interview suit’ surrounded by children, mothers and casual workers; the sly looks and nudges from some of the mothers showing her what she already knew. She looked ridiculous.
Eventually, the purgatory was over, and she was able to walk home, but out of the city, she felt even more conspicuous.
This time she didn’t bother to tell her brother, and her father was away for the week. She could pour herself a sherry, go up to the spare bedroom and collect one of her favourite films then sit with a Tesco curry and a chocolate pudding, and not have to analyse the day. She turned on the shower and changed as her evening meal was heating, then went downstairs prepared to celebrate her disaster.
The next day she received the telephone call.
That seemed so long ago. Her father had taken her out and bought her the pen. He would have bought anything for her, but it was something that she had seen, discrete, sophisticated quality and hoped that she could live up to the promise.
Now, Sarah ran her hand over the desktop. Solid mahogany, smooth and carefully polished. It didn’t look like a piece of toffee, nor flat like a piece of Formica. Perhaps she would bring in a little beeswax and give it a wipe over each morning. So long as no one saw her. They would smirk, and she smiled at the thought, it was probably only a veneer.
To her side, there was a small pile of folders, and she opened the first of them, opened her drawer and took out a pad of Post-it notes and wrote a short note on the first document. For the next ten minutes, she did the same, knowing that each one would give them more careful attention, but the short notes would help later.
For a second, she felt like telephoning her brother but knew that he would only have some ribald comment to make, nothing constructive. He would know that she was bluffing, sitting at a veneered table waiting for the genuine work to start, not knowing if she would handle it. Knowing that the notes she had made, were merely the tip of the iceberg, the real work would, bog her down and destroy her more than if she had not got the job; remind her of the first bight of the apple and the worm.
Therefore, she did not phone her brother, in fact, she unscrewed her pen and checked the cartridge. It would look so unprofessional if she had to ask to borrow a biro. Then she lifted the telephone and pressed the button.
‘I’d like to see the cabinet in three hours’ time.’
‘Yes, Prime Minister, I’ll organise that for 11.’