The Peas and Carrots Series Boxset 1, page 22
part #1 of Peas and Carrots Series
Eric went to the fridge, pulled out a can of tonic and topped up their two large measures of gin.
‘Abi wants to come to the funeral,’ she said. ‘She asked if it would be okay.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said it would be up to you.’
‘What do you think?’
Suzy shrugged. She took a large gulp of her drink. Eric did the same. He winced. There was strong and strong. Suzy spoke next. ‘She knows what happened. She knows a funeral’s where people go to say goodbye. I think if you’re okay with it I am.’
‘I’ll probably hang around after, just for a bit, if that’s okay? See if I can help out at all.’
Suzy took another sip of her drink. When she drew the glass away, she pressed her lips together in a flat straight line.
‘What?’ Eric said.
‘Nothing.’
‘No say it. You think I’m interfering, don’t you? Poking my nose in where it’s not welcome, but I’m not. I’m only trying to help.’
‘I know that.’
‘Then what is it?’
Suzy placed her glass on a coaster. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and drew in a deep breath.
‘I think you’re doing all this, keeping yourself busy, because it stops you thinking.’
‘Thinking? About what? About Norman?’
‘No,’ Suzy said. ‘About your dad.’
Eric frowned and took an extra-large gulp of his gin. He winced again then shook his head and took another mouthful.
‘Why would I be thinking about my dad? I already went to his funeral.’
‘Well,’ Suzy said. ‘You have to admit that for quite a while there, your relationship with Norman was pretty similar to your relationship with your dad.’
‘That’s ridiculous. Norman was Norman. My father was my father. And the only thing the two had in common was being old and having neighbouring allotments. Oh, and loving a car more than people I suppose.’
‘That’s not entirely true, is it? I mean there’s the small factor of Norman making your life a living hell for six months —’
‘I wouldn’t say —’
‘And your desire to prove them both wrong —’
‘Again, that’s not exactly how —’
‘And the fact that deep down all you really wanted was their respect.’
Eric didn’t reply. He exhaled in a huff through his nostrils. ‘I’m a grown man, Susan,’ he said.
‘I know that, Eric. But as far as I can see, the one major difference between Norman and your father is with Norman, you got the time to work through your issues.’
Eric went to take another swig of his drink only to find his glass empty. He reached over and grabbed the bottle.
‘I guess you’ve got all that psychobabble nonsense from a book or something,’ he said and was kind of grateful when she didn’t reply.
Chapter 30
THE FUNERAL WAS on the Thursday of the following week. Eric, Suzy, and Abi had all gone down the night before, having reserved their room at the Sailboat in advance. To try to make dinner a less sombre affair, they bought their fish and chips and headed down to the river, but after ten minutes of dive-bombing seagulls and an unseasonable chill to the air, they abandoned the idea and took them back up to the hotel room. Eric dumped their wrappers in the bin by the door and as a result, they arrived at the church the next morning with a subtle yet distinct bouquet of vinegar in their wake.
The church was already three-quarters full when Eric, Suzy, and Abi arrived. All the pews were occupied, though the number of occupants varied from as many as a ten to as few as four. Eric shuffled in with his eyes down and cursed himself for bringing Abi. Funerals made him feel funny. He hadn’t been to that many, perhaps that was the issue. When you are approaching forty and the only funerals you’d attended were your parents’ and grandparents’, they take on an even weightier prospect. No child should attend a funeral, not even if they ask, he decided. Eric glanced at his side. Abi had chosen her outfit herself – a knee-length navy brocade dress and dark woollen cardigan. On the plus side, Eric thought, if she did take a turn for the worse, he could always insist that he be the one to take her out for some air. Suzy would understand.
Keeping his eyes down, Eric led his family down the aisle, apologising as they slipped into a pew, two rows from the back.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to go nearer the front?’ Suzy asked.
‘It’s not a rock concert,’ Eric replied. ‘Besides. That’s where the family are.’
Forgetting his eyes-down-in-churches rule, Eric glanced towards the altar. As if sensing the moment, Cynthia turned around from the front and caught his eye. Eric did a double take. She was a far cry from the figure he usually saw at the allotment and the old lady he’d seen that morning at her house. For starters, she looked at least a decade younger. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, now dyed a glistening champagne blonde and from the look of it freshly permed. More striking still was that rather than donning the traditional black attire expected of the widow in these events, Cynthia had opted for a sunflower-yellow dress, complete with a patterned blue shawl and hat, both of which were adorned with fresh tulips. Had he not been certain of the date, time and persons in attendance, Eric may well have found himself thinking he’d gate-crashed a wedding. Or perhaps Abi’s Easter parade.
It was a few moments later that Eric realised Cynthia was not the only one in what he’d have considered inappropriate attire. The immediate family appeared to have coordinated to ensure that every colour of the spectrum was covered, while elsewhere floral patterns and paisleys, men in bow ties and boaters, and women with fascinators, cardigans, and enough fresh flowers to have their own stand at Chelsea Flower Show, graced the pews. The flowers on the altar were not lilies like at his mother’s funeral, but massive bouquets of sweet peas, peonies, astrantia, and cow parsley.
Eric turned to Suzy, who also appeared to have noticed their error.
‘I think we may be a little underdressed,’ she said.
The dress code wasn’t the only surprise of the service. There were speeches, many that Eric considered extremely inappropriate, a slideshow of Norman’s most revered practical jokes, and the only song sung by the congregation was a Karaoke version of Lou Reed’s Perfect Day.
Eric’s lungs quivered. This Norman, the Norman that people had come to pay their respects to had been so much more than the man Eric had come to know. He had been quick-witted and fashionable. First to laugh at himself and the first to help others. He had been a teacher and a student but also a son, an uncle, and a husband. He had, if these speeches rang true, always been the last to get a drink in, but the first to pick up the tab at the end of the night. Most of all, though, he’d been a family man.
The last surprise came as the casket disappeared. It was a slight click that started it, then a short riff that, although Eric must have heard a thousand times in his life, took him a full ten seconds to place. By the third chorus, every member of the congregation was on their feet swinging their hips and lip-syncing to The Jam’s ‘Going Underground’. Tears streamed down people’s cheeks, with Eric unsure whether the cause was grief or the downright ridiculousness of the situation. As they left the church, Abi was holding her parents’ hands, swinging between them as she continued to whistle the tune.
‘That was great,’ she said. ‘Can we go to another funeral tomorrow?’
Eric didn’t stay long at the wake. Despite the drizzle, people were already spilling up the stairs and out into the backyard. There were lots of “How long did you know him?” and “Where did you meet?” and Eric wasn’t really in the mood for talking about the allotment or his father’s death, or anybody’s death for that matter. He spotted Cynthia and made a beeline for her.
‘I’ll be back down at the weekend,’ he said, clasping her hand. ‘Just let me know if there’s anything I can do before then?’
‘You’ve done too much already,’ Cynthia said. ‘And I’m sorry I didn’t mention Norman’s magical not melancholy dress code to you. I thought you’d already know.’
‘It’s no problem. I’ll see you on Sunday, at the allotment then?’
Cynthia paused. Her bottom lip twitched slightly, then her eyes did a quick scan of the room. Deciding the coast was clear, she moved in next to Eric and whispered in his ear.
‘Not a bloody chance. They’re a bunch of obsessives, the lot of them. More concerned with the straightness of their cucumbers than anything else. Present company excluded of course.’
Eric laughed. ‘But I’ll see you soon?’ he said.
‘Of course you will.’
It was only by chance that Eric saw the email that night. He had switched off his phone before the service then forgotten about it, only remembering when he climbed into bed and went to set his alarm.
He sat upright, pulling the duvet up and over his chest.
‘Well, this is it. Jack’s announced the meeting’s tomorrow. Hartley’s coming in too. All directors at nine. Team debriefs after that. All other meetings to be postponed.’
‘What do you think it’s about?’ Suzy folded the corner on her book and put it back on the nightstand.
‘It’s the restructuring. It has to be.’
‘So, what will happen next? You don’t think Jack will let you go?’
Eric put down his own book and switched off the bedside lamp.
‘What will be, will be,’ he said. ‘No point worrying about it now.’ He only hoped that the lack of light and fact he was facing away from his wife may have been enough to convince her he wasn’t lying straight through his teeth.
Chapter 31
EVERYWHERE ERIC LOOKED people were huddled in little groups, whispering to one another. Eyes darted frantically around the room, all making sure that nobody was in possession of a tiny snippet of information that they did not yet have.
It was a scorching day. Shirt collars clamped around the men’s necks. Most of them had loosened their ties; several had removed them altogether. The women fared little better in the tailored dresses and shirts, although Eric did spy one or two who had sensibly opted for something looser and a little more aerated. He was infinitely envious.
‘Perfect fucking timing.’ Greg was sitting on Eric’s desk, chewing on the end of Eric’s favourite ballpoint. He stopped, studied it for a second, then moved to place the pen back in Eric’s pot.
‘It’s fine,’ Eric said. ‘You keep it.’
‘Sweet,’ Greg said, pocketing the pen. A split second later, he pulled a new pen out of the pot and was chewing on that.
‘I asked Emily to move in with me last night,’ he said with a look of gloom.
‘You did what? The intern? I didn’t even know you were dating.’
‘Well. We weren’t and then we were, and then it turns I actually quite like her. Anyway, it won’t matter. She’s hardly going to want to stay with me if I don’t have a job.’
‘It won’t come to that.’
‘It might.’
Eric stayed silent. He didn’t want to offer too much false optimism; he barely had enough for himself as it was.
At eight fifty-five, Eric and the other directors huddled into the boardroom, each one adhering to their own, individualised tics. While Greg was busy gnawing his way through an expensive-looking fountain pen, one of the senior associate directors was unabashedly chewing his nails and spitting out the off-cuts. There was also shoe-tapping, lip-picking, and handwringing to add to the mix. Eric realised his own foible was to stare intently at every other person in order to pick out their idiosyncrasies while avoiding any admission of his.
Jack Nelson and Alistair Hartley were both smiling as they entered. Jack, who was wearing a bottle green suit, took his laptop over to the screen and made eye contact with each person in the room. Hartley sat down and got his phone out.
‘So,’ Jack began. ‘Let me start by saying thank you for your patience. But I’m not going to beat around the bush. Let’s get down to the reason we’re all here.’
The meeting was a first in that every senior and associate director remained absolutely silent until they were certain Jack had finished speaking. The nail-biting had stopped, as had the pen-chewing and the people judging. No one knew where to move or look and certainly not what to say.
‘I know you will all have a lot to discuss,’ Jack said. ‘And I shall catch up with all of you later. For now, I’ll let you think over what we’ve just said.’
With that, they left.
It was Greg who was the first to speak, finally breaking the minute-long silence that had engulfed them.
‘Did anybody manage to follow that?’ he said.
‘I think it means we’re screwed,’ said one of the associate directors.
‘Not all of us,’ someone else chipped in. ‘Just some of us. Just some of us are screwed.’
Eric kept his thoughts to himself as he too tried to decipher exactly what they’d all been told.
Yes, there was to be a restructuring. Yes, there were to be job cuts. Yes, they were to be part of the process. No, even though they were directors, it did not mean they were safe. Yes, they would answer all their questions. No, they wouldn’t do that now. Yes, every situation would be viewed in a personal, case-by-case scenario. No, they couldn’t discuss that with them now either. Yes, there would be one-on-one meetings. No, the order that these meetings happened wouldn’t mean anything. Yes, they would be required to fire people. Yes, it would probably get unpleasant. Yes, this was all extremely necessary in order to bring the business forwards.
Eric’s insides churned. Fifteen years at Hartley and Nelson, and he’d fired exactly four members of staff. And each one had been deserved. The thought of calling someone into an office to tell them that he was stripping them of their entire financial security was enough to make him nauseous. Then again, perhaps he was already out the door. Perhaps Nelson and Hartley had already deemed him unstable, and he’d be one of the first to pack his bag, collect whatever little bundle of redundancy they deemed him worthy of, and trundle off down the treacherous road of unemployment. Fortunately, it wasn’t too long a wait to find out.
The meetings for the directors were to start after lunch. While the majority of the possibly condemned huddled together in the communal area for moral support, Eric waited at his desk, blinds drawn down. His stomach was in a bad enough state already. The last thing he wanted to do was drive himself mad seeing who had been called in first and second, how long they took, or how ruffled they looked when they reappeared.
At 5.00 PM, when he still hadn’t been summoned, Eric messaged Suzy to tell her that he’d be late home. She replied to wish him luck. He then messaged her again at seven to apologise and wish Abi a good night, and yet again at eight to tell her not to wait if she wanted to eat without him. Suzy replied to all the messages and said she’d wait for him to get home before she ate. She then sent another message immediately afterwards to say that she’d order food early though as the delivery time at the Sichuan could be hellish on a Friday night. When his phone buzzed for the third time, Eric almost ignored it until he glanced at the screen and saw Jack’s name flashing up behind the glass.
Come in when you’re ready, it read.
There was little that could rival the view from Jack’s office. As nine o’clock approached and the summer sun sank low into the horizon, Eric stepped into the room and drank in the scene. Through the windows, the sun clipped the roof tiles and cast them in a cloud of berry pinks and indigo. Below them, the Thames glinted and reflected every colour it was offered. It was a perfect scene; peaceful, serene, intelligent. But for some reason, while gazing at the plush white carpet and aged leather desk, Eric transported himself back to the little office of Christian Eaves. This was it, the furthest away from Burlam that any man could get. And it wasn’t just the furniture or the carpet or the view. Jack’s office smelt successful. It smelt of polish and wood and the air had a minty – almost caustic – tang that was impossibly far removed from the sea-blighted offerings of the east coast. This office was everything Eric had dreamed of, and from where he stood, he felt a very long way away.
‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Hartley said. Eric turned to Jack, who offered one sombre nod.
‘That’s crazy,’ Suzy said, chewing on a spring roll. ‘Insane. I mean. Not that I doubted you, but wow. Really, wow.’
Eric chewed on his chow mien. It was after ten when he got home, and Suzy had reheated the noodles for him in the microwave. They tasted okay, but the texture had altered to something resembling polystyrene foam tubes. He munched the mouthful the best he could, then swallowed.
‘Education is where they want to focus, apparently. Schools, colleges, universities. Apparently, they want to slim down and specialise.’
‘So, Director for Education. How does that feel?’ Suzy said.
‘Bizarre,’ Eric admitted. ‘Jack wants me over in Norwich next week, then Glasgow, and Birmingham over the weekend. Not exactly sure how I’m going to manage that.’
‘You’ll find a way if it’s what you want to do.’
‘I know,’ said Eric.
Chapter 32
AT FIRST, ERIC thought Greg was the reason he couldn’t sleep. Despite sending him three messages asking how his meeting had gone, he’d heard nothing.
‘He’s probably out celebrating,’ Suzy groaned. ‘That’s what people do at this hour. Celebrate, or sleep.’
‘Maybe,’ Eric said.
While Suzy shuffled about under the covers, Eric’s mind continued to race.
‘Maybe I’ll just give him a quick call,’ he said and climbed out of bed.
It took two gin and tonics and several episodes of QI for Eric to decide not to call Greg. Calling someone at three in the morning, even if you did have their best intentions at heart, was not something a man like Eric did. Forty-five minutes later, he was staring at the ceiling wondering how he’d never noticed all the cobwebs up there before and whether it would be a good time to try to get them.
