Perfection Comes at a Price, page 5
The two chatted for a while, and then Mr Hargreaves got up to go.
“Will you keep me posted as to how your life goes, Eric? Some news from time to time would give me such pleasure.”
“Of course I shall, Mr Hargreaves.”
When Mr Hargreaves had gone, Eric opened the present. It was an expensive Parker pen. He was delighted. Foxy old Mr Hargreaves had known exactly what Eric would really like. Bless the old man.
Chapter 9
Eric mused about Mr Hargreaves’ suggestion. During the months at the Estate Agents it had become clear to him that there was no future career in it for him. He made enquiries about the Diplomatic Service. There were two main streams of entry: the top stream, the “A” stream, for outstanding university graduates who would start at a higher level and then there was the lower stream, the “B” stream, which started at grade 9, for less brilliant candidates who would start at a more junior level. Then there was the possibility of starting at rock bottom as a clerk. Those without degrees could start at the rock bottom. However, it seemed that anyone had the possibility to climb to the top if he showed aptitude. He would have to start at the bottom and hope that in the long run what stream you entered in would make no difference.
By the autumn he had made up his mind to apply. For his level there were examinations in March every year. There would be a comprehensive written test lasting a whole day and if that went well, then it would be followed by a later interview. That would leave Eric seven months in which to cram himself with the type of knowledge the Foreign Office would be requiring. He would prepare himself with more detailed knowledge on Britain after the war. He followed the daily news like a hawk. He listened to discussions on the radio. All was sure to turn out to be helpful, but he had to prepare himself for a whole host of unexpected questions as well.
He would tell Katie very little about it till it was in the bag. Yes, Katie. He had to consider what he was going to do as regarded her. His hitherto uncomplicated thoughts about her suddenly began to blur. Why on earth was that? Her sunny disposition did him so much good. He himself was prone to dark and despairing moods. She had the knack of making his “chest feathers swell up with pride”. She understood him, she fulfilled his needs. He was aware that Katie was dreaming of marriage with him, but that thought did not fill him with joy. It should have, but it did not. This he kept well hidden from her.
He had done well in the written examination. Now he had to wait for the interview at the end of May. He felt very nervous. It was a Friday and on Saturday lunch-time Katie would come as usual. He had tonight free. Somehow his footsteps led him to the Off Licence. He got a bottle of whisky. Upon his return he opened it up at once and poured himself a good portion. He settled himself into one armchair broodily. Why were his parents suddenly in his mind? Any thoughts about the estate made him want to vomit. His dark mood got darker and darker. He poured another triple portion. He knew that he should make himself read something in order to change his thoughts, but somehow he had no energy for that. All that mattered was the bottle.
Then suddenly he heard the key in the door. It was Katie.
“Darling, somehow I just could not wait till tomorrow. So I came this evening. You look strange. What is going on?”
Eric was truly annoyed that Katie had appeared without telling him first. He had wanted his privacy – and now the girl was there!
“I am drinking. I hate that Shithall! It has blighted my entire childhood. Shit- Shit- Shithall…”
“Good heavens, Eric. How much have you already had?”
“As much as I want, and I want more.”
Eric slurred his words slightly as he poured another big portion for himself.
“Drink never solved anything….”Katie began.
“Oh shut up. It is now solving my problem. No, you are not having any of that bottle! If you want a drink, get yourself a beer from the fridge.”
“You don’t have to be so rude. You know from your own parents that…” she got no further.
“You bloody leave my parents out of this. How dare you mention them?! They have ruined my life. I hate them, I hate Shithall, I hate everything…”
Suddenly Eric burst into tears. Tears of rage and frustration and disappointment. The tears were as much a surprise for him as they were for Katie. Eric was overwrought.
“Darling Eric, you are right. I’ll pour you another one. But surely there is enough in a bottle for me to have some also? Don’ forget, I too come from Shithall.”
“All right, sobbed Eric, “you are a fellow sufferer. Come here and hold me.”
Katie went to embrace him. She let him wail till he calmed down. Then she helped him into the bathroom and then to bed.
It was the first of such incidents that Katie would witness over the years. She understood that from time to time, Eric needed to drink himself silly when something triggered thoughts of Southall. He never drank much in public. He heeded the words of Mr Hargreaves about home-truths leaking out.
The next morning Eric woke with a hang-over. He drank several cups of tea with honey and ate a piece of bread. By midday he was feeling fine and both he and Katie had a nice time. Neither mentioned the night before. That night they went dancing. As was their routine. Every two weeks Eric took Katie either to a cinema or to dancing.
May had come and gone and the interview had been done. He was unable to guess whether he had passed or not. His gut feeling was that it had gone well. And so it was to prove. In June he got the results. Yes, he had been accepted at the clerical level and he was to start at the registry in September as a grade 10. Eric got the news on a Tuesday. He was glad that he had a few days to digest these news before seeing Katie. She would be delighted for him, that was for sure, but it was bound to produce an expectant type of look in her eyes, a look that he knew all too well. It was that of an expectant bride! It made Eric cringe and feel guilty.
When Katie came on the Saturday, he greeted her with a song.
“I’m taking you for a meal today. I’ve passed the exam, my love,” sang Eric to the tune of the Teddy Bears’ Picnic. He was jubilant.
“Congratulations. I knew you’d pass. You were quite unnecessarily worrying about being a “greenhorn”. This is a great relief. I’ve noticed that since March you’ve lost weight. It’s the stress. When do you start?”
“In September. If I do well at the job, then after about two years I will be able to take the crucial test to see whether I qualify as a grade nine. After that it should be plain sailing.”
Katie was doing some mental arithmetic. They were now in June. Eric would start in September. Then, most annoyingly, there would be another two years wait till Eric would obtain the desired grade 9 and feel that he was now launched in life. She knew that he would not propose till he had reached that stage. She sighed. It meant another two and a half years of waiting!
Chapter 10
In September 1967, the nearly twenty-one year old Eric started his job at the Foreign Office. The salary was much lower than what he had earned at the Estate Agents. There the commissions had helped and Eric had managed very well because of his personality. He had been wise enough to build up a nest -egg. He would keep his portering job for a little extra. He was not even on a proper payroll there but somehow under the general portering as a part-timer. He was paid weekly in cash. For him this job was worth its weight in gold. There was usually very little to do, and he got most of his reading done there.
When he started his job at the Foreign Office Katie had been most excited. She was so proud of him. To Mr Hargreaves Eric penned a letter about his success, thanking him for the suggestion he had made.
When Eric started at the Foreign Office, he found himself in a different world. A world totally new to him. Thank heavens he had the two decent suits, in fact he would need some more. With horror he realised that he still had some remnants of the working-class accent in spite of the elocution lessons, however, to a much lesser degree than before. How dreadful. That would have to be corrected with more lessons. He needed to pay real attention to his pronunciation. Otherwise he would show that he was working-class. There was a book on etiquette (the Foreign Office, in its wisdom, made sure that their young diplomats knew how to behave), and he realised that he would have to cram that information into himself as well. It was what one was taught at home in society. Knowledge and accents were not sufficient to raise one up. Manners had to be learned. If someone held their knife and fork in an incorrect manner, nobody would comment, but that person would not be getting a second invitation. The worst was that they would not know why.
As regarded his parents, he had said that his father was employed by the Post, making it sound as if the man was in a senior position there. Two other new entrants were also in the Registry. They came from middle class families and Eric felt that he was the one and only low class entrant ever. All was well as long as nobody knew, and he would see to it that nobody ever would.
He had thought that his French was good. Now he realised that it would have to be bettered seriously. He enrolled himself into a Foreign Office course (those were available in all languages and they were excellent) and started to make headway. He liked the French language and what he knew of Paris had always made him wish to see that magnificent city one day. In fact he fervently hoped for a posting there in the future.
The large registry was pleasant. The head of the registry, Richard Bracknell (known as The Handbag behind his back) was a kind and patient man. He explained to Eric what the job would entail. The letters that were sent to the relevant desk officers from the countries they had been assigned to look after were then sent to the registry. In the registry these letters were to be read and then a short synopsis was to be written on the covering paper folder (or “jacket”, as it was called), a heading was to be given, and then the jacket and the paper were to be sent back to the desk officer for further action. When the paper had been finished with, it was to be archived in the relevant file. In the first instance it felt like a very cumbersome and work-intensive way of doing things, but after a while it became obvious as to why the method was so very practical. The skill of the officer could be seen in the synopsis of the content.
Another new entrant at grade ten was Horace Grant, who in spite of coming from Oxford, started at grade ten. He had come out of Oxford with a fourth in Geography! He had wanted to have fun in Oxford and had succeeded in his quest. He had spent his time eternally rowing and was considered a star. The actual fact had been that the board who were doing the sifting out of the candidates, had found him intriguing, and he had done well in the exams. Also, what weighed heavily in the scales was the fact that Horace was fluent in Mandarin. He himself suspected as much. The Foreign Office needed Chinese speakers. When Horace was a child, his parents had been for nearly eight years in Hong Kong. From the age of five to eight, He had been put into a Chinese school. He had learned both Mandarin and the colloquial Cantonese. He had also been taught how to write Chinese! At the age of eight, his parents had put him into the English school but had kept a special Chinese tutor for him in order for him to continue his proficiency in Mandarin.
Eric and Horace became great pals. They loved to crack jokes together and were very good at inventing office jokes where The Handbag was at the butt of their humour. They both adored their boss. Horace was one of the few who got invited to Eric’s bedsit. In fact, Horace had invited himself.
“Eric, where do you live? I want to come to visit you.”
“Do you? I live in darkest Hammersmith. Can you manage such a trek? Better put on your country clothes.”
Horace had come and had loved the place. He was also a good companion for Eric’s outings to the concerts and theatre.
“Have you got a girlfriend, Eric?”
“Not just at the moment. I have one from time to time, but nothing serious.”
There was no way that Eric would tell anyone about Katie. That was a secret. To Katie herself he did not mention that he had any special friends at work. She would otherwise become curious and would want to meet them.
Eric’s other close friend was Malcolm McGregor who was good at bridge. The two often played as partners. The third was Cecil Pemberton.
One day there was a party for the Ambassador to one of the countries for which Eric’s department was responsible. The Ambassador had come home for an international conference in London and Eric’s Head of Department thought it would be a good idea to include some of the junior staff, so as to broaden their experience and get them to help with looking after the guests.
This, the first party he attended, had happened far earlier that he had expected and that had been an eye-opener. Elegant people in good clothes mingling with ease and holding amusing conversations. Thank heavens he had a good repartee and a natural sense of humour. Intelligent and amusing comments were required at receptions. One had to have thorough general knowledge. He discovered champagne. How wonderful. Elegant sips from a champagne glass suited his style well. As everybody in those days smoked, he got himself some cigarettes and in public he would smoke perhaps two or three. Just to show that he could afford them and that he fitted into the crowd. In reality he hated cigarettes because they reminded him of the eternal blue haze of his childhood home where his mother puffed endlessly.
From the library he continued to take out books on politics, commerce, biographies of famous people. And so on. He crammed knowledge into his head. As a result he was never bored. At his job in the Registry he was excellent. His capabilities began to shine through and the this was realised by his superiors. Eric got noticed as someone who had the makings of a good career.
Katie followed Eric’s development.
“Eric, you have begun to speak different. Sort of posh. With me you can speak as always.”
“No way. You will have to cope with my “posh” accent, Katie, I am not reverting to the estate accent in any situation. I did offer you an opportunity to do the courses in elocution as well but you felt you did not want them. I know it can be a bit of a bind. But, you know, I can’t afford to stand out in the Foreign Office because of a poor accent. Call it snooty, if you like, but there is a point to it. Be so kind as to allow me to croon to you in a posh accent. My love for you has not changed, it’s only the accent. So stop fussing.”
“All right, dearest. I’ll at least try to speak clearly in return. You know that I like to please you, my love. Tell me, is there anything special going on at work?”
“As you are asking, you know the fact that Alexander Dubcek was elected the First Secretary of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia might cause severe problems for that country.”
”When did that happen?”
“Only two weeks ago, on the 5th January.”
“Is that something we should worry about?”
“Yes, it is. The Soviet Union is making unhealthy noises about it. Communism is throwing its weight about.”
“But Russia is over there far away.”
“Yes. Thank goodness. We don’t want it encroaching any further.”
When they had got to March, even Katie had heard about the student riots in Paris. She felt for the students.
“Eric, at last the French will have to listen to their students. They want their rights. They are willing to fight for it.”
“I myself find it lamentable. All that stuff about free love! Sex galore! To think that 1968 will be remembered for such a reason is pitiful. Those students are far too young and lack any real knowledge about anything, and any political spouting by them is only a disguise for fornication. They want to be allowed to get into the sack when and with whom they please. This is a follow up from the hippies who clamoured about free love, free drugs, anything goes. It augurs badly for the future.”
“But Eric, we want free love just like them.”
“No, we don’t. I certainly don’t. I do not agree that we should each jump into the sack left, right and centre with whoever we please at a moment’s notice. Ours is a serious relationship, not a bit of pastime.”
“Well, when you put it like that, I think you are right.”
There was yet another side of Eric that was unknown to Katie. Since planning to join the Foreign Office he had started a program of theatre, concerts, ballets and opera. He would buy a cheap ticket so that he could afford to go often. Thus every three weeks saw Eric at the performances during a weekday evening. He did not want to pay for Katie to join him because there would have been no point as she was not interested in such things. Among his colleagues, Eric had noticed that they all had had good theatre educations, not to mention concerts. He needed to catch up and to be able to talk about various performances with knowledge.
He invariably bought a program which he kept in a box on the top shelf of his wardrobe in secret from Katie. That secret box gave Eric an uneasy feeling, for it had echoes of his home where he hid his money. Why should he now, as a grown man, have to keep a secret box? He realised it was because his relationship with Katie was not straightforward and easy. How he wished that it had been so, but he had no right to force Katie into a cultural tumble-dryer. For that would have been her reaction, secretly, of course. To him she would have pretended that she was content.
In all this came also the question of hobbies. One had to have interests. It was natural that he would choose cards. Thus he had enrolled into a famous bridge school. It was the best thing he could have done. He was born to be a bridge player. He advanced to the top class, and as a result he got many invitations to smart dinner plus bridge evenings. Most people in the Foreign Office were bridge players, it was such a good way of mixing with people.
Chapter 11
Eric usually went to the bridge club on a Thursday evening from eight to eleven. The timings of the club were from 10am-1pm, 2.30-5pm,5-8pm and the last session was from 8-11pm. This seven days a week. On one occasion he had missed a Thursday, so he went on Saturday at 2.30pm while Katie was busy with some girlfriends. He noted that on Saturday afternoons most players were women. At his table was a very pleasant woman called Philippa Saunders. The name rang a bell. Only recently he had seen it mentioned in The Times. Ah yes, it came to him, Sir Philip Saunders was in the Royal Society.
