Read Online The Husband's Story by Norman Collins - Free Book Online
Authors: Norman Collins
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taken to wearing his hair rather longer just lately; at the sides, especially.
There was worse to come, too, on the morning of the Appointments Board. There was Stanâs tie. She wasnât for a moment saying that he didnât need one. It was just that particular one that he didnât need.Plain blue, it was; and rather a bright blue at that. It looked as if it had been meant to go with some kind of uniform, like hospital staff or a railway guard. Left to herself she would have bought him something in silk, dark with a contrasting stripe; or one of the new flowery kind; even Paisley, possibly.
But it was too late now to do anything about it. Besides, she didnât want to mention it for fear of upsetting him; when you were dealing with anyone like Stan the last thing that you would want would be to undermine his confidence. All that she said when she kissed him goodbye on the doorstep was: âWell, good luck, Stan. Iâll be thinking of you. And remember to keep your coat buttoned up, wonât you. It looks so much more businesslike that way.â
Now he was setting out, Stan was surprised to find how calm he was. It had not been so last night. Far from it. Nothing but doubts and uncertainty until about twelve-fifteen when he dropped off; and then panic verging on despair when he woke up around three and couldnât get off to sleep again. In the ordinary way, heâd have got up and made himself a cup of tea. But he didnât want to risk disturbing Beryl: it had been only since she had forgiven him that she had said that he could move in with her again. It was better sleeping on the Vi-Spring in her room than in the rather hard three-footer in the dressing-room, and he was anxious that she shouldnât regret it. As it was, he had just lain there wondering about the other candidates, and listening to her breathing.
But now, in a corner seat on the eight-ten, he was an entirely different man, confident, unruffled, resolute. He had caught sight of his reflection in the window of the big radio shop up by the station. And what he had seen had looked just right: freshly barbered, and with the knot of his bright blue tie showing clearly above the neat white collar, he did not doubt that the impression that he would make on the interview board would be a pleasing one.
And that was important. There were bound to be some there who hadnât met him before; hadnât worked with him, maybe hadnât even heard of him. They werenât to know how conscientious and hardworking he was. Or how loyal. Filing Contracts wasnât just a job with him. It was a career; something that he had chosen and mapped out for himself. Even while he had still been at school, it was the Civil Service that he had been aiming at. And with his School Certificate showing five subjects with two Credits and one Distinction he reckoned that,in him, the Commissioners had picked up a bit of a bargain.
In even the largest of modern, purpose-built business premises, the architect always forgets about things like Appointments Boards.
Important as they are, with so much depending on them, they usually take place in somebody elseâs office, with the furniture rearranged as if for a court martial, and no ashtray for the candidate who is probably feeling a bit nervous and might like a cigarette. In Frobisher House, for instance, there wasnât even a proper waiting-room. Just a row of hardback chairs in the corridor beside the door to office No. 737.
There were two others already waiting there when Stan arrived. One of them, the thick-set, surly one, had come up all the way from Chatham. He wasnât due to be called until three-fifteen. With his legs stuck out in front of him, he kept his chin down onto his chest, and glowered. The other was slight, birdlike and jumpy. He kept looking at his watch and then taking out a small plastic comb to preen himself. They were five minutes late for him already. Then the door
There was worse to come, too, on the morning of the Appointments Board. There was Stanâs tie. She wasnât for a moment saying that he didnât need one. It was just that particular one that he didnât need.Plain blue, it was; and rather a bright blue at that. It looked as if it had been meant to go with some kind of uniform, like hospital staff or a railway guard. Left to herself she would have bought him something in silk, dark with a contrasting stripe; or one of the new flowery kind; even Paisley, possibly.
But it was too late now to do anything about it. Besides, she didnât want to mention it for fear of upsetting him; when you were dealing with anyone like Stan the last thing that you would want would be to undermine his confidence. All that she said when she kissed him goodbye on the doorstep was: âWell, good luck, Stan. Iâll be thinking of you. And remember to keep your coat buttoned up, wonât you. It looks so much more businesslike that way.â
Now he was setting out, Stan was surprised to find how calm he was. It had not been so last night. Far from it. Nothing but doubts and uncertainty until about twelve-fifteen when he dropped off; and then panic verging on despair when he woke up around three and couldnât get off to sleep again. In the ordinary way, heâd have got up and made himself a cup of tea. But he didnât want to risk disturbing Beryl: it had been only since she had forgiven him that she had said that he could move in with her again. It was better sleeping on the Vi-Spring in her room than in the rather hard three-footer in the dressing-room, and he was anxious that she shouldnât regret it. As it was, he had just lain there wondering about the other candidates, and listening to her breathing.
But now, in a corner seat on the eight-ten, he was an entirely different man, confident, unruffled, resolute. He had caught sight of his reflection in the window of the big radio shop up by the station. And what he had seen had looked just right: freshly barbered, and with the knot of his bright blue tie showing clearly above the neat white collar, he did not doubt that the impression that he would make on the interview board would be a pleasing one.
And that was important. There were bound to be some there who hadnât met him before; hadnât worked with him, maybe hadnât even heard of him. They werenât to know how conscientious and hardworking he was. Or how loyal. Filing Contracts wasnât just a job with him. It was a career; something that he had chosen and mapped out for himself. Even while he had still been at school, it was the Civil Service that he had been aiming at. And with his School Certificate showing five subjects with two Credits and one Distinction he reckoned that,in him, the Commissioners had picked up a bit of a bargain.
In even the largest of modern, purpose-built business premises, the architect always forgets about things like Appointments Boards.
Important as they are, with so much depending on them, they usually take place in somebody elseâs office, with the furniture rearranged as if for a court martial, and no ashtray for the candidate who is probably feeling a bit nervous and might like a cigarette. In Frobisher House, for instance, there wasnât even a proper waiting-room. Just a row of hardback chairs in the corridor beside the door to office No. 737.
There were two others already waiting there when Stan arrived. One of them, the thick-set, surly one, had come up all the way from Chatham. He wasnât due to be called until three-fifteen. With his legs stuck out in front of him, he kept his chin down onto his chest, and glowered. The other was slight, birdlike and jumpy. He kept looking at his watch and then taking out a small plastic comb to preen himself. They were five minutes late for him already. Then the door
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