“Yes,” said Alan, attempting to establish from the look on Gulliver’s face, whether the true circumstances of Eleanor’s departure – that she had left him for another woman – were yet known to others. He saw no sly amusement and no thinly veiled contempt, so deduced that his secret was still safe.
“You have the perfect opportunity,” said Gulliver, “to make change your friend and do something audacious or adventurous: something entirely out of character.”
On the last occasion on which change had been numbered among Alan’s acquaintances, he’d grown a modest moustache, which, according to Morton, made him look shifty, rather than distinguished. As for “audacious” and “adventurous”, these were not terms with any tenure in Alan’s vocabulary, except as descriptors of imprudent government initiatives.
“Perhaps you’re right,” Alan said (meaning in fact “you couldn’t be more wrong”), “but I think it’s a pity that things should come to an end with the advisory committee.”
“Oh, I don’t know that the government has made any decisions on that front,” said Gulliver.
The fact that the public service seemed to no longer value the qualities he embodied was disappointing to Alan. But the possibility that his committee – for that’s how he tended to think of it – could, after all the work he’d done to place it on the right procedural and strategic footing, be taken over by someone else – someone not familiar with the shortcomings of the members and with the traps into which they would surely fall without the right guidance – was something more disturbing than dispiriting. The fact that someone else – anyone else – might be thought suitable for the many and arduous duties which Alan had discharged over the years, demonstrated just how little his role was understood and appreciated by those in charge.
“But we shouldn’t dally,” said Gulliver, looking at his watch. “We need to talk about the particular problem I’d like your assistance with.”
Alan could only think about the ease with which others now seemed to categorise him as a man whose sun had set, whose moment had come and gone, and whose passing was worthy of no special valediction.
“I have a minor difficulty,” said Gulliver, “which has come to me in my capacity as the senior executive responsible for the departmental social committee.”
Alan forced himself to focus. Even at this late hour in the drama, though his colleagues and committee might be lost, there could still, surely, be an opportunity to impress others with his strategic skills, his attention to detail and his diligence … and thereby cause himself to be spared.
“The lady quilters – and I think that in the privacy of this office we can refer to them by that once revered name – have, sadly, given up the struggle.”
Alan had never thought of quilting as a particularly combative or dangerous activity but was prepared to turn his mind to an organisational eulogy, if that was all Brian Gulliver required of him.
“Their membership has fallen below the number necessary to retain their subsidy and keep their weekly amenities room booking, and they have, accordingly, notified the social committee convener of their intention to hold their last meeting on the day before Christmas.”
Alan noted that the final meeting day of the lady quilters and his own final day at work were likely to be one and the same.
“Confidentially, I can inform you that the quilters’ decline was brought to our attention a while ago by another subsidised organisation, to which a number of quilting persons had previously defected. It wasn’t easy, though, to get the quilting office holders to come clean.”
Alan believed he knew the identity of the other subsidised organisation, for the quilters and the cross-stitchers had been subgroups of the same Women’s Craft Association until a falling out – the original cause now long forgotten – had resulted in an irreparable rift.
“Within minutes of the vacancy becoming official, the Christian Fellowship─”
“–currently meeting on Mondays.”
“─indicated they were keen to swap to Fridays, when attendances are higher and there are fewer public holidays.”
“Understandable,” said Alan.
“Until they heard that the Muslims were trying to get Friday, in addition to the Tuesday they already have.”
“The Muslims wanted two days?” said Alan, trying not to appear irrationally concerned.
“They never indicated as much until they mistakenly thought that the Christians were determined to have days at both the beginning and end of the week.”
“Dear me,” exclaimed Alan.
“─at which point, of course, the Christians did indicate a keenness to have both Mondays and Fridays.
“I see,” said Alan.
“But when the belly dancers and cross-stitchers ─”
“─sharing Wednesdays.”
“─and the meditaters and lip readers─”
“─on Thursdays.”
“─found out that the two religious groups both expected a second day…”
“They wanted two, too,” said Alan, “as in, two as well.”
“Or at least one day to themselves, by themselves.”
“Most unfortunate,” said Alan.
“And soon after that, the public speakers, who currently meet off-site, owing to a shortage of venues, registered interest in the spare day.”
“They do have a case,” said Alan.
“As did the bonsai people, who we all thought had disbanded, but had apparently been operating… well… underground, under a different name.”
“That's a surprise,” said Alan, recalling the campaign against the bonsai club a decade before by a group of women passionately opposed to plant torture. He recalled hunger strikes, petitions for and against, threats and counter threats, melees, bra burning (for no obvious reason) police intervention and, finally, removal of the club (in the cause of peace) from the amenities room roster.
“The Christians have indicated they are not prepared to turn the other cheek vis-a-vis the Moslems and, might I say, vice versa.”
Alan tut-tutted.
“Both have stated that they’ll claim discrimination should the other be granted a second day.”
Alan gave silent thanks for the willingness of Hindus, Buddhists, Confucians, Sikhs, animists and devil worshippers to perform their rituals at sites away from the workplace. He was especially pleased that persons engaged in the worship of fertility gods (whose statuary often seemed to feature impossibly distended body parts) had not joined the department in significant numbers.
“The meditaters,” Gulliver continued, “have said all manner of intemperate things and one of the belly dancers made me an offer of an intimate nature that would not have amused Mrs Gulliver, even though, of course, we have been married for many years and are no longer interested in those sorts of activities. As for the crossstitchers – did I mention them earlier?”
“Only in passing,” said Alan.
“They claim their share arrangement with the belly dancers – which came about because the meditaters, Moslems and Christians couldn’t abide chatter during their rites – has run its course.”
“They’ve also got a point,” said Alan.
“And last Thursday morning…” Gulliver shook his head.