All change around here now

The silence that follows seems to hang, until finally broken by a light cough from Ruth. She has produced a plain white envelope from somewhere. Through the cellophane window my name and home address are just visible in 12pt Arial, as per the FUA corporate style manual. Ruth places the letter on the table in front of her and then, carefully and with two hands, slides it across to me.

These are the terms of your redundancy package, she says. Her voice is calm and flat now, wholly professional. I reach forward to pick up the envelope but she holds it in place for a moment longer.

You don't need to read it now. Please, take it away and read it in a more comfortable setting. If you have any questions then just give me a call, you know the number. I hope you'll find the terms fair. I'm sure you will, in fact.

She releases the letter.

So when do I finish?

Today.

Today. Right. Christ, I really am losing my job, aren't I?

I try a little laugh at this, but it doesn't come out right. On the plus side, it does generate a modicum of discomfort on the other side of the table, and that can only be a good thing, given the circumstances.

Can I at least finish up? There are a few things I've been working on that need –

Although I was asking Ruth, Josh answers.

We'd prefer that you leave straight away, Peter.

What, in case I'm, what's the word, disgruntled and delete everything on the server, is that it?

He doesn't answer but he does smile, sort of, and then looks at his watch.

It's just policy, I'm sure you understand. Do you have any other questions before we, er, wrap this up?

He's in a hurry. Not only am I getting canned, I'm getting canned in haste.

No, I say. None at all. I'm sure... I'm sure this will cover everything. I mean, I've only been here twelve years, so, you know...

The legs of my chair scrape as I stand up.

Good bye, Ruth.

I reach out to shake her hand. She returns the gesture, even gives a squeeze. Her fingers are cold.

When I get back to my desk, neither Jenny nor Craig are anywhere to be seen. I'm not alone though. A big guy I do not recognise is standing behind my chair, feet planted wide, hands clasped in front of him. At ease. He's wearing a shirt and tie but he wouldn't look out of place on a nightclub door. My PC has already been logged off and powered down. I expect if I tried to log back in I'd find my account had been disabled too.

Mr Potter?

Yes, I say, the condemned man. Who are you, the hired goon? They’re doing this properly, aren't they?

I'm just here to help you get packed up, he says, gesturing to an empty cardboard box which has appeared on my desk from somewhere.

Hmm. Then you escort me off the premises, am I right?

He doesn't quite shrug but gives me a wry smile that equates to the same thing.

Right, well it won't take long. What about – I've got files, music, that sort of thing, on my PC, what about those?

You're to make a list, he says. You send your manager the list, he'll make sure whatever's on the list gets sent on.

My manager, ha. My ex manager now. Well, I can kiss that all goodbye then. Right, let's get this done.

It's amazing how much flotsam and jetsam accumulates if you work somewhere long enough. A drawer full of pens and pencils, nearly all bearing the corporate logo or mission statement of some company or other; a swathe of notepads, all besloganned with FUA nonsense; two packets of highlighter pens, all dried out and useless; a chipped mug, its stained innards like a concentric sepia chromatogram; a desk calendar for 2005; three copies of the Underwood Associates Year 2000 migration plan; four assorted stress balls; a green security pass lanyard, never worn, with ENTERPRISE AND AMBITION printed on in red; an ice cream tub that once served as a makeshift lunchbox; two mousemats; a Rubik's cube; a drawer full of used Jiffy bags; so much rubbish.

The only things that go into the box (which, during the sorting and packing process, I have started to think of as my court-appointed box) are a couple of training manuals from a course I did last year, the radio I listen to with headphones during Wimbledon and, of course, the photograph of Emma in the leather-look frame. It was in the third drawer down.

She's pretty, the security guard says, as I place the picture in the box.

Yes, she was.

Oh.

Indeed.

And then, because I have no desire to make this guy uncomfortable:

I'm about ready.

We set off towards, me with my little box of nonsense, him two paces behind. As we near the door, Craig returns, the scent of his protracted cigarette break preceding him. For once, he's pretty quick on the uptake.

Chief? What’s going on?

I'm off, Craig, gone.

Gone? Are you leaving, boss?

I won't miss Craig, but in a way I will miss working with him so, as I turn to back through the double doors, I adopt what I hope is a paternal expression.

Yes, mate. Watch your back, okay? It's all change around here now.

Craig's mouth is still open as the door closes behind me.

Righteous anger

After a moment of silence, there is an explosion of bluster from Alan, sounds not words – he doesn’t seem able to get started on what he wants to say. A red flush seeps over his face from the hairline down. Ruth’s jaw has dropped. Eventually, as Josh leans forward to answer, Alan manages to speak.

Niece. My niece. That I was having dinner with. That he saw. Niece.

Josh is oblivious to this, at least on the surface. Nothing, it seems, is going to distract or divert him.

Peter, I can confirm that Alan’s recommendation and our decision were both based solely on business reasons. As you have correctly observed, your post is more highly paid than Jenny’s or Craig’s, and the financial saving is an element, that’s true, but only one element.

Ruth has got herself back under control, more or less – the vestige of a suppressed smile Is dimpling her mouth, but it doesn’t stop her from contributing.

Alan’s recommendation was not personal. I’d hope you can see that. And his view was only part of the decision making process. Regardless of whether your allegation is true or –

It's not true! She’s my niece, for God’s sake, Alan says.

– or whether it has arisen from a misunderstanding is irrelevant. You say you saw Alan last week, but this decision was taken in principle – she looks at Josh for confirmation – nine, ten days ago.

Josh nods.

I address what I say next to Ruth alone.

You realise that Data will fall apart without me, don’t you? I’m sorry if that sounds arrogant, I don’t want to be big-headed or anything but it’s true. You talk about data analysis being a contracting market but by getting rid of your most experienced analyst all you’re doing is creating a self-fulfilling prophecy. You’re setting yourselves up to fail, and then you’ll congratulate yourselves on your foresight when it does.

Alan’s fluster has turned to indignation and righteous anger.

No-one is irreplaceable Peter, he says.

That’s true, I say. You can even replace your wife with a whore for the night, can’t you Al? I doubt that’s a cashable efficiency though, is it?

Cashable efficiencies

Back at my desk, I work in silence until 11. I say work but really I spend most of the morning reading the news on the BBC website. I can see, in my peripheral vision, that Jenny is trying to catch my eye but I resist easily, losing myself in the screen. Maybe that’s why I keep glazing over, losing concentration – it takes 20 minutes to read about a coach crash on the M6. I have to read the last paragraph, about a family of four that has been three quarters wiped out, three times before it really sinks in.

Craig, ever perceptive, asks what’s up. I think about telling him to fuck off, and then realise that I have.

Across the open-plan, a double thunk of fire doors heralds the arrival of Josh and Ruth – they walk in side by side and head straight for Alan’s office. His door closes behind them with a snick. Craig wonders aloud what’s going on in there. I’m about to give him a short and unnecessarily sharp answer when my extension rings. It’s Alan, I can see that from the caller ID display before I even answer.

Morning Alan.

Ah, Peter. Good morning.

He sounds nervous

Could you, er, spare a few moments to join us in my office?

For you, Alan, anything.

The furniture in Alan’s office has been shunted around a little, to make way for a fourth chair that has been dragged in from somewhere. I must have missed that happening. The extra chair sits empty on one side of the room, waiting for me. Alan, Josh and Ruth sit opposite, each with a blank sheet of paper and a pen in front of them.

This looks serious, I say, mostly in Alan’s direction, but it’s Josh that answers.

Take a seat please Peter.

I do, risking a raised eye brow in Ruth’s direction. She looks away and I know, there and then. Josh continues in his annoying, mid-Atlantic, FM voice.

As you know, this is a tough economic climate that FUA is operating in.

I register FUA, not we – I am already being excluded. Josh is still rattling on.

I’ve been brought in from Boston to work with members of the UK senior management team to identify cashable efficiencies in our ways of working, to right-size the teams here and at Stevenage, and to make sure we are lean and profitable in every business area going forward.

Right, I say. You’re making people redundant then.

Ruth looks like she’s about to say something but Josh continues.

We’ve been looking in detail at each of our key business areas and Data is an area that has been subject to a lot of volatility. As you may be aware, we are likely to lose the BuyLo contract at the start of the next financial year, post merger, and that is the bulk of our Data work here in the UK, isn’t it? And the consensus seems to be that the market is shrinking – customers are increasingly empowered to do their own analysis. Data might be the currency de nos jours – he actually says this and I feel my hand curl into a fist – but third-party analysis is not growing in the same way. If anything, it’s contracting.

Right, I say again. So you are making people redundant then.

We need to right-size Data, Peter, and after a lot of debate with the SMT – Alan, I notice, is looking at his lap – your post was identified as being most likely to change. It’s true, isn’t it, that 80, 90% of your work is for BuyLo, isn’t it?

I nod.

All of which will soon be gone. Even now, they’re hardly keeping you busy, are they?

Alan still refuses to look at me. I nod again.

So basically you’re keeping Craig and Jenny and booting me?

Josh leans forward in his chair and looks across Alan to Ruth. She clears her throat before replying in a small voice.

I can confirm that yes, yours is the only post going from Data.

To her credit, she holds my stare, unblinking. I think back to after Emma, when Ruth kept me functioning, at least within the workplace. This isn’t her doing, and it isn’t really Alan’s either. I turn back to the ringleader.

So, Josh, if you really want to maximise savings from Data, why not can Alan?

Alan finally looks up. I am happy to see that he looks a little scared, but he needn’t be, not this time around at least, because Josh has got this covered. Josh, who even has the beginnings of a smile on his face as he answers.

We’re not here to discuss the merits or otherwise of other posts. And this is about posts, Peter, not people.

Bullshit, I say. The only perspective on Data at SMT level comes from Alan. He’s hardly going to can himself, is he?

I’m sorry Pete, Alan says.

What, so I get fucked because I earn more than the other two, is that it? I’m a bigger saving? Christ Ruth, Craig can’t find his own arse with an atlas most days and Jen, she’s half decent but she doesn’t know half what I do. Does she, Alan? Be honest

At some point I have stood up. Alan looks like he might actually answer but again Josh gets in first.

I’m sorry Peter but to reiterate, we’re not here to discuss the merits or otherwise of other posts. Please, take a seat.

There is silence for a while, an awkward teetering silence that lasts until I sit back down. It is Ruth, in full HR mode, who manages to get things moving again.

Is there anything else you want to ask, Peter, before we move on to the paperwork and process?

I feel a strange mix of fear and excitement, of knowing that things have going badly wrong and are out of my control. But it’s liberating. I’m back on the train again, outnumbered and with my back against the wall. I might not win this one, but all bets are off. It’s my turn to smile.

I’d like to ask Alan if his recommendation to SMT had anything to do with me seeing him out on the town last week with a woman that wasn’t his wife.

Trip-hammering

I wake on top of the bed, fully clothed. My stomach feels hard and shrunken. After lurching across the bedroom, I stumble going downstairs, and just catch hold of the banister. Fuck fuck fuck. My head is pounding, and my neck hurts when I turn my head to look at the clock. Again, fuck fuck fuck. Running this late, I forsake a shave – it’s okay, I don’t think I have any meetings today. I have to clean my teeth though, if only to rid my mouth of the foul taste. The bathroom is at once both too bright and strangely grimy. Spots of dark mould are flowering high up on the walls, out of reach of the last time I wiped a cloth around. When was that anyway? I brush, brush, brush, sitting on the toilet to do so in case my watery legs betray me. After an antiseptic gargle that still does not remove the fetid taste, I head back upstairs as fast as I feel able, my heart trip-hammering in chest, an engine about to throw a drive belt.

After a drive that can best be described as cautious, I arrive at the office to find that Jenny is already there. As I slump into my desk chair she gives her normal hello, nothing other, nothing new. When I sense that she’s not looking, I peer over the little dividing screen between our desks. She’s red beneath her left eye, maybe, but it’s disguised with make-up if so. I’m still trying to decipher whether it’s a cut or the beginnings of a bruise when Jenny clocks me looking at her. We hold awkward eye contact for a while, seconds that feel like minutes. Finally, she speaks.

Tea?

Sure, thanks. I’ll give you a hand.

Craig looks from one to the other of us as he hands Jenny his mug. He looks for a moment like he’s about to say something, then seems to think better of it. I head to the kitchen area, glad to escape him, and Jenny follows, a clutch of cups in one hand. Once the kettle is on, making an immediate and satisfactorily loud bubbling sound, I begin.

What happened to you?

Not here. Not now, Jenny says and turns away.

Yes, here.

I grab her wrist to turn her back and she yelps, a tiny strangled noise that makes me soften my grip. Sliding the sleeve of her blouse up, I find myself unsurprised to note that her wrist is red raw.

I’m not leaving him. We talked about some things. Agreed to make some changes. I’m not leaving him.
And as she says this, I realise that I don’t care. I don’t feel anything, not even surprise, and this tells me all I need to know.

Okay then, I say, and start to walk away.

What do you mean, okay then?

I stop and try to look back over my shoulder dramatically but my neck still hurts, so I have to turn around properly.

I mean exactly that. If you’re happy for him to throw you around the bedroom that’s your look-out. If half the things you’ve said to me were true you’d have left him whatever things you might have talked about and whatever changes you’d agreed. But when it comes right down to it, what you claim to feel is less than your attachment to Phil. And I ought to care but you know what, it turns out I don’t give a shit.

Before she can answer, I turn and head back to my desk. Behind me, the kettle boils, clicks off, and I hear the beginnings of her protest clearly.

But Pete, I’ve –

Don’t give a shit, I say, and keep walking.

Displacement follows

After I'm not sure exactly how long, someone comes – not a nurse but one of the blue-smocked care workers. When she asks me if I’d like to help with my mother I say nothing – that seems to be answer enough. Telling myself it’s to give some privacy, I turn a chair to face the wall and sit, focusing on a square of magnolia.

There is a period during which the light in the room changes. I hear the susurration of Mother mumbling and other voices, one of which may be mine. Then quiet. And a bird-like, blue-mottled hand on my shoulder.

Are you going to keep a girl waiting?

I turn on the chair. Mum has a different night-dress on, a sleeveless blue scrap that has been through the wash too many times. It clashes with her tired pink slippers in a way that the Frances Potter of years gone by would never have allowed.

Come on Oscar, she says, outstretching a palsied arm. It’s time to dance.

I stand and take Mother in my arms, the Fred and Ginger of the care-home world. We sway gently from side to side to some unheard music and after a while she rests her head on my shoulder.

This is nice. We haven’t done this for a long time.

No, I manage. Our arthritic waltz turns slowly around the room. Even though she thinks I'm Dad, this, for a moment, feels like the first connection I've had with Mum in weeks, maybe months. And it’s the first time I've danced, however slow and laboured, since Emma. It is nice.

Mother cranes her neck up and kisses me lightly on the cheek, once, twice. Then she’s whispering in her tremulous old-lady voice.

Come on Os. Peter’s out, we've got the house to ourselves.

All pretence of dance is lost. She’s kissing me on the mouth, parting her lips. I grab her by shoulders and push her back, trying to think of something to say but my mouth is full of the taste of stale tea, medication and toothpaste, not words. There is no shock or hurt in Mother’s eyes though – only a playful sparkle.

It’s not like you to be so shy. Come on – let’s really dance.

And before I can stop her, she’s reached forward with one claw and rubbed the flaccid lump between my legs.

I shove and she sprawls, thankfully on to the bed. Backpedalling I bang clumsily into the door, stumble, nearly fall. Then, feet scrabbling for purchase, I am out in the corridor and running, running. I reach the double doors but don’t stop, even though I can hear her calling after me. Except it isn't me she’s calling for, lying there on her stranger’s bed, but Dad. As her calls of Oscar start to fade I imagine her hitching that night-dress up over her knees, and keep running.

*

I don’t remember getting back to the car, let alone driving anywhere, but I must have done because I am at The Tree, sitting beneath its dappled shade. From the length of the shadows, I have been here a good while. The taste of Mother has gone but my lips feel numb and I wonder whether I have been rubbing (pinching?) them. I shudder then, as I recall her touch, the touch that was meant for Dad, and wonder what will displace that from my mind.

My mobile is lying on the grass next to me. A quick scroll through the call log shows that I tried to call Emma just after three o'clock A little disconcerting, not least because her number has long since been cancelled and reallocated by the mobile operator. But anyway... displacement.

I step back through the phone’s menu structure, and into my contacts list, then scroll down until I find the number Laura had given me – seems I've listed it as Camb Class L. The number rings fours times, then diverts to voicemail. I hang up without leaving a message, then, in a blizzard of frantic fingers, I type a message.

Sorry for the short notice. Are you available for an hour's in-call today? Peter

I hit send and sit to wait for a reply – it comes within five minutes.

Hi Pete. So sorry, I don't work Sundays. Hope we can get together real soon. Lxxx

It crosses my mind that at £150 an hour I’d probably want to get together real soon too. Just not on a day of rest, obviously.

My left leg has gone dead from sitting for so long, and when I stand up it is flushed with pins and needles. I limp back to the car, rubbing my thigh as I go. Seems I left the keys in the ignition too.

On the drive home I'm conscious of rubbing my lips with the back of my hand, but can’t stop myself from doing it. It’s time to dance. A mile from home, I nearly collect a pushchair being dangled over the edge of the zebra crossing by Mr Sandhu's. The mother screams at the back of the Polo but I don’t stop or even slow down to wave a shame-faced apology. We've got the house to ourselves. I pull up outside the house and run to the door, fumbling with my keys. Once inside, I head straight for the kitchen – I'm hungry but I can’t face cooking. Instead, I hook vodka from the fridge. Let's really dance.

Displacement follows.

Alive one day and then gone the next

As ever, the smell assaults me as I enter the building. As ever, the soles of my Merrells squeak on to tiled floor. And as ever I cast an eye around in the hope of seeing Mrs Hannigan. It’s a first to admit the latter to myself though. She’s nowhere to be seen.

I stop at Mrs Nelson’s door but she’s nowhere to be seen either. I call out softly, first Mrs Nelson, then, louder, Phyllis. I lean through the open door. The room is more than empty. There’s no newspaper on the little table next to the vinyl-covered armchair, no paperback or reading gasses on the chest of drawers by the bed which, itself, has been stripped bare. The mattress looks tired and worn, stained.

A nurse I haven’t seen before steps into the corridor from my mother’s room and I collar her to ask where Mrs Nelson is.

Are you family?

No, I’m – I’m Mrs Potter’s son but I... I’ve sort of got to know Phyllis.

The nurse, who hasn’t actually stopped to talk to me, but is taking tiny backwards steps up the corridor, seems to weigh the options and decides that neither matters.

Mrs Nelson died on Thursday night. I’m sorry.

Died? How?

The nurse, whoever she may be, is already turning away from me. Make haste, her posture says. I am a busy woman, her stern face confirms.

A stroke. A massive stroke. I’m sorry.

And with that, she turns to the double doors at the end of the corridor and is gone.

I’m still trying to absorb this news as I stumble into mother’s room, to the extent that when she calls out hello Oscar it doesn’t put me on my guard. It should, of course. It should tell me that today is a bad day. But I’m thinking about Phyllis, how she could be so vital, so alive one day and then gone the next.

In another way, Mum is gone too.

Hello Oscar, she repeats.

Mum, hello, it’s Pet-

I stop in mid-sentence. Mother is still in her night-gown, but has it hoiked up at the front. I don’t want to keep looking but I do, because Mum has her hand down the front of her giant old-woman knickers.

I had an accident.

It breaks the spell.

Mum, it’s alright. We can sort that out. I’ll call a nurse, we’ll get you cleaned up.

I start towards her, crossing the tiny room with my arms out. Role reversal, I think, not for the first time. The parent becomes the child. But this is different, worse. An incontinent child would not be scooping a handful of her own excrement from her underwear and offering it, like a gift, to the parent.

The cocktail of drugs my Mother is on has quite an effect on her digestive system, I know that already. Even so, I am unprepared for the sight and smell. A globule of the slurry squeezes out from Mum’s semi-clenched hand and drops to the floor where it lands with a flat, wet sound.

I turn away, dry-heaving, the excess of last night suddenly washing back over me. I taste tea, toast and orange juice, struggle to keep them in their place. I win, just, and with a deep breath turn back to this stranger who has stolen my Mother away.

I had an accident, she repeats.

It’s okay, Mum. It’s okay... Frances.

I press the call button, and wait for a nurse.

Unpleasant but necessary

I wake at an ungodly hour on Sunday morning, and for a while struggle to make sense of where I am. Eventually, I recognise the carpet, the mirror, the rug. I am curled, foetal, on the bathroom floor, my head inches from the sink pedestal. I’m still wearing my shorts, but yesterday’s shirt is a crumpled ball, held loosely in one hand. It is discoloured, with dark stains – perhaps I tried to mop something up.

Movement causes my head to shriek protest but, with one hand on the rim of the bath and the other on the sink, I manage to haul myself up. The fluorescent light above the mirror, on all night, buzzes angrily at me. Makes me squint too.

The sink is clogged with drying vomit, a disconcerting deep red. It’s wine, I tell myself, just that wine. The smell of bile and Chilean red is overpowering and I think I am going to be sick again, retching over the sink like a broken drunkard. But I guess I am empty – the nausea passes. I fill a tumbler with cold water, gargle and spit, then tentatively use one hand to fumble whatever is blocking the plug hole clear. Turning both taps on, I watch as yesterday washes away.

Breakfast is unpleasant but necessary. It takes 25 minutes to eat two slices of dry toast, but they stay down, as does the glass of orange juice I make myself drink, even though the acidity burns all the way down. I swallow three co-codamol too.

For a while I can’t find my mobile phone. In the end, I resort to ringing it from my landline, and am able to track it down thanks to the incessant buzz of its vibration, on the coffee table, hidden under the freebie local newspaper. No messages. No missed calls. No voicemail. No surprise.

It’s still only half past seven, so I turn the phone off and go to bed in the hope of an hour’s proper rest. After the inevitable preliminary difficulty of getting comfortable – however I lay, the pillow induces a thumping headache – sleeps comes.

It is gone eleven when I wake again. I can’t say I feel good, but I feel better, able to function at least. After dressing quickly, I find that not only am I able to face a cup of tea, I actually enjoy it. And yes, I still need sunglasses when I leave the house, but I feel as good as can be expected on the drive to Saint Margaret’s.