Chains in Mind Page 9

“Trust your Uncle Simon,” he said, and took a sip of the brew. “So, today’s the day.”

  Today was performance review day, a two-monthly event. It was a big deal, because today determined the performance bonuses, which were typically as much again as the very low base salary. That meant that, in theory, your pay could be halved by a bad review; Joe had never been anything like that harsh, though.

  Chrissie nodded. “I don’t know: I think I’m doing alright, but I hate going in for one.”

  Joe would call them in one at a time to go over their performance. Simon usually cracked a few jokes, and made him laugh: there was usually no question but that Simon would get a hundred percent bonus. Chrissie, on the other hand, was usually a quivering wreck at this point. The fact that she only seemed mildly worried represented a major improvement.

  “You’ll be fine,” he told her, reassuringly. And, in point of fact, she usually was: there was nothing wrong with her work.

  She smiled up at him. “Thanks, Simon.” She took her coffee and headed for her desk.

  Back at his own desk, Simon didn’t look quite so breezy. Not by quite a way. The latest job had looked like a snap when it had been allocated to him, but he’d been making very heavy weather of it. And the one before had been no better, and the one before that had been a real pig. Was he losing his grip? And today was review day, and despite what he’d said, Joe’s opinion really counted. Simon chewed his thumbnail as he concentrated on how he was going to put his limited progress in the best possible light; he scribbled little notes, and rehearsed little phrases under his breath, that he hoped would amuse Joe, and make light of his problems. If he could just dance his way through this review, then his work must surely pick up by the next. He just had to get through today.

  ***

  Half-way through the afternoon, Simon stood, back in the kitchenette, trying to collect himself. He brooded over his mug of coffee, holding it in both hands, staring into it as if he might divine some help there. The review had been a nightmare.

  Joe had completely ignored Simon’s quips. Leaning well back in his chair, he’d been looking anywhere except across the desk at Simon, and holding his hands clasped in front of him defensively. When Simon eventually ran out of things to say, he’d sighed heavily.

  “The thing is, Simon,” he’d said, “we’ve had this memo come down, from John Sallis himself. Apparently, some people are deliberately dragging their feet over this new allocation system.” He still couldn’t meet Simon’s eyes. “Mr Sallis says that they’re closet chauvinists who are trying to rubbish the system and get it junked, so they can go back to the old ways, and he’s really fired up about it. So, I know you say that you’ve just hit some particularly difficult jobs, but I’ve been specifically told not to accept that as an excuse: Mr Sallis says the new system is fair, and that’s an end to it.”

  Joe scratched his nose. “If it were up to me, I’d say, certainly, a fellow can have a bad run for a few weeks: no need to kick a man when he’s down. But ...” he sighed again, and looked across his desk at Simon, with a plea for understanding. “I’ve always thought I was a fair man, balancing out the work, but now we have a guaranteed fair system, all the girls are doing better, and all the chaps are doing worse, so maybe I wasn’t fair after all. Or maybe it’s just time I retired.” Joe did look tired, and uncertain, and old.

  “I don’t like to do it, Simon, I really don’t, but you get zero bonus this time, and I’m giving you an informal warning that if your performance doesn’t improve, then next time you will get a formal warning for inadequate work.” He shook his head, sadly. “I’m sorry.”

  In the kitchenette, Simon swigged his coffee down. He needed to get a grip.

  Chrissie came in. Her eyes were shining.

  “What’s up, shortie?” he asked her, attempting his usual confident smile.

  “I got a two hundred percent performance bonus,” she told him, beaming.

  “Oh, that’s great.” So for the next two months, Chrissie would earn three times what he did. And he’d just committed himself to the lease on the new flat. Damn. He’d known he was pushing it, a place that big, but it had never occurred to him that he’d be working for the base salary alone.

  “How about you?” Chrissie was genuinely good-natured.

  “Oh, not so good. But never mind about that. Are you going out to celebrate? You should.”

  “Yes. You won’t believe it, but Margaret and Sophie got two hundred percent as well, so we’re having a girl’s night out.”

  “Good for you. Have a great time.” Simon’s smile was now quite fixed, as he forced the words out. Maybe he could get a flatmate. He hadn’t shared in years, but he had to do something.

  ***

  Simon took to coming in much earlier, trying to get through the swamp of problems that work had become. He wanted to recapture that positive attitude that he normally had; but it was hard: he felt listless and pessimistic. At least he wasn’t alone: all the other guys seemed to be having trouble as well, so the office was filled with worried silence from about seven in the morning, as they tried to catch up. Hesitantly, he suggested sharing his flat. It turned out he needed two flatmates not one, but the other guys had accepted gratefully: they couldn’t afford their places either, but they hadn’t signed long leases, as Simon had. Two of them shared the master bedroom - they had to buy two single beds - and he took the small guest room.

  Before, he had taken for granted the clean kitchenette and fresh batch of coffee when he arrived. Now he realised that Chrissie must have been cleaning the place every morning. Now, when he got in early, the place was a bit of a tip, with coffee rings and unwashed mugs all over the worktop. The guys had to do at least some washing up before there were any mugs fit to drink from.

  The girls came in as a group, gossiping and joking, at about nine. For some reason, they seemed able to sail through their work without difficulty. Simon was far less confident than he used to be. Maybe they’re just smarter than me, he thought.

  “Have you heard?” Chrissie said to him, one day, pouring herself another coffee from the pot. Her skirt was shorter and sharper now, several inches above the knee, and her high-heeled shoes were a deep glossy black. She carried herself better, too. In fact, she looked stunning. “They’re reducing base salary by two thirds and making up the difference in performance bonuses. Apparently, John Sallis thinks some people are taking a free ride.”

  The next performance review was coming up, and Simon wasn’t convinced he was going to do better. He got a sick feeling in his stomach, and his face fell. He didn’t know how he could survive on a third of the low pay he was getting now. Chrissie saw his expression.

  “Are you worried? Last time was just a blip, wasn’t it? Aren’t you doing better, now?” she asked, concerned.

  He couldn’t keep up a front. For the first time, he let her see how anxious he was.

  “I, uh ... No. Chrissie, I don’t know what’s happened to me: I must have gone stupid, or something. Everything is taking longer, and there are always problems, and, and, I don’t know what to do.” This was a new sensation for him. He couldn’t think of an escape. All he could do was keep plodding on, and let what happened to him, happen.

  “Oh dear,” she said. She wasn’t indifferent to his problems - that was clear - but she didn’t want her own mood to be dragged down, especially when she had no solution to offer. She furrowed her brow for a moment to denote appropriate sympathy.

  “Well, I’m sure it’ll work itself out,” she said, unhelpfully. “But I have to scoot. I need to get finished by twelve. Sophie and I are going on a bit of a shopping expedition.”

  Her grin returned, as she dismissed his trouble from her mind. Four months ago, she could not have done that: his difficulty would have gnawed at her for days, even if there was nothing she could do. Now she was tougher, or perhaps j
ust more realistic. There were winners and losers, and, without meaning him any ill, she was happy that she was winning.

  She left him; the natural sway of her backside was gorgeous as she sauntered away, but he wasn’t in the mood to appreciate it. His stomach twisted itself in knots with worry. He went back to his desk to struggle with his work.

  ***

  The next review was just as bad as he had feared, and it wasn’t just him. All the guys seemed to be in shock. When they spoke to each other it was in low, flat, voices; depression settled over the office like a cloud.

  The difference between the performance of the men and the women was huge, hard proof, if any were needed, of just how much the old allocation system had been holding females back.

  Like all the other males, Joe seemed bewildered and at sea: he told them that word had come down to him from above: the floor was going to be reorganised in the next few weeks. The three high-performers, the women, would get a small promotion, from ‘consultant’ to ‘senior consultant’, but the three worst-performing guys were being demoted to ‘assistant consultant’ and each was being assigned to one of the women.

  There was no serious complaint: given the recent performances, it was a natural business decision. Each senior consultant would be assessed on all her work, including what she delegated under supervision to her assistant. The assistant consultants, with no clients of their own, would each be assessed solely by his new boss.

  From now on, Simon was on the new base salary, less than a sixth of what he had been earning just three months ago, and it was clear to him that he was going to be one of the three to be demoted. He felt dull and hopeless. Even with the three of them in the flat, he would no longer be able to pay the rent, and his savings were just about gone. He’d sold his car long since, not that it produced much cash after the loan on it had been paid off. He was barely making enough to buy food. If he quit his job, he’d get a rubbish reference, but in any case, for some reason, the idea of leaving never occurred to him.

  Before the reorganisation went through, Joe announced his retirement.

  “I’m an old dog.” he said, with an attempt at a wry smile. “And you need someone who can learn new tricks.”

  There was a cheese and wine party in the office, after work on Friday evening, to say goodbye. People said how much they would miss him, and Joe’s eyes were moist, as he reminisced about his thirty-seven years with the firm. He had worked in several departments in his time, and the longer-serving staff in each still knew him, so the open-plan area of the office was quite crowded, and there was an unaccustomed hubbub. Joe and some old friends from his time in the Marine Insurance section were getting loud with drink, over near his office door.

  “So, Simon,” Chrissie said, raising her voice slightly above the noise from the other side of the room. She was trying to look solemn for Joe, but obviously bursting with news. “You’ll never guess what.”

  “What?”

  “I’m getting Joe’s job.” Her dimples as she smiled were enchanting.

  Simon managed to smile back. “Well, congratulations. Well done.” And he was going to be an ‘assistant consultant’. The savoury biscuit in his mouth was suddenly tasteless. He finished off his wine, and put the glass down. He didn’t feel like it any more.

  “And you’ll never guess what else.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going to be your boss. I mean, I suppose I’m going to be everyone’s boss, really, but you’re going to be assigned as my assistant.”

  “Oh, yes?” He couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Yes. That’s because I asked for you, specially.” Chrissie grinned up at him, happily.

  “Uh, right. Uh ...” He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to thank her, or what. What did you say to someone you’d always treated like a kid sister, when she becomes your boss, earning ten times what you do, with full powers to set your work and assess your performance?

  “I ...” He couldn’t think of a way to finish the sentence. She was looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He meant it to sound like a joke, but he wasn’t up to it. In fact it sounded real, and faintly pleading. She studied his face, and smiled enigmatically.

  Now that he had her attention, there was something else on his mind.

  “Uh, Christine. It’s just an idea. I need to move out of my apartment. I was wondering, if you were thinking of a move up town, at all, whether you might be interested in sub-letting it.” He waited, fearfully. The lease was watertight: he had to make the rent somehow. Had to.

  “Oh?” She thought about it for a moment. “How much?”

  Simon named the rent that he was being charged. Christine could easily afford it: when the promotion came through, as he had already worked out, she’d be on fifty percent more than what he’d been getting before all this started, plus bonuses: more than ten times what he was getting after this second review.

  She frowned: she wasn’t anything like as compliant as she used to be.

  “No.”

  He pressed his lips together. He was pale.

  “Please, Christine.”

  “Well, I wasn’t thinking of moving at all, but I suppose I might if the rent was a better deal.” She mentioned a figure that was less by exactly his take-home pay.

  There was no way that could be coincidence. She must know his pay, or she couldn’t have been so precise. He shrugged in acknowledgement, not denying it but not bothering to admit it explicitly. She knew that he knew.

  “Christine, you know I can’t take that. It leaves me no money for food, or to rent somewhere else.”

  “Well, that’s really not my problem, if you take on an over-priced commitment, and then can’t earn enough to pay for it.”

  He just stood there, white-faced, desperate.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” she offered. “Liz is moving out of her place, and is going to rent it to some of the guys.” Liz was the eighteen-year-old receptionist, downstairs. She had been on a dismal salary, but had got a big raise, and more responsibility. “If you rent me your apartment, fully furnished as it is now, for the figure I said, I’ll pay it direct to your landlord, and I’ll pay your rent at Liz’s place, direct to her.” She smiled, “You’ll be fine.”

  He grimaced. “That still won’t do. I have to eat, you know. Please, Christine.”

  “Well, if you’d let me finish?” she said, sharply. “I could probably find some odd jobs for you to do around the flat; that would keep you.”

  “What, you mean like housework? No way.”

  “That’s fine, then. I’ll find another flat. Cheaper.”

  “No. Okay. I’ll do it.”

  “So that’s a deal?” she asked, smiling.

  “Yes,” he said, reluctantly.

  Christine reached up and rested a hand on his shoulder.

  “It’ll be fine. Really. Trust me.” Smiling, she patted his cheek, and turned away, going to refill her glass and toast Joe’s departure. Simon hung his head in defeat.

  Liz’s flat turned out to be a one-room bedsit. The door opened straight into the main room, about twelve foot square. Immediately to each side as one walked in, there was a pair of metal bunk beds: she was renting to four guys, so she had bought them, but she required her tenants to buy them from her. To make that, and the deposit, Simon would have to sell most of his portable possessions, his music player and CD collection, for example. As agreed in their deal, he had left behind his furniture for Christine.

  Beyond the bunks, there was a rusty old electric cooker, standing next to the small window, and a couple of easy chairs with broken springs that looked as though Liz had picked them out of a skip. A door to the left led into a tiny shower room and lavatory. The lino was cracked
and stained.

  “Well?” she said. She was showing him round, after work. She was petite, with curly brown hair; her breasts weren’t large, but they were prominent on her small ribcage. She moved with quick, small, steps, and precise gestures. She was wearing large hoop earrings, noticeable eyeshadow, and very red lipstick. Simon remembered the time, only a few months ago, when she had called him ‘sir’. Her attitude was rather different now.

  “If you don’t want a place here, then there are plenty who do. I come round at least once a week, and I expect to see the place spotless, or you’re out. It’s all in the tenancy agreement.”

  “Yes, Liz. I’ll take it.”

  She frowned. “That’s ‘Yes, please, Ms. Stewart. May I have a place?’”

  He just looked at her. She looked back, unyielding, and waited him out. He needed this place. Christine had given him a plan, and he couldn’t think what else to do. He cleared his throat.

  “Yes, please, Ms. Stewart. May I have a place?”

  “Better.” She smiled smugly, and told him to write a cheque. He shook his head in wonder at how things had changed. Now he was Christine’s assistant, with almost no possessions, and dependent on her for money, for food, living in a single room with three other guys, kow-towing to the receptionist. His brain was sluggish: he couldn’t understand where it had all gone wrong, or how to fix it.

  Chapter Eleven

  “It’s going well.” Katherine said, turning from her desk to face Susan, who had just thrown herself down into one of the three easy chairs in Katherine’s office. “Four and a half months now, and hardly a complaint to the union rep. If you divide the total salary bill by gender, the males are on about a fifth of what they were before, the females on about double. Which actually means, when you take into account previous salaries and so on, that the wage bill has gone down.”

  Katherine paused. “I know the numbers, but you’re on the ground. Overall, how would you say they were taking it?”

  Susan had returned to the company as a ‘special consultant’ for about three days a week. To the other staff, exactly what Mr. Sallis wanted her to achieve wasn’t very clear, but whatever it was, it seemed to give her a lot of time to hang around in coffee rooms, in the cafeteria, and other places where people chatted.