 
# Martyrs

# and other stories

by Alexis Scott

Smashwords edition

Copyright © 2013 Alexis Scott

Photo Copyright© Colin Howard

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The monument on the front cover is the Monument aux Bigoudens at Pont l'Abbé, Brittany, France, by François Bazin.

Alexis Scott was born in Derry, N. Ireland but has lived almost all her adult life in Scotland. She trained as a solicitor in Scotland and has worked in many different jobs, including welfare rights and social research. She has written all her life, mostly fiction. Her other works of fiction include EATING WOLVES (print), THE YEARS (e-book) and DEACONSBANK (e-book).

Alexis Scott has also contributed to the anthology 'True Cat Tales' (kindle) and 'The Dynamics of Balsa' (New Writing Scotland 2007) as well as various academic journals and literary magazines.

Alexis Scott can be contacted on alexisscott00@hotmail.com

Praise for EATING WOLVES:

'As good as people-watching on the beach – only better.'

Carson Howat, The Scotsman

'Extremely readable'

John Carey, The Sunday Times

Eleven stories make up this collection. A number, like 'The Guiding Hand' and 'Unspecified Matters' are biting satire while others, like 'A Day Oot', 'Window Boxes' and 'Martyrs' are gentler in tone. Covering roughly the period from the early nineteen seventies until the millennium, around half can be termed Scottish and three Irish. The predominant theme is politics – from the sectarianism experienced in (an Irish) childhood through the politics of the workplace to the first elections of the Scottish Parliament. The maverick characters have lifestyles varying from the decadent rich to surviving on the dole but throughout the author's voice is consistently her own.

'A Day Oot' was published in 'Northwords' in 2000, 'Minutes' was published in 'Cutting Teeth' in 2001 and 'Window Boxes' was previously published by 'The Stinging Fly' (Dublin's Literary magazine) in 2004. The rest of the stories have not been previously published.
Table Of Contents

Introduction

Minutes

Favours

Window Boxes

Martyrs

Pudding

A Day Oot

The Guiding Hand

Unspecified Matters

Lies

The Empty Room

Perpetual Torment

##  Minutes

Phyllis was forty by the time she started noticing rather a lot of people were calling her "dear". Of course that was nothing new, no more than men (once upon a time) giving you their seat on trains or buses or holding doors open for you. Then she had stared at them with disdain or even, in the case of the men calling her "dear", retorted: "I'm not your dear," just as she had resolutely refused their offer of "ladies first". Only now the dear-calling seemed to happen rather more often than it used to.

In any event she had noticed the "ladies first" lark was always limited in its generosity. For example, when you were commuting and you could see the train was crowded (which was almost always) the men dropped their fausse politesse like a hot potato and scrambled in front of her like ill-trained mongrels. Naturally, the minute they got on board there was a mad stampede for the seats and it was generally the women - middle aged as well as young - who were forced to stand and wobble about and look for something to hang onto for the whole of the thirty minutes the train took from Stirling to Glasgow. Phyllis had never bothered with all the wobbling about: she would just head for the only space on the train where you could sit on the floor - the part near where the carriages were joined together. Naturally, the floor was always filthy on these dirty old diesels but she decided she would rather sit on a filthy floor than risk getting varicose veins. In those days the prospect of reaching Margaret Thatcher's age had seemed light years away (Thatcher had her varicose veins done around the time Phyllis was sitting on filthy floors) but still she knew to look after herself. In those halcyon days (the filthy trains and the sexism apart) she worked on the government's Manpower Services Community Programme scheme - a rather more generous version of the current schemes for in those days you could earn what is now the equivalent of about fifteen grand a year - three quarters of what Phyllis earned now, with years of experience behind her. If you were a graduate, as Phyllis was, anyway, you could. Still, the MSC jobs were all pretty low-status and you could get away with jeans and a T-shirt, not like these days when the lowest of the lowliest clerks has to dress to the nines in navy blue suits. Or a bold pink if you are young enough and daring enough (or have an exceptionally important job which Phyllis didn't, of course). Not that the MSC job wasn't a good job - well, in a way it was. In a many ways it was more interesting than what she did these days: sitting at a computer terminal all day long, sending out the same old boring fundraising letters, taking the minutes at meetings and writing them up afterwards in a socially acceptable form (so that Jones's use of the word "crap" would be deleted, for example and only the most oblique reference to Mr Jones's mild disapproval, would be recorded). Sometimes Phyllis felt like chucking it but she could not afford to: after all, what with all her family responsibilities over the years, and then the divorce, she had never managed to save tuppence, not even for a personal pension.

But this "dear" business. These days it wasn't the men who did it. No man these days would dare in case he found himself castigated by his peers as well as all of womankind - and that's if he was lucky. If unlucky he might just as easily end up before some tribunal and find himself out of a job. No, these days it wasn't the tight-lipped dark-suited briefcase brigade (who looked as though they wouldn't say boo to a goose) who joined her and the navy and pink-suited females on the shuttle trains to the city: it was the women. Not her professional colleagues, of course, who were all feminists or at least post-feminists. It was younger, as well as older, women in shops, public buildings and serving you in the pub even, who seemed to think it was quite the done thing to patronise forty-something females. When she had been a young student, and worked in shops and pubs during the long vacations, she would never in a million years have had the nerve to call any of her customers "dear". It was, quite simply, she thought, a matter of respect. But how to respond was a problem.

She decided to discuss the matter with Jenny - a colleague with marginally more junior status and only four or five years younger - during one of their infrequent pub lunches. Infrequent because post-feminist women - the majority of her (female) superiors as well as colleagues these days - inclined towards the belief that you were not really doing your job properly unless you worked at least every other lunch break. Then, of course, there were the babies in the workplace nursery or the moaning husbands to attend to (naturally the women did not refer to their husbands as moaners - rather, they were very much modern, post feminist men who wanted to be involved in everything to do with their families. Privately Phyllis saw this as an excuse for controlling their wives: after all, if they had to discuss family life with husbands at every available opportunity, plus attending to the babies in the workplace nursery, the wives couldn't exactly go and have a drink with colleagues, let alone get up to any hanky-panky, could they? However, as Phyllis was divorced, her opinion on such matters was never sought, let alone accepted, so the thought remained private).

"Oh." Jenny seemed genuinely surprised. "But, you know, Phyllis, people have always called me 'dear'. And I don't just mean my husband or his mum. I think it's a lovely expression, really. I mean, it is a term of affection, after all, isn't it?"

"That's not the point." Phyllis did not conceal her irritation. Christ, did the woman think she was stupid or something? "It's far too familiar. Besides, men don't get called it - ever, do they?"

"Of course not." Jenny looked hurt. "But just because there's a difference there doesn't mean it's - well, you know - discrimination, Phyllis." She started whispering and half turning round as if she was worried who might hear.

"Well, I think that's exactly what it is." She hadn't meant to sound stroppy; that wasn't what she was here for at all. She had wanted to discuss the matter because she was genuinely worried. Despite all those protestations about age not mattering she was suddenly finding that it did matter, very much, how old you were. She knew fine Jenny wasn't a raving feminist: she didn't know any raving feminists these days anyway. Still, they were friends as well as colleagues - sort of; what she had imagined was some heartfelt debate with this woman about ageing and ageism and maybe even death and dying and here they were talking crap, the two of them. She felt like crying but she had her dignity.

"It makes me feel - undignified," she went on hopelessly. "I just can't stand being talked to like that. I mean, can you imagine anyone calling Cherie Blair 'dear'?

They had finished their prawn sandwiches. Jenny stood up.

"I'm afraid I've got to go. I've got to finish that piece for Mr Jones."

Phyllis had all but forgotten the conversation with Jenny some months later when she was going for the Policy/Development Officer job. She should walk it, she reckoned, having been the only Policy/Development Assistant for yonks. As she read through the job description, she reckoned you could say she did the job already in all but name. The Person Specification naturally fitted her to a tee. Still, when it came to the interview she had rehearsed her stuff well, dreaming up hypothetical questions, talking to herself in the mirror - all that: careful not to rely even on just the presentation she had spent hours preparing (in her own time, of course). No-one could possibly accuse her of being complacent.

The interview went smoothly, as expected.

"We hope to decide this afternoon." Jones, who was chairing the interview panel, smiled broadly at her. She could even have sworn he winked.

The news came, not that evening, nor even the next day, but the day after that (she couldn't approach anyone, of course, or it would be canvassing, wouldn't it?) that she hadn't got it.

I regret to inform you, my dear....( My dear! My dear!) However, I have been asked to tell you that the panel were most impressed with your performance and wish you luck in any future application.

Performance! As if she was a fucking monkey! As if my dear wasn't enough! She was practically raving by the time she got into work. Only still she couldn't say a word. Naturally, if the successful candidate was a man she'd go straight to a tribunal, pleading sex discrimination.

Only the successful candidate was a woman, Jenny told her. "Skirt halfway up her backside. Bleached blonde hair. Late twenties. Evidently Jones's type. Look, I'm not happy about it, either. I mean, the only reason I didn't apply for the job myself was because I thought I didn't stand a chance. What with you having far more experience and everything. But this one who got it - I mean, she was just a typist. Barely a Standard grade to her name: I mean, it's ridiculous, really."

Jenny was depressed about the whole business but Phyllis was seething throughout the next fortnight while she hatched a plan. She asked for two weeks' holiday to commence two days after the next meeting of the Policy and Resources committee meeting and booked a holiday abroad. The assistant at the travel office stared at her when she told her she didn't care where she went as long as it was out of the country. For the next ten days she had to smile at Jones through clenched teeth every time she saw him and she had to smile even harder at the Policy and Resources meeting when Ms Bleached Blonde in her late twenties was welcomed to the group. Blondie's blouse was cut so low that when she leaned forward you could see more than just her cleavage. Phyllis looked down at her own dowdy navy suit that she had chosen deliberately that day for its wide and deep pockets and reached into her left pocket as the meeting began. As the (longer than average) meeting ended she heard a faint click that, thankfully, no-one else seemed to notice.

Afterwards she typed the minutes on her computer at home. Before she put them in their envelopes, ready for the post, she checked the recording. The minutes went out to all the members of the group, including the ones who never came to the meetings (and the ones who, it was said, had no great liking for Jones) as well as interested parties like councillors. Jones trusted her implicitly, it seemed: he never asked for the drafts for his approval anymore.

It had been an average sort of meeting. The average use of words like 'shit' (Jones six times, others three times altogether) and 'crap' (Jones eleven times, others twice altogether) and 'bloody' (Jones fifteen times, others three times altogether). And then, of course, there was good old 'fuck'. She had nothing against the use of colloquialisms - even swear words - in the right place at the right time but a grin swept over her face as she thought of the incongruity of the words and phrases popping up in a formal minute such as this was.

Mr Jones pointed out that he personally did not give a shit about what the council thought of the new policy. As long as they kept stomping up the fucking readies that was OK with him. All this talk about tightening belts was a load of crap anyway. What some of these councillors needed was a boot up the bloody arse.

She filed away the office copies in the usual place, keeping a few extra for herself. Plus, of course, the original disk and the tape. Then, as an afterthought, she took home the minutes for the councillors and made extra copies of the tape, slotting them into each of the packages. As she made ready for her early morning flight she was reminded of a favourite phrase of Jones's: When the shit hits the fan.... If Jones was still around when she came back she would be out on her arse, as he would say. Naturally, she would take the matter to an employment tribunal if there was any question of demotion, let alone dismissal. But what if she were dismissed? What, in the meantime? There were always jobs, somewhere, she told herself. Even menial-type ones, like working in a shop. She might get a kick out of calling the men 'dear', she decided. Some of the women, too, perhaps: the ones who proved tiresome, certainly. 'Dear' and 'love' and 'sweetie pie' were what came to mind. 'Sugar', even. If there were complaints she would simply diversify. 'Honey pie', 'cherub', 'kitten', 'baby', 'toots', 'flower'. The possibilities were infinite. Well, not quite infinite, perhaps (she could not, for example, imagine addressing a man as 'hen'). She would make a list, she decided. Something to while away the long hours on the beach. As a final thought she added the thesaurus between the layers of summer clothes in her neatly-packed suitcase.

## Favours

The election campaign for the first democratically-elected Parliament in Scotland's history was underway. Urbane politicos, if not your average Scot, awoke in the lush spring mornings positively tingling with excitement. The prospect of a socialist (or even independent) Scotland at long last! "Scotland into the New Era." All that crap. Only for some it was an opportunity, if need be, for the settling of old scores...

Janice Calderwood was used to standing her ground. Only, as this was the first time she had stood for election, she was understandably a wee bitty nervous. Not that she didn't believe she was the best woman for the job. Janice's credentials for the Women's Party of Scotland's candidature were impeccable: forty four (and fiery and feisty, the papers said), longstanding (and longsuffering) social worker and veteran campaigner for Zero Tolerance of Violence against Women. The party was formed only in mid-1998 but they were in with a good chance of a seat, thanks to generous moral (if limited financial) support from women from all walks of life: from industry to the arts, from arty-farty old dykes to straight young things in suits, from women at home and abroad (and, yes, even from men anxious to prove themselves as non-sexist and ultra-modern).

Janice was hoping to be elected, not under the ancient and outdated (and of course inherently sexist) First past the Post system but under the List for the Glasgow Region.

"Give me your second vote!" Janice's campaign leaflets urged. "Scotland's Parliament needs more Women! Fight for an end to Discrimination against Women! Support the Campaign against Violence against Women!" There followed statistics illustrating how women's wages were much lower than men's, arguments stressing the need for subsidised childcare etc. etc. Women on doorsteps from Clarkston to Castlemilk, from Partick to Priesthill, from Dowanhill to Drumchapel said they would give their second vote to Janice. The WPS, it seemed, had the power to unite women where the old parties failed. The sisterhood in Edinburgh, too (the party, regrettably, had insufficient funds to mount campaigns outwith Scotland's two main cities) reported that from Gorgie to Grange, Muirhouse to Morningside, women promised the WPS their second vote.

"You know," remarked Liz (Liz was Janice's longstanding live-in lover and unpaid agent), "one of the best things is there's no negative campaigning against us." After a long day's campaigning Liz had dropped into party HQ in the west end (which also doubled as the couple's tenement home) for a well-earned coffee break.

"Well, obviously," Janice agreed. "I mean, what can they say? That they support Violence against Women?"

"Of course not. Only," Liz added carefully, "we mustn't count our chickens. I mean, I know the last poll reckoned we'd get seven per cent of the vote - that's more than forecast for the Red or Deid lot - but there are still a number of weeks to go."

Janice, as it turned out, was absolutely right about not counting one's chickens. Barely a week later the WPS vote was dropping drastically in both Glasgow and Edinburgh. While the matrons and Mses of Grange and Morningside as well as Dowanhill and Clarkston were reverting to the Tories or the Lib Dems or, more rarely, to the Nats, the lassies of Muirhouse and Gorgie, Castlemilk and Drumchapel, Priesthill and Pollok were now muttering "Red or Deid".

"This is hopeless," Janice sighed, almost in tears.

Liz picked up The Herald and read that New Labour, the Liberal Democrats, the SNP and the Tories were united in their stance against Violence against Women and would do all they could in the Scottish Parliament, to safeguard the rights of all women. There was no direct reference to the WPS but there could be no doubt that the mainstream parties were stealing the WPS' clothes. Then she noticed a small paragraph at the bottom of the page. Tony Wright of the Red or Deid party had remarked that the WPS was a load of separatist nonsense. He urged voters that Red or Deid was the alternative party for the Scottish working classes. With Red or Deid's strategy of Homes for Everyone \- male or female, single or with kids, gay or straight - the WPS stance was rendered superfluous.

Janice shook her head in despair at the thought of having to carry on as an unappreciated social worker driving her battered Escort round far-flung schemes. Subjected to verbal and sometimes physical abuse, day and daily, from drug addicts, alcoholics and the dregs of society. Maybe she'd been kidding herself all along. Maybe all she really wanted before the gulf of middle age swallowed her completely was a comfy seat in the new Parliament. She still had friends in New Labour, friends who were standing for the parliament themselves and who would probably get through on the First past the Post system nae bother. She had quit the Labour party when they introduced tuition fees. The last straw, she had called it. An end to free education. Now she was destined for the wilderness while Tony Wright and his ilk would add to the mountain of men on the Mound. Doubtless the red demons would fade into a pale shade of pink once they darkened its doors. So much for sticking to one's principles.

"Fuck," said she and Liz together.

Tony Wright rubbed his hands in glee. He lived round the corner from Janice and throughout the campaign had managed to avoid her. Now Red or Deid were on the up and up he didn't care if he met her in the street. Of course Janice was a well-kent face from the old Labour Party days. Her agent's name - Liz McCluskey - rang a bell too. Some politico from the old days no doubt, although he couldn't exactly place her. Not that it mattered. Tony hadn't much time for these feminist types, not that he would ever say so openly, of course. His wife was his unpaid secretary (although he'd pay her, of course, if he could afford to) and he'd be lost without her but there was never any question of her actually standing as a candidate. Besides which she had the wean to look after. For Tony, the issues were very clear-cut, black and white - or rather, red and blue. Red or Deid was obviously red and everyone else was differing shades of blue. If you were not for the party you were against it. Besides, Tony was a lawyer and knew his stuff. He was not any sort of lawyer, of course (particularly a capitalist lawyer), but a Community Law Centre lawyer who worked day and daily with the lumpen proletariat. He knew how the poll tax had ravaged them and, begod, the after-effects were ravaging them still. He had gone along to people's houses to protest when the sheriff officers had turned up to lift their telly that was probably the only thing in the house worth flogging. He had seen folk turned out into the street for being a couple of months behind with their rent. He knew Janice Calderwood's job meant she was no stranger to poverty but at the end of the day Politics was Politics. He didn't want to play dirty but, after all, he wanted to win. Red or Deid aimed to win half a dozen seats through the List in Glasgow and half as many as that in Edinburgh and in order to do that they had to achieve a certain - well, respectability, appeal to pensioners and families wi weans and not just the lefties who went on demos. So Tony, as Chief party spokesperson, was careful not to say too much about NATO's bombing of Yugoslavia, for example. In fact so far he had managed to say nothing at all, apart from pointing out that, as Defence was not a devolved matter, the war was not an election issue. Unbelieveably, he had got away with it too. Then there was the question of Independence. That had been a tricky one for the party as a whole. There had been a lot of havering about the workers of the world uniting and all that palaver but in the end it was felt better to opt in favour, if only to stress their distance from New Labour and London, while at the same time not making an issue of it.

Time for the settling of old scores, Liz decided unilaterally, as support for the WPS declined drastically while the RoD's ascended like the Holy Ghost. There was no need even to involve Janice at this stage who was taking all the holidays she was due to go and trail round the doors. She would get the leaflets printed and maybe even distribute them before Janice - who was too soft sometimes - had time to object. It occurred to Liz that, in theory, the party could even expel her for such a gross breach of party discipline (failure to consult the sisterhood). Only they weren't likely to fling her out if they won a seat, were they?

The Party of Equality, the Party against Discrimination, the Party that puts its Money where its mouth is.

Sod the Jessicas from Jordanhill, the hussies of Hyndland, the trendies frae the west end. There were far more votes to be gained in the schemes. Theirs was a radical party. They should not be afraid to say so.

The Party against Poverty, the Party against Warrant Sales, the Party against Evictions. The Red or Deid Party claims to be against Evictions but did you know RoD Chief Tony Wright, behaving more like a Rachman than a Socialist, evicted Liz McCluskey, now member of the Women's Party of Scotland, who was a tenant in his home? McCluskey says it was the worst experience of her life, being put out in the street with nowhere to go. "If I'd known my rights I'd have gone to court," Ms McCluskey confirms, "but I didn't have a clue in those days. If the people of Scotland think they can rely on the likes of Tony Wright to stand up for them when it comes to issues like Eviction they should think again.

Of course it would double as a press release, Liz thought, as she sat and waited while the laser printer ran off several hundred leaflets at a time. She had sorted the leaflets into piles and was just starting to draft the covering letter to go along with the press release when Janice burst in.

"Christ, I'm bloody exhausted. I don't know if I can keep this up. It's worse than going to work." Her eye fell upon the leaflets. Before Liz could stop her she had grabbed one and digested its contents.

"Jesus, Liz, what's all this about?"

"It's the truth," said Liz firmly. "He threw me out of his flat. A fucking misogynist, that's what he is."

"Aye, well, but, I mean, talk about negative campaigning. I mean, never mind the bloody principle, it can backfire."

"Och, come on, Janice, let's just send them out," Liz pleaded.

"Let me think first. Look, until we sort this out I want you to promise not to send out a single one of those leaflets - or a press release, of course."

"OK."

That evening Janice went round to Tony's flat. He was out but Janice stressed it was urgent and his wife - who appeared not to recognise her - let her wait.

Tony looked surprised but unperturbed when he saw her.

"If you don't mind I'd rather speak to you privately," she told him as his wife hovered in the hall.

He raised his eyebrows. "OK, no probs."

He showed her into the kitchen.

Janice showed him the leaflet. "We haven't sent anything out - yet. I thought we might be able to come to some arrangement."

As Tony stared at the words looming out of the page the name of Liz McCluskey stirred the phantoms of his youth. The bloody lesbian bitch he had found sleeping with his ex. That was how she had repaid him for letting her stay in his flat for next to nothing. It was the first flat he'd bought - a room and kitchen (he slept in the bed recess in the kitchen) - and he was only a trainee solicitor on a pittance so he needed help with the mortgage. He had been out to the pub with the guys and when he'd got back Liz was in bed with Monica, his girlfriend. He had just screamed at both of them: "Get the fuck out! Get the fuck out of here and don't come back!" Only he couldn't say a word of this to Janice (assuming she didn't know already) - it was too humiliating.

"What do you want?" he asked Janice sullenly.

"I thought maybe we could reach a compromise."

Withdrawal of Janice's nomination at this late stage was impossible even if it were desirable, prohibited as it was by the regulations. The WPS council affirmed the position when Janice explained at their Edinburgh meeting (carefully leaving out any reference to Liz's eviction). Besides, there were still a few votes to be had out of Morningside and Merchiston.

"If Red or Deid are coming closer to our position on Women's Housing and Homelessness issues then that is surely a good thing and we can't really say anything against them," she finished weakly.

"Come on, Janice, we're still in with a chance, surely?" Clarissa, the Lothians candidate (born and bred in Morningside herself) looked round the rest of the sisterhood for endorsement. "Although we do seem to be doing better in Edinburgh, you're obviously the better candidate - as well as being more - erm, mature and everything." (Clarissa herself was only twenty six.)

"I just think we should concentrate our resources on Edinburgh," Janice reiterated. "And besides, I won't have as much free time - for campaigning, like - as I thought. I mean, I need my holidays. If I don't get elected the last thing I want is getting the sack, for God's sake." She too looked round for approbation but was met with stony silence.

Fuck `em, she told herself in the car home. At the end of the day you had to look out for Number One. Men had been doing it for years. She and Tony Wright had discussed rather more than what she had told them. In fact, he had made her an offer she couldn't refuse. Only whether she required to make use of his offer would depend on what happened on the day.

"What do you mean, you're not going to bother producing any more leaflets?" Liz was flabbergasted.

"I'm just tired, that's all." Well, she was, really. She was always tired in this fucking job.

"I'll do them myself. Maybe you're getting election fatigue or something."

"Look, don't bother, Liz. I don't want to do any more campaigning. I'm just a bit disillusioned. The whole thing's a foregone conclusion anyway. Besides, I've been thinking maybe Social Work isn't that bad after all. I'm going to go and run a hot bath with lots of aromatic herbs and things. I need to wind down."

Liz looked at her like she was bonkers. "I'm going to the pub."

Janice shrugged. The minute Liz was out the door she went away out to the middens out the back and stuffed the remaining twenty thousand leaflets in the neighbours' bins. Then she went back inside to enjoy the most relaxing soak she'd had in a long time.

The votes cast and counted, the WPS only managed to acquire three and one per cent in Lothians and Glasgow respectively - not enough to get through even on the Lothians list. Knowing Janice Liz expected tears, rage, retrospective feminist analysis (fucking misogynist wankers!) - something. But Janice merely shrugged.

"We'll go and drown our sorrows then?" Liz laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Later. I've a few things to see to first."

Tony was very busy with the press, having got elected with six percent of the vote, but he had been expecting her call on his mobile.

"Wait a minute till I go somewhere more private," her told her quietly. In the Men's at the Sports Centre where they'd counted the votes, he said: "Aye, aye, of course. Look, I said I'd do it and I always keep my promises, don't I?"

Tony, being something of a socialite as well as a male socialist lawyer, had better contacts than Janice in local government. There was no such thing as instant promotion with all this Equal Ops crap but a word in the right ear or two and the next time a management vacancy came up in Social Work Janice would be in the front running.

Four months later Janice and Tony met in the street.

"How's the Parliamentary career?" She was only being polite. The bugger was getting his name round all right. Had a bill drafted already to abolish warrant sales. The tinge of envy she felt was mingled with admiration.

"Och, so-so. How's the new job?"

"You heard then?"

"Och, you know. Contacts," he laughed.

"Aye. You know, I wondered. How come the high heid yins listen to you then? I mean, it's not as if the council's full of Red or Deid, I mean, is it?"

He laughed. "You'll maybe no believe this but see when I was a student I had this bastard of a landlord that threw me oot just because I was a couple of weeks behind with the rent. I mean, it was illegal and everything. Just locked us oot and threw my belongings in the close. Never took us to court or nothing."

"Terrible," she murmured.

"Aye," he says. "Bastard's a councillor. Fancies himself as Lord Provost some day if you ask me. He's like that," and here he crossed two fingers and held them up, "wi one o the high heid yins in the Social Work. I just remind him every now and again what a bastard he was whenever I want any favours."

They both laughed. Janice carried on laughing to herself all the way home. Of course she had got it out of Liz about why Tony had thrown her out but that was all water under the bridge. There was no point in upsetting Tony. Besides which you never knew when you might need another favour off him.

## Window Boxes

Every summer the men decorated the Fountain. At the top they hung these big banners and on the gable ends oul Mr Jackson painted pictures of King Billy on his lovely big white horse. There was bunting all the way down the street. Best of all every windowsill got its own window boxes. There was the Derry City crimson in the middle, the red, white and blue of the Union Jack on one side and the Red Hand of Ulster on the other. Five bob they took off everybody for the flags and bunting. Nobody minded for it was only once a year.

Some people had more than just the window boxes and the bunting. Some people had the big Derry City Crimsons on flagpoles. They were dearer.

How much? I asked me daddy one night when he came back from the pub because he was more inclined to be generous, me mammy said, when he had a drink in him.

Too much, anyway, me mammy says, coming in from the scullery. Anyway, we can't put one up. We've no pole.

So that was that. Then one day me and Shirley were playing in the bedroom. We were that quiet me mammy never even guessed we were in the house. Well, know what we found in the big trunk? This Union Jack. It was that huge it would've been too big for just the one pole anyway.

I bet it was me granda's, Shirley says. Me granda Wylie – me mammy's daddy - had died a while ago and me daddy came in with this big trunk. It was that big me uncle James – me mammy's brother - had to help him down the street with it and up the stairs. Me granda Wylie had a sash too. So had me uncle James. Only me daddy had none.

Me daddy could wear me granda Wylie's sash now me granda's dead, I said to Shirley but she shook her head. You have to have your own one.

Why? I asked.

You just do, Shirley said, sticking her nose in the air so you knew there was no point arguing with her.

Do you think me daddy told secrets? I asked Shirley once. Everybody knew Thomas Long had got threw out the Orange lodge for telling secrets. The Apprentice Boys must have secrets as well.

Me daddy was never in it but, Shirley said.

How do you know? I said.

Ask me mammy, Shirley said.

That's right, me mammy said. He was never in it. I was going to ask more but she had her lips pressed together thon way so there was no point.

Then Helen Boyd at school – for I had started school by this time – says you can always join because that's what her daddy did.

You have to join when you're wee, Shirley said when I told her.

That's right, me mammy said, coming in from the scullery. Her hands were freezing from washing the clothes. I put my hands up to hers to warm them.

No more questions now, she said.

You can warm your hands up at the bonefire the night, I said to her.

Och, I'm not bothered for going, me mammy said. You and Shirley just go with your uncle James. I'm a bit tired.

Is me daddy not coming? I asked.

No. He's tired as well.

I knew by this time daddies didn't get as tired as mammies. They didn't have to do the washing and the ironing and the dinner and everything. Even if they were out lifting hods of bricks all day like me mammy said me daddy was at night time they put their feet up with their fags and the paper. Or went to the pub. Or the Apprentice Boys, if they were in it.

The bonefire was good but I wished me mammy and me daddy had come up.

See when I was wee, me uncle James said. I used to go away out the Boleys collecting firewood for the bonefire. Miles away I used to go.

We went to the Boleys, I said. Me daddy took us. I got stung with the nettles and the thorns.

I cried too only I didn't want to tell him that.

Me daddy must've went out the Boleys as well when he was wee, I said.

Oh, aye, surely, me uncle James said.

Collecting firewood for the bonefire, I said.

Me uncle James said nothing. For a minute his lips went all tight the way me mammy's did when she didn't want to say something. Only then he swung me up in the air and I laughed and laughed. He went to swing Shirley up too but she ran away.

I'm too big to be swung up in the air, uncle James, she said.

It's the Big Parade the morrow, Shirley said when we were in bed.

I know, I said. I mind last year's. Do you mind it?

You're too wee to mind it, Shirley said.

I do so mind it, I said.

Naw, you don't, Shirley said.

I mind they played the Sash, I said.

Everybody knows that, Shirley said.

I mind me uncle James and me granda Wylie walking with their sashes on, I said.

There was that many people walking you lost count. All the crimson sashes behind the banners floating down the street while the band played No Surrender. And the man with his big stick, throwing it high up in the air and it going round and round and round.

Me granda Wylie was too sick to be in the parade last year, Shirley said.

I shut up. Maybe Shirley was right. Maybe I didn't mind it. Maybe I only imagined half of it from stuff I was told. People were always talking about the Big Parade. Except at Christmas when there was other things to be thinking about, like Jesus being born in the stable and the shepherds and all that stuff.

I mind the nativity play they had at school last year, I said to Shirley suddenly. You were in it.

She was Mary. She had this lovely dress on they called a robe.

Do you mind the robe you had? I asked her but she was asleep.

The next day we were on our way down the street to see the Big Parade. I had my new pink dress on that I was supposed to keep for church only me mammy said I could wear it on the Twelfth.

We were going past this house and I looked up and there was no window boxes with wee flags on its windowsill.

Look, mammy, daddy! I said. That house has no flags! Look!

Sssh, went Shirley and me mammy and me daddy all at once. They never even looked.

You never looked, I said, but quieter, when we had passed.

That house never has any flags, me mammy said.

It's because they're Catholics, Shirley said.

Is it? I asked me mammy and me daddy.

That's right, me mammy said.

But do they not have to have them? I asked.

Naw, they don't have to have them, me daddy said.

I knew what Catholics were. I knew they went to a different school and everything. There was a school in Artillery Street that Catholics went to and there was nuns in it. Me and Shirley went once and Shirley climbed up to look in the window and this nun came and banged on the window with her cane and we nearly died. Only most Catholics lived in Creggan or the Long Tower, not in the Fountain anyway.

Do the Catholics have their own flags? I asked, all of a sudden. It didn't seem right for them to have nothing when we had so many.

Me mammy and me daddy never answered me for a minute but I could see they were thinking about it.

How can they have their own flags when we all have to live under the Union Jack? Shirley burst out.

Aye, that's right enough, me daddy said, smiling but still looking a wee bit sad, We all have to live under the Union Jack , so we do.

At the Big Parade we saw me uncle James and loads of other men and boys from the Fountain with their fancy sashes. Some of the wee girls got to hold the strings behind the banners but only if their daddies were in the Apprentice Boys, Shirley said after. Me daddy had brothers too – me uncle Martin and me uncle Peter - but they were in Belfast because they had married Belfast girls, me mammy said and it was too dear to go to Belfast so we never saw them.

At least they'll see the parade on the TV, Shirley said.

Me mammy and me daddy never said anything. I thought it wouldn't be the same watching it in black and white.

They have their own parade in Belfast, Shirley said. Only it's different. They wear Orange sashes instead.

I know, I said. Shirley thought she knew everything.

The night of the Big Parade there was rioting. A man got killed. I went to the door and saw men march up the street with sticks in their hands and angry faces.

Away inside you, said me mammy.

Is me daddy not going too? I asked, seeing Davie Robertson from across the street and Sammy Colquhoun with a brick in his hand.

Inside, said me mammy. I won't tell you again.

Later on the house that had no flags was boarded up, then it was burnt down.

What happened to the people inside ? I whispered to me mammy.

Oh, they got out all right.

Aye, they got out before they were burned out, said me daddy.

Was it because they were Catholics? I asked.

Aye, said me daddy. That's right. It's because they were Catholics. He was nearly crying. I wanted to ask him if he was crying for the Catholics but me mammy said I had to go to bed.

When we went back to school there was still riots. There was shooting as well. The headmaster said we weren't allowed up the walls incase there was more shooting.

Bloody Fenians, Shirley said.

Sure your da's a Fenian, Andy Barr who was in Primary Six says to her.

I knew what a Fenian was by this time.

Of course he's not a Fenian, I said. We have the flags the same as everybody else.

He's still a bloody Fenian, Andy Barr said.

Liar! I shouted after him but Shirley said nothing.

After school I told me mammy what Andy Barr said.

He's a liar, isn't he, mammy?

I'll have to speak to his mother, me mammy says. He's got hold of the wrong end of the stick.

The next day I saw Andy Barr in the playground.

Me mammy says you've got hold of the wrong end of the stick, I said.

Aye, you're all right, says he. Me ma says he turned.

What? says I but he walked away. He musta been too affronted to be seen talking to a Primary Two wee girl.

Mammy, I says, after. What does Turned mean?

Changed their religion. Why?

Because Andy Barr says me daddy turned.

She stopped peeling the potatoes for a minute and looked at me. Aye, that's right, she says. Your daddy turned. There's many's the one turns. There's more than him anyway. Then she went back to peeling the potatoes.

Then one day when I came in from school me daddy was crying again.

Your granny Doherty's died, me mammy said. Don't go making a noise now. Your daddy's all annoyed.

Me granny Doherty had been in the Waterside hospital for years. Me daddy went to see her sometimes. He took me once but I didn't like it. I didn't like the smell and you had to just be quiet all the time. Granny Doherty could hardly even speak. She just lay there. I didn't want to go anymore so after that me daddy just went hisself.

Me uncles from Belfast came up to our house the next day.

Are they going to stay here? I asked because we never had anybody to stay.

Naw, me mammy said. They're going to stay with your auntie Bernie that lives in the country near Strabane.

I never knew I had an auntie Bernie, I says.

Aye, says me mammy. She never comes near here.

We'll just go to the grave after, me mammy said when I asked what I was going to wear at the funeral.

I want to go with me daddy, I said.

I don't, Shirley said and she had a face on her, right enough.

Let her come, me daddy said to me mammy and she let me.

Is it not in First Derry? I asked me daddy when we walked past it. First Derry was our church.

Me daddy shook his head. It's further up.

In the church there was music. It was like our church only a bit bigger and the music was different. Me auntie Bernie and her husband – me uncle Sean - was there and so was me uncles' Belfast wives – me other aunties. Only me uncle James and me other auntie – me mammy's sister Betty – never turned up.

The graveyard was a different graveyard from where me granny and me granda Wylie are buried. The minister threw dirt on the coffin before it got put in the ground like the minister at me granda Wylie's funeral. People were crying just the same. I cried a bit too because she was me granny, after all.

Sure, it's a happy release for her, people said.

How's it a happy release, daddy? I asked.

Because she's in heaven, me daddy said.

Me granny and me granda Wylie are in heaven too and me granda Doherty, I said, remembering me daddy's daddy too even though he was dead before I was born.

That's right, lovie. They're all in heaven, me daddy said.

I thought me mammy and Shirley were coming to the graveyard, I said to me daddy.

After, he said.

After we went to me auntie Bernie's house in the country near Strabane.

There was a picture of Jesus on the wall above the fireplace.

That's a nice picture, I said to me auntie Bernie.

That's Jesus, auntie Bernie said.

I know, I said. I've seen him before.

Have you? Me auntie Bernie looked surprised.

Me sister Shirley's got a bible with pictures in it, I said. She got it at Sunday School.

Did she? You'll have to bring her over sometime to see me, me auntie Bernie said.

After I told Shirley what me auntie Bernie said.

I wouldn't go near her house, Shirley said.

Why not?

It's a Fenian house.

How?

Me uncle James says it is.

I remembered what Andy Barr says then about turning.

Did she not turn? I asked Shirley.

Naw. None o them did, except for me daddy. They're all Fenians. The ones in Belfast too.

What about me granny Doherty?

Her as well. Fenians, the whole lot o them.

Is that why you never went to the church?

It wasn't a church. It was a Fenian chapel.

It was just like our church, I says. They had hymns and everything.

It's idolatry but, Shirley says.

What's idolatry?

It's worshipping graven images.

What's graven images?

Statues and stuff. Pictures of Jesus.

Worshipping – like praying?

Same thing.

But we pray to Jesus.

We don't pray to his picture, stupid.

The next year the men put up the flags again and then it was Bonefire night again.

Are you not going up to see the bonefire wi your uncle James? me daddy asked.

I'm not bothered, I said.

Will you go if I go?

I looked at him. Me daddy never went to the bonefire before.

Sure it's only a bonefire, me daddy said. There's no harm in a bonefire.

We went and watched the bonefire and me daddy even spoke to me uncle James.

Maybe me daddy'll go and watch Lundy, Shirley said after. If he could go and watch the bonefire on the Eleventh night you would think he would go and watch Lundy burn. It'll be The End of All Traitors this year.

I know, I said. I mind it was Lundy the Traitor last year.

I knew all about Lundy by this time, him selling the keys of Derry for a bap.

Then the IRA blew up Governor Walker's monument so there was no more Lundy. We never went back to me auntie Bernie's. Me uncle Sean got shot. We never went back to the graveyard where me granny and me granda Doherty were buried. Me mammy said there was too much trouble.

Andy Barr's big brother blew himself up planting a bomb across the border even though Andy Barr used to brag none of his family would ever set foot in the Free State. Andy Barr joined the juniors in the Apprentice Boys. Me mammy and me daddy never took us to watch the Big Parade.

I'm not bothered anyway, Shirley said.

Neither am I, I said.

Our house was getting knocked down. We got this new house miles away across the Foyle. When it came to the Twelfth some of the men put up bunting but there was no big flags or banners. There was no King Billy on his horse on the gable ends. There was no more window boxes. There was no windowsills to put them on anyway.

Somebody painted the kerbstones red, white and blue.

They could just have painted them crimson, Shirley said.

Naw they couldn't, I said.

Aye, right enough, Shirley said. It would remind you of Andy Barr's big brother.

Aye, and me uncle Sean, I said.

Who? said Shirley.

Me auntie Bernie's man, I said. Mind he got shot?

We never knew him but, Shirley said.

## Martyrs

We had arrived in Pont l'Abbé at long last. Only already I was feeling the high point had passed: the point where you think you have made it, you've arrived, after a bold itinerary and months of organising, and only gradually does it sink in that you still have six days to go and that means camp site fees as well as food for two. Then both your tandem tyres need replacing and you have no-one, but no-one to turn to if you run out of money (as you must) and, oh Christ, you wish you had stayed at home.

For the past nine days we had been living on bread and cheese, with the odd square of chocolat patissier thrown in as a special treat (I hadn't told my my ten year old daughter it was actually baking chocolate). At Benodet I had mild sun stroke, after deciding I couldn't afford sun cream (and forcing my daughter to wear long sleeved clothing in the searing heat) and then had to go and buy the stuff after all. The question was, how long could it go on?

It was in that state of desperation I thought wildly of the French woman who must now be in her late fifties, at least, whom I hadn't seen for sixteen long years. I was a teenager then, on a six week holiday in Brittany, c/o Madame Dugarry, Pont l'Abbé.

It's a great chance for you, an opportunity. You have to make the most of it.

The letter went on and on about grateful I should be. In fact my mother's words had the opposite effect intended. I was positively huffy. It was all right for her. She didn't have to spend the summer trailing about everywhere with a poker-faced fourteen year old (three years younger than I but she might as well have been at the école primaire for all the rapport we had: Ghislaine only spoke when spoken to and then only, always in French. Not that the rest of the family spoke a word of English either. Or if they did they weren't trying.

"At least you get decent meals." My friend Margaret who was the only soul I knew in this Godforsaken town in the back of beyond was no more successful at the sympathetic act than my mother. "Burgers and crisps - stuff like that. You should have seen this steak we had yesterday. The blood running out of it - yeuch."

I was not to be consoled. I was on a diet and wouldn't fit into my new size 10 hotpants if I carried on eating the enormous amounts Madame kept feeding me. To start with it was my ignorance, I suppose. I didn't have a clue the French - even the not very affluent or quite poor French - ate dish after dish, course after course until it felt like the food was coming out of your ears. So when I had a liberal helping of the soupe de poisson (with baguette) because I thought that was it - well, apart from dessert, perhaps - it wasn't my fault I had no room left for the choucroutes avec saucisson, let alone the tomates et pommes de terre and that I had Madame Dugarry glaring at me across the table and refusing, for once, all help with the dishes - la vaisselle. Not that my offer of help with the domestic chores was ever refused again.

"I sometimes wonder why we're here," I moaned to Margaret when Ghislaine was out of earshot, "apart from being domestic servants, of course." (I never could fathom how much English she understood - indeed, I thought that was one of her ploys - never to let on so that I was always ill at ease incase she was eavesdropping. Naturally, we tried to include Ghislaine in the conversation but she was always non-committal and, when asked for her opinion on any matter of interest to normal teenagers, like who was her favourite pop group, would shrug her shoulders disdainfully as though such nonsense was quite beneath her).

Margaret had by this time (a couple of weeks into the holiday) all but given up any attempts at conversation with Ghislaine, too. "I know," she said glumly. "At first I didn't mind taking little Pierre here, there and everywhere but I'm a bit fed up with him sometimes. I mean, it's not as if I'm learning a lot of French talking to a two year old."

I looked down at the midget all decked out in his Breton shirt and navy blue shorts, clutching Margaret's hand tightly. I knew nothing of looking after children, being an only myself, but still thought it wasn't as bad as being stuck with Ghislaine. At least Margaret could say anything she liked in front of him.

"I mean," Margaret went on, "I feel a bit used as well. You know, Monsieur and Madame Truffaut are both doctors. You'd think they could afford to pay somebody. Plus they're getting paid for my keep. They leave me with him practically every weekday and sometimes even Saturdays as well."

"Yeah, you're right. And I'm an unpaid - companion - to that - that - iceberg - over there!"

"Yeah. Still, it's not as if the trip cost us - or our parents - anything so I suppose we might as well make the most of it."

It was true the trip had cost us nothing. It had been arranged by a charitable organisation that wanted to do something for poor Irish children affected by the troubles. Living in Londonderry (otherwise known as Derry) in the early seventies we A level students, some philanthropist had decided somewhere, were prime targets for this excellent experiment in cross-cultural relationships. My own father was out of work, having been ill with a bad back for years but most of my fellow High school students could have afforded to go to France anyway, I reckoned. Before we left we were told we didn't even need to bring pocket money; everything would be provided. So, instead of feeling grateful, it was not surprising some of us ended up feeling a little cheated.

"Yeah, but it's not easy, is it? I feel pretty stuck."

"Still, Gaston's coming on Saturday. They can hardly expect me to have Pierre every day when Gaston's here."

"I didn't realise he was coming so soon?" I had palpitations at the thought of having Ghislaine all to myself for the whole of the next week

"Mmm." Margaret could hardly conceal the growing excitement in her voice. "I can't wait. It must be nearly a month since I've seen him."

I could hardly conceal my jealousy. I'd never had a boyfriend in my life - not unless you counted (and I didn't) the odd grope behind the bus shelter (or, in one case, up an alleyway) after the youth club. Not that I got anything out of the gropes and boys feeling my boobs: the guys concerned I found pretty repulsive, actually, but I needed the street cred. Ours was an all-girls school and my parents were ultra-protective and unwilling to let me out of their sight so, unless they thought I was at the youth club, there was absolutely no chance of having real relationships with the opposite sex.

By comparison, Margaret's parents were extremely liberal. They had even let her go away youth hostelling with Andrea. With Andrea! I tell you, if you were a parent and you'd met Andrea you wouldn't have let your daughter go with her to Woolworths, never mind youth hostelling - the language of that girl! Only, of course, Andrea wouldn't say boo to a goose in front of other people's parents - telling her History teacher dad to fuck off in class was something quite different. A youth hostelling trip to the Glens of Antrim - somewhere I could only dream about. Of course, that was how Margaret had met Gaston who lived in Paris but was originally from Brittany and called himself a Breton nationalist. Gaston was paying a visit to the old country, sampling the hospitality of another of the ancient Celtic nations. I didn't suppose Margaret had told him she herself came of good, Ulster loyalist stock to whom the word "nationalist" was synonymous with foes, Fenians, and the I.R.A.

That night I told Madame Dugarry about Gaston. At least I told her he was from Paris but not about the Breton nationalist thing. I hadn't a clue whether these sorts of nationalists had ever planted bombs (I didn't think so) but somehow I thought it might not be quite a respectable thing to be, even though Madame Dugarry was a Catholic and went every Sunday to mass. That first Sunday I was overjoyed at the thought I was going to be left in peace while the whole family trooped off to church but not a bit of it - Madame Dugarry evidently did not see the necessity for the whole, or indeed, any, of her offspring to come trooping after her: her religion was very much a private, individual thing. "At least you don't have to go," Margaret had responded when I told her. "The Truffauts are Protestants so I have to go every Sunday."

Paree? Tu dis Paree? I remember mocking Mme Dugarry afterwards. If I had said he'd just been in the nick I don't think I'd have got more of a reaction. Honestly, the good woman must have thought the place was a right den of iniquity. I sighed as it dawned on me I'd ended up with someone just as strict and narrow-minded as my own parents. And to think that, when I first heard about the trip, I had some sort of romantic notion about going to France and meeting my true love. Well, failing that even a bit of sightseeing. The only sight I had seen so far was on the path by the river where we walked almost daily: the Monument aux Bigoudens - a grimy granite sculpture of several peasant women and their children, their heads bowed and wearing the most miserable-looking expressions imaginable. I never understood what it was about.

If I was green with envy already, having seen a photograph of Gaston who was twenty one, (twenty one - my mother would have killed me!) my blood was all but boiling when Margaret let it slip the next day (out of Ghislaine's earshot, naturally) that she "might be pregnant". All I could do was stammer: "Do - do you think - that's - possible?" That was when Margaret took the opportunity of going into the details about how these men (men!) including Gaston had come into the girls' dorm and how "well, it just started from there." Naturally, she didn't have to say anymore: the rest was understood. At least, I had heard all this before but had understood "the rest" to mean they'd had a good snog and whatever and he'd maybe got as far as feeling her boobs - under her bra, even - but now what was all this supposed to be about her maybe going and getting herself pregnant? I mean, here she was telling me she'd gone all the way.

"Have you told Gaston?" I spurted innocently.

"Of course not," she snapped, uncharacteristically. "I mean, I may not be - it's probably just late or something." She tried to change the subject. "Look, we can still meet - once or twice. I'd like you to meet Gaston." Her eyes as well as her tone warned me not to say anything of our conversation to anybody - as if I would have. "He's got a car," she went on, "We could maybe go somewhere - do a bit of sightseeing."

"That'd be wonderful." Of course, she knew I'd be the soul of discretion and, besides, who was there to tell? Of course I envied her unruffled demeanour. In her place I'd have been climbing the walls. But then, in her place my parents would have killed me.

So we met, although unexpectedly, in town. I was with Ghislaine, as usual, having just been to the boulanger, my arms encasing two huge loaves so I couldn't shake his hand.

"Bonjour, Annette." Gaston planted two firm kisses on my cheeks while Margaret tried not to look as though she minded. Then he turned, and to my astonishment, did the same thing to Ghislaine. Then Ghislaine did something we had not seen her do in the two long weeks of our stay, she smiled! She looked almost pretty. Only Margaret was evidently by this time tired of pretending not to mind her boyfriend's display of affection and began to tug at his sleeve to get him away. Desperate at the thought of being dumped with only Ghislaine for company for the next two weeks I began to gabble about how je regrettais beaucoup that I hadn't seen very much of Brittany so far because Madame Dugarry didn't have a car and worked full-time.

"Pas de problème!" he assured me. "We go to La Pointe du Raz, oui? That will be something for you to remember? Demain, à dix heures le matin. I collect you." I think he was about to ask Ghislaine if she wanted to come, too, but Margaret had him by the elbow and was leading him away.

For the rest of the day I was happy as Larry. I even had my first ever cold shower. Up `till then it had just been strip washes for we had no hot water. Although I no longer believed Madame's story about the hot water, convinced it was just a ruse of Madame's to save money, but nothing, but rien could dampen my spirits, when Madame Dugarry agreed, albeit hesitatingly, to let me go. Even then I think she only agreed because she knew I'd go anyway.

"Mais il te faut revenir à six heures," she warned. "John Williams - le concert dans l'eglise."

No problem. I was looking forward to the concert anyway. The first chance I'd had of some musical entertainment - a decent night out, even if it was classical stuff. I knew we were only going because it was free but by now I was feeling magnanimous. It wasn't Madame Dugarry's fault she was a hard-up widow, that her husband had died leaving her five children to support. OK, so I was a bit unlucky being lumbered with her, especially when Margaret had regaled me with stories of others (including Andrea herself) who'd landed with families who were near-millionaires with their own swimming pools and tennis courts and who got pocket money doled out too. Naturally, I never went to concerts (even free ones) at home, either. If the charitable organisation had wanted to match children with families according to income and class they couldn't have done a better job, at least in my case.

Only I had put such bitter thoughts behind me as, decked out in my new hotpants and sun top, I waved au revoir to Madame Dugarry and her brood and ran hotfoot towards Gaston's neat little coupé. The sun beamed down on us the whole long day and we had a whale of a time - even me, although I am scared of heights, and the waves crashed terrifyingly close to us as we scrambled along the narrow pathway, clutching the rope woven through rings embedded into the rock, the crags below and a cruel death only one false step away. Afterwards we had crêpes - one after the other for I had quite forgotten the diet and Gaston was paying and his generosity knew no bounds - washed down with several glasses of cidre. The Breton national drink, Gaston assured us, his white teeth flashing.

Before we left and while Margaret lingered in the toilet I took the opportunity, assisted with Dutch courage, of fishing about the relationship. I asked Gaston, in English (because my French is never very good when I am drunk) why he had brought me, when he could have had his amour (I remembered that one) all to himself. Even in my drunken state I didn't like to say straight out, that the two of them must be dying to do it again, mustn't they?

"Mais non, ma petite." He laughed now, and I remembered he had only had a couple of glasses himself as he was driving, "Margaret is not mon amour. Amie - friends - that is all. Good friends."

"But - but," I began and then Margaret was back. I only just stopped myself from asking him to explain how come she was pregnant, then. Slowly it dawned on me. The bloody bitch had made the whole thing up.

It was already five thirty. There was no way I would be back in time for the concert. On the return journey I felt sick and we had to stop several times for me to get out and vomit. I noticed Margaret looked her usual rosy-cheeked self. Pregnant my bloody foot!

Madame Dugarry was tight lipped and silent as I entered the house a little after seven o'clock. My cold dinner was laid out on the kitchen table but I had no appetite.

"Eat!" she yelled at me in English. "Eat food!" I did not catch all the angry French words she hurled at me but I gathered she had spent a large proportion of her income on buying the very best of good food for her foreign guest.

I fled to my room and burst into tears. For the rest of the holiday I was on my best behaviour, spurred on, perhaps, by the fear of any possible complaint finding its way to my parents. I tried to engage Madame Dugarry in conversation, as I now saw I had done, before the fateful Pointe du Raz trip, with reasonable success. We had discussed unemployment, the economy, neutral things. Only now she would not even answer me so I laid the table and dried the dishes in silence. Ghislaine, however, grew quite amicable, and began to tell me the names of wild birds we saw on our country walks. The walk by the river we had made regularly turned out to be some sort of nature reserve and there were herons and other rare waders to be found, foraging at low tide. One day she even took me to see la grandmère and we sat in her tiny garden eating le far breton while la grandmère explained, and I only partly understood, why she wore la coiffe - a tall, cylindrical-shaped headdress hand made in white lace. Something to do with her religion and history, and the oppression of the church.

"On a détruit les cloches - they destroyed the spires on our churches; they opposed our religion; they martyred our people," she said. "That is why I wear the coiffe."

She let me take her photograph to show my parents. Afterwards Ghislaine explained how Pont l'Abbé was unique in that women - usually the older generation - wore the coiffe every day, not just on festive occasions.

I saw Margaret only once again during the holiday - briefly, when Ghislaine and I were returning from the farm with the milk. She looked miserable as she informed me, clutching little Pierre's hand, Gaston had gone home. "And it's over. I told him it was no good. We've finished."

"Finished? Come on." I didn't care about Ghislaine hearing us now. "Come on, Margaret, you never even got started. He told me, you know, you were just a friend - not a lover." I couldn't keep the smugness out of my voice.

She turned away, unable or unwilling to speak. I turned on my heel too. She was lucky I hadn't shown her up in front of Ghislaine - making out she was pregnant indeed!

Two weeks later on the chartered plane we said little to each other, exchanging news and views instead with our school mates and other, younger children from different schools. I sat open-mouthed as I overheard one teacher complaining loudly about his primary-aged pupils who couldn't speak a word of French being lumbered with families who couldn't speak a word of English. I went home to study for my A levels but disappointed my parents when I only got a B in French.

For a time I kept in touch with Ghislaine but growing up and going to uni. and all that got in the way. I don't think Ghislaine ever contemplated uni. herself which was a shame as she was a bright kid, really. Margaret never even went back to school to finish her A levels, even though she always got straight As and had been destined for Cambridge. It was only many years later, as a single parent (or unmarried mother, as they called them in Derry in those days) with a two year old, that I met her in the street on a fleeting visit to Derry. She bent down to the buggy and pressed a fifty pence piece into my daughter's hand.

"She's lovely," she crooned. "What's her name?"

"Ask her yourself," I told her, "She can talk now, you know."

So she bent down and addressed her.

"Gee - len," my daughter pronounced with perfect intonation, as if she had been born and brought up in France, instead of England.

"Do you remember?" I laughed, forgetting the old animosity. "Madame Dugarry?"

"Of course," she murmured. "How could I ever forget? My own daughter will be coming up for seven now." She spoke without hesitation.

"Sorry?" I thought I had misheard her.

"Of course I don't know what they called her or anything. I just saw her the once before they took her away. Naturally I wanted to keep her but mummy and daddy wouldn't hear of it. I mean, in those days it was deemed such a dreadful - sin, wasn't it?"

I nodded. "But Gaston said - he said..." My voice trailed off.

"Oh, you were right about Gaston. I lied to you about Gaston. I know I should have trusted you. It wasn't Gaston - it was a boy from down the street. I didn't want to go the whole way, you know, but he made me do it. He was a little creep but I still wanted the baby. But if I'd told them they would have made me marry him, you see, whereas with Gaston being a Catholic I knew - no way. There would never be any contact, any accusations. Only I never wanted to give her up. That was never the idea. But daddy just turned round and said there was no way his daughter was going to bring up a child with Fenian blood and that was that. I felt, once I'd lied, I couldn't tell them the truth. They wouldn't have believed me anyway."

I shook my head, unable to speak for a moment or two. My attempts at sympathy, my nebulous apologies, when they came, must have sounded utterly inadequate. I left without telling her either that my daughter's middle name was Margaret or that she was illegitimate and that I had no contact with her father. I decided quickly that none of those facts could possibly offer Margaret any consolation for what she had lost. Instead I muttered something inane about how I understood now why she had been boarded with a Protestant family.

"Oh, yes," she said, matter-of-fact. "I thought you knew. It was the only way mummy and daddy would let me go."

Eight years later I was contemplating visiting Madame Dugarry, with my daughter. I still remembered the address. Rue Elié Frèron, wasn't it?

"Don't you remember the number, mum?" my daughter was asking.

"I'm not sure," I lied, "but I think I might know the house." We found the street and cycled past the white shuttered houses.

"The houses all look the same, mum."

"Yes, dear." Only here it was: another white house with white shutters but I was sure this was it. In the garden sat a woman in her late fifties with greying hair. Nearby a man and woman in their mid to late twenties - husband and wife evidently - were playing with two young children, throwing a ball about. I tried to imagine going in to say bonjour - me, the ungrateful hussy who had ruined the trip to the concert and who had the nerve now to turn up with her illegitimate child and with barely a sou in her pocket, trying to scrounge a meal. I cycled on past the house.

"You're right," I told Ghislaine quietly. "The houses all look the same."

We lived happily enough for the rest of the holiday on bread and cheese and whatever else we could scrounge for next to nothing and the tyres lasted us until we got the ferry home. Before we left Pont l'Abbé we went for a walk by the river and I pointed out the Bigouden memorial and told Ghislaine what little I knew of the martyred Bigoudens.

"So they suffered because of their religion," Ghislaine remarked thoughtfully.

"Yes," I agreed, "it was because of their religion."

The day we left we cycled past an old lady in the street, wearing the coiffe. I got off the tandem and asked her politely if she would mind if I took her photograph. She was delighted to pose for us.

"I'll show you the other photo I have when we get home," I told Ghislaine.

She looked puzzled so I explained about the grandmother.

Ghislaine was curious. "You must tell me the whole story some time."

I agreed that sometime I would do just that. But not just yet. For now she is still too young to hear about the suffering that is caused in the name of religion.

## Pudding

Chrissie was never my favourite aunt. My favourite was Kitty who spent her last days in an old people's home and almost certainly had what is now called Alzheimer's disease. Kitty was the only one of my six aunts who had never married and it was Kitty who used to come to tea every Friday night and took the three of us out to choose Christmas presents. Chrissie, like the rest of the aunts, we saw once in a blue moon.

Here I should say that, while I have nothing against my relatives (well, nothing much) on my father's side, I have more to hide than is the case with either my sister or my brother. We are all three of us settled down with families. The one difference is that I married a Catholic. Now I am not particularly religious (indeed, I am not really religious at all, come to that, despite the usual sixties northern Irish Protestant upbringing of church twice and Sunday School thrice on Sundays, plus a fair smattering of religious organisations - to boot: Girls' Brigade, Christian Endeavour, Salvation Army singalong, Baptist "Bright Hour" - all based, no doubt on the devil finds work premise) and there is no question of my having turned. Calum, my husband, indeed, is not exactly religious either and we didn't marry in a church, despite protestations from his side of the family. Many (including, no doubt, the Catholic hierarchy) would say that not only did I not convert to Catholicism but that I did not marry a Catholic at all for Calum has not darkened the door of a church in twenty five odd years, weddings and funerals apart. Besides, even some of the most ardent Fenian-hating Ulster Protestants would concede that your Scottish (or English or whatever) Catholic is a different animal from an Irish one - less traitorous, for a start (even the most ardent of Ulster bigots can hardly attribute the rise in Scottish nationalism over the last few decades to its Catholics).

Ah, but. Yes, indeed, there is always a but. Where would the Irish literary tradition, let alone political and military developments qua the Irish question, have got, I ask you, without a but? For every apparently simple answer to an ostensibly simple question there has to be a but. Irish brains (especially Northern Irish brains) have picked on the but, the but and nothing but the but; treatises have been written on it, wars waged on it and guilt assuaged on it. In this particular case the but was, you have rightly guessed, my aunt.

Aunt Chrissie was a fearful Fenian-hater. Think of hellfire, damnation and Lundy burning and you have a long, long way to go before you attain an understanding of the nature of my aunt's anti-Catholicism. Never mind Luther, Calvin or Paisley, think of a loyalist terrorist who will happily blow the brains out of any Papist traitor – be they child, terminally ill, pensioner, it matters not a whit - and you are a few centimetres nearer aunt Chrissie's state of mind towards Catholics. Years ago, when the IRA planted a bomb by the gasworks (in the Catholic Bogside) in Derry, aunt Chrissie declared she hoped it would go off and rid us all of the Papish rogues that lived there - wains and all. You may not be surprised to learn, then, that aunt Chrissie had never been outside what is frequently (and incorrectly) referred to as the province of Ulster (woe betide the one who would dare enlighten her that that ancient province also comprises three counties which now form part of the Republic of Ireland). She made it clear, long ago, that she would never set a foot "in that Fenian hole", even though the border is only three miles from Derry and little further from her home. As a teenager I was sometimes tempted to tell aunt Chrissie there are some nice seaside resorts in Donegal that she ought to try (aunt Chrissie is very fond of the sea and often goes to Portrush) but my courage always failed me at the last moment.

Aunt Chrissie also made it clear, long ago, that a Fenian is a Fenian is a Fenian, no matter they be Irish, Scotch, English, Welsh or from Timbuktu (that apparently being the extent of aunt Chrissie's geographical knowledge). So you can understand why I avoided discussing Calum's background, at least to the extent of his parents' religion. Now, as long as I didn't see too much of aunt Chrissy (like once every ten years or so) I reckoned I could deal with that. After all, a relationship that is only renewed every ten years or so (we exchange cards at Christmas but those scarcely count) tends to focus on conventions, trivia even. At any rate little of a genuinely personal exchange took place between me and aunt Chrissie - if it ever had.

Then, almost three years to the day after my mother's death, I decided to go and pay my father a visit. The old soul would be lonely, I reckoned, especially at this time. The anniversary coincided nicely, too, with my autumn holiday and I thought the kids could do with the break. For once I thought Calum might like to come too; after all, his great grandparents hailed from Donegal so we might even manage a day out to Grianan fort. I think Calum had some notion of the two of us connecting our roots - something like that, although, before we married, I had already pointed out to him that my ancestors had come over to Derry from London in the sixteenth century and settled within the walls. Their descendants would have been among those who had shut the gates of Derry's walls against the forces of the Catholic King James. The time I told this story to Calum, in perfect seriousness, he had stared for a moment and then laughed. "Aye, but that was the sixteenth century. I mean, three or four hundred years is a hell of a long time."

I had to disagree there: a Highland Scot, born and bred, Calum lacks an understanding of the vast expanse of time that is Irish history and its eternal consequences. Aye, despite being well-versed in Culloden, the Highland Clearances et al - Calum, in line with his compatriots, is of a forgiving nature and is fully aware that English nationalism is a pathetic creature nowadays. The English today, perhaps due to a misplaced terror of more uprisings, in the wake of the release of Rob Roy and Braveheart, are only too anxious to placate the Scots with pussyfooting, patter and, fantastically, even Parliaments. But I digresss. I recall vaguely, as a small child, aunt Chrissie arguing with my mother that Catholics had no right to celebrate the fourteen hundredth anniversary of Saint Columba's sailing from Derry to Iona to spread the gospel to the heathen. Naturally, Saint Columba was a Protestant saint. In vain did my mother point out that Protestantism did not exist in 563: aunt Chrissie was not to be dissuaded. Aye, I thought grimly, three or four hundred years is zilch in the progression of Irish history. It was then that I decided to tell Calum about aunt Chrissie and why I wasn't inviting any aunts to the wedding.

"I wouldn't want to hurt her feelings," I explained, "but you can see how it would be disastrous if she came. Meeting your family and all that."

He nodded agreement. Of course it was unthinkable, even though the risk of any one of the aunties coming all to the way to Skye was probably very small. We would send the aunties a brief note afterwards, along with a piece of wedding cake, explaining that it was just a small affair, with only close family. We couldn't exactly afford a grand affair anyway, I told myself. Still, we even doctored some of the wedding photographs, making sure my old school friends weren't in the ones aunt Chrissie got sight of, otherwise, naturally, questions would have been asked.

We hired a car on arrival at the airport and made our way to my father's house. My father took our coats and talked to the kids while Calum and I got lunch ready.

"We'll take a trip up to the supermarket this afternoon and get some messages in, Mr McIntosh, that do ye?" Calum asked my father.

"Naw, not at all. I've plenty in." My father shook his head. "I did the messages yesterday. There'll be six of us for tea."

"Six?"

"Aye, six. I told your aunt Chrissie you were coming and she wants to come over and see you. She's never met Calum let alone the wee ones," he added, in a chiding tone, as if it was my fault.

Calum and I exchanged glances and I shrugged. After lunch, as we did the dishes together while my father explained to the kids why the kerbstones were painted red, white and blue. Calum and I whispered about aunt Chrissie.

"She's an old lady, after all," Calum said reasonably. "She can't exactly do us any harm. I mean, it's not as if she has contacts in the UVF or UDA or whatever who are going to come and blow my brains out, is it?"

Only neither of us laughed.

"I suppose we should have a word with your father?" Calum hazarded.

I shook my head. I had never, ever discussed aunt Chrissie's views with my father. If anyone ever dared argue with her it was my mother. My father had always kept his mouth shut. Afraid to stand up to his big bossy sister, I supposed.

"We'll just have to watch what we say. Just say as little as possible and leave the rest to me," I told him.

At five o'clock a knock came to the door. A young man of about twenty I did not immediately recognise stood on the threshold.

"I'm John. Your cousin Mark's son."

I shook his proffered hand and invited him in.

He shook his head. "I'll not stay." He shouted to the old lady beside him as if she was deaf,. "I'll pick you up about seven o'clock then, granny."

Aunt Chrissie - for of course it could be no other - had changed immensely, it seemed to me, in the space of a mere three years. As I tried not to stare at the reptilean flesh on her face and neck I was reminded vaguely of some verse I had learned long ago about old Father Time. I sensed aunt Chrissie's progress to the grave was advancing at a pace not dissimilar to the passage of my own children towards adulthood and a great sense of sadness almost overwhelmed me. All my married life, I felt now, I had lied to this woman. What is the worth of a relationship, I asked myself, based on such appalling untruths?

Tea started off pleasantly enough. I had recovered myself sufficiently, I think, by the time we had started eating, and come to terms with the notion that some lies (or fibs, or what is unsaid) are justified when they are so designed as to avoid causing pain. Plus, of course, she was never my favourite aunt. We chatted about the weather, about the children's schools (non-denominational), about the troubles (terrible, terrible), flitting from one harmless subject to the next. It was all going very smoothly, I decided, when aunt Chrissie uttered the dreaded word. If there had been some sort of warning, I thought afterwards, something to let me know she was leading up to this, I could have prepared myself, Calum, the children.

"See wains nowadays," my aunt went on. "All them drugs in schools. Drink and drugs. Terrible, so it is. Absolutely terrible."

Calum and I nodded agreement. I was about to change the subject, feeling it was a little depressing, if not exactly contentious, but Calum appeared to be doing his utmost to ingratiate himself with my aunt and I could not get a word in edgeways. Och, what the hell, I thought. Do the kids no harm. Dangers of drugs, all that.

"Absolutely. Although there's no trouble at Peter and Alison's school, of course," Calum added hastily.

Aunt Chrissie smiled sweetly at the children. "What school is it you go to then?"

The kids told her.

"Aye," said aunt Chrissie then. "Of course all the bother is at the Fenian schools."

I felt my cheeks flush with anger and I dared not look at Calum.

"What's a Fenian?" Alison asked.

"A Catholic, my dear. Some people call them Taigs," aunt Chrissie advised her, evidently proud of enlightening her great niece with this valuable piece of information.

"My gran and grandad Donnelly are Catholics," Peter said suddenly. "I'm named after my grandad, too - my dad's dad."

"What did you say?" Aunt Chrissie looked as though she was about to have a heart attack.

"I said," Peter began again but a look of thunder from his father silenced him.

I sat petrified for a moment while aunt Chrissie appeared to gather her wits about her. Then she was off again, only changing the subject completely. Now, it seemed, we were discussing fashion and the ridiculous prices of clothes. I began agreeing desperately with my aunt about anything and everything, unable to take it in that there had been no more mention of Catholics. Perhaps Chrissie was, after all, beginning to learn good manners (or, incredibly, put her prejudices aside) in her advancing years? Of course, she was hard-of-hearing. That would be it.

We had just finished pudding and John had arrived to collect aunt Chrissie.

Aunt Chrissie began complaining. " But I never got any pudding!"

"Aye, you did now, Chrissie," my father started telling her but John interjected.

"It's no use. She can't remember what she did or said two minutes ago - or what you said for that matter. She saw a specialist the other week. He says it's not Alzheimers - it's another form of dementia. Multi Infarct dementia, it's called. Of course, it's irreversible."

My father hung his head and then turned and smiled at Chrissie. At last I understood that what he felt for aunt Chrissie was simple affection and that that would not cease, no matter what prejudices she had, no matter how advanced her dementia became. For me, the awareness of aunt Chrissie's illness brought only relief. Perhaps it was just as well she had never been a favourite aunt.

"Come on, granny. I'll take you for a drive into the Free State." John turned to me and Calum again. "I go there for the diesel: it's far cheaper than it is in Derry."

"You will not take me to the Free State!" aunt Chrissie shouted. Then she seemed to forget what he had just said and started going on about still not having had any pudding.

## A Day Oot

She hud been waitin ower an oor. Ower an oor o tryin tae keep the weans frae greetin and girnin, frae fightin and jabbin wan anither wi pencils when she couldnae see whit they were up tae. Sometimes she jist left them tae get on wi it. The now she was jist leavin it. Tryin tae keep them by ye wis like floggin a deid horse.

She was beginnin tae wonder why she'd bothered comin. She hud hardly ony money till she got her order book cashed on Monday. Hud tae keep the weans quiet, pretendin she wisnae in when the tally man wis roon fir his money last night. He'd likely be back the night n aw. Hardly ony money and here she wis, oot queuin up fir luxuries. Weans' toys and games, fancy claes, thon heavy fancy curtains ye often got in a place like this. She hud curtains. It was ridiculous really. She must be aff her heid.

"I'll leather yous!" wan wumman was tellin her weans and this auld biddy beside her - wan o the pensioners it wis - gied a snort of approval. "See in ma day. See if we pit a foot wrang! See my da!"

She screwed up her face in distaste. She had heard it all before and no just in jumble sale queues. You could hardly go tae the shops wi weans withoot folk interferin, thinking they had the right.

She felt like thumpin her ain sometimes, right enough but deep doon she kent it wasnae their fault. It was awfae hard, bringing them up on yer ain, trying tae make ends meet. Ye jist wanted tae lash oot at somebody some o the time. Only at least she had her mither and fither.

"This is bliddy ridiculous," the auld man beside her said. "A bliddy oor in the fuckin rain!"

She nodded, grinnin, feelin like a co-conspirator. Although it wis only drizzle.

"There's nae need fir language like that. There's weans here - wee weans! That's bloody ridiculous, language like that. Bloody ridiculous, so it is." It wis a wumman jist behind her, wan o the middle aged wans. Some o them hud naethin better tae dae. Jist came here tae pass the time, didnae need ony stuff. Looking for wee trinkets. Looking fir bother n aw.

"Aye, bliddy ridiculous!" a few mair chimed in. The auld man looked away embarrassed. She wanted tae say somethin, that it was aw right, that she didnae mind, no really, but maybe he would take her wrang. Fir aw she kent he could be some kinda pervert or something. Ye never knew these days. Like thon guy in Govanhill a few month back pullin lassies up closes. And there was worse. The secretive wans that pretended tae be aw friendly were the worst. The wans that babysat fir yir weans if ye let them. No that she would let ony near her ain. Apart frae her ain mither and fither, o course.

She turned tae the auld boy beside her. There wis nae hairm in huvin a wee blether. Sometimes she thought it wis wan o the reasons she went tae the jumbles. Apart frae the excitement o never knowin whit ye were goinae pick up. It could be excitin meeting new folk tae. As lang as ye didnae meet onybody frae yir ain scheme, still less yer ain close. No that there wis that much chance o that when she lived oot in the sticks. Aw the decent jumbles wi the good stuff were in the posh parts o toon. Maistly it wis the west end but occasionally there wis wan in the south side which made it cheaper on the bus fares. Although they could go gatherin the stuff frae aw ower the city it wis generally the best stuff when it wis the scouts or the girl guides. There wis nae scouts or guides where she lived. That wid be a laugh, some o the wee malkies roon her bit going tae the scouts or the guides. She stifled a giggle.

"Awfy lang wait, right enough," she muttered tae the auld guy, partly tae hide her embarrassment at laughin tae hersel like thon. She realised as she said it it musta been a good few minutes since he had spoke.

"Whit?" Evidently his mind had moved on. He gied her a glaikit look.

"A lang wait," she repeated.

He shook his heid, warmin tae the subject noo, evidently grateful he wasnae an ootcast eftir aw. "No real. Ah mean, like, ye eyewis expect tae wait, like. Ye dinnae expect tae jist turn up on the dot o two and jist git in there and claim aw the bargains. Not at aw! Ye ken ye huv tae wait at least half an oor, mebbe forty minutes. Bit they eyeways stairt on time, ken. Ah mean, it's gettin on fir twenty past. Ah mean tae say," he raised his voice noo, projecting it towards the front o the queue, "could somebody no jist go in there and ask whit's keepin them?"

There were wan or two faint murmurings of dissent. "We-ell.." "Och, mebbe they'll no be lang noo.."

Then the auld biddy wi the stern faither pipes up: "Ye're right enough there. It's a bliddy disgrace, so it is, keepin us oot here in the cauld. Ah huv arthritis tae. In me hip, like," she wis talkin tae her noo.

"That's terrible. Ma mither hus that." Sometimes she thought the arthritis wis an excuse, right enough. Couldnae dae this an couldnae dae that. Couldnae take the weans fir a coupla oors even unless they were in their beds.

"Ah huv arthritis as weel."

The murmurings of dissent increased. A right strapping looking wumman wi legs like treetrunks and tits the size o fitballs wis batterin on the door noo. "Hey! Let us in! We're freezing oot here!"

Anither wan comes up and is batterin away like fuck as weel. "Open up! Polis!"

They're aw laughin noo, the hale lot o them, weans n aw. The hale jumble queue is in stitches.

Eftir a minute or so the door opens and this auld biddy wi this snow white perm and a tartan skirt like some kiltie sticks her heid oot. "We're nawt quaite ready yait, ehm afraid."

"Listen here, missus," the wumman wi the legs says tae her. "Ah've been tae hundreds o jumble sales in ma time and this is the first time ah've hud tae wait this lang. We're aw freezing tae death oot here. Especially the weans. Ah mean, wee weans, missus."

"Aye, and my Jason here hus asthma, missus!" The leatherer, it wis.

Snow White takes a lang look at the queue and relents. "All rait then. You can wait insaide. In the corridor, maind, since we're nawt quaite ready." She stepped back as they piled in.

Fir a minute she thought mebbe they were going tae be able tae see some o the stuff that wis in the hall bit then this man wi a wee Hitler moustache that looked as if he owned the place comes in and shuts the door. There wis gless in the door right enough bit you could hardly see onything, especially when the couple at the front - a right gallus-looking pair, stuck their heids right up tae the gless.

Then the door is open and they're on the move. She hus her twenty pence aw ready fir wan time she hudnae ony change o a pound and the guy let jist aboot everybody go in front o her, makin oot he hud nae change, the lyin git.

She hud gied the weans twenty pence each so they wid leave her alane tae get the bargains. Her hairt wis poundin as she wis carried forward intae the big hall like you were on some roller coaster. When she and Robert were thegither he used tae heid fir the bric a brac first. You never kent whit ye could pick up. Mebbe a painting or something that wis worth a bit o money. No that they ever hud. She'd got a coupla good pans at the bric a brac. They'd got a carpet wance even. Lugged it hame on the bus. As they were hauling it up the close that Kerry -a right nosey wan wi the curlers eyewis in her hair - seen them. She telt her it wis fir her mither. Picked it up at the Barras. While Robert wis at the bric a brac and she wis at the claes (only good stuff, mind - there wis nae way she wanted the weans embarrassed especially noo Lesley wis at the school - she eyewis telt them it wis new onyway, never admitted tae them she got ony o their claes frae jumbles) the weans wid be away at the toy counter. It wis aw right tae get toys secondhand bit. They hud mair money then, right enough. The jumble wis a day oot. Mair money until he started spending it all on the horses or in the pub, right enough. Men wid sicken ye. She shoved the auld swearer that could mebbe be a pervert fir aw she kent oot her way and headed fir the bric a brac.

She got a lamp the Hitler guy swore wis working bit that wis aw. He wanted a pound but eventually she beat him doon tae fifty p. Telt him she only hud a pound and needed tae buy stuff fir the weans' tea. She hud heard that wan before aff somebody. It wis nearly true onyway although she wis past carin whether he believed her, as lang as she got the stuff cheap. Only the best stuff wis away. If the weans hudnae been pullin at her tae come and see they toys she could've mebbe got a coupla china plates. At least she managed tae get a coupla wee things fir the weans. A lovely wee suit fir the wean and a velvet dress fir Lesley.

The wean hud nae sense. Wan o they bliddy Fisher Price record players wi nae records. Fir Christ's sake. These days ye could expect tae pick up an auld stereo fir fifty p, there wis that many folk getting these fancy CD players. She felt the blood boil in her. The doctor had telt her she hud tae watch her blood pressure bit it wis all right fir him. He wid dae aw his shopping in Marks and Spencer, nae doot.

"Where did ye get that?"

The wean telt her. She wis aff, giving aff tae Snow White aboot hoo she shouldnae be selling weans rubbish and did she no realise they things didnae work wi nane o they stupid plastic records? Tae gie her her due the wumman's face turned purple. Mebbe she hud high blood pressure n aw, or mebbe it was her menopause, like whit Robert's mither wis eyewis going on aboot. Robert's mither's fucking menopause and her mither's fucking arthritis. Jesus.

"Eh didn't railise it didn't wairk withawt the wee records." Snow White wis apologising but she couldnae credit she didnae ken hoo they wee things worked. Ah mean, everybody kent aboot Fisher Price record players. Did she no huv ony grandweans or great nieces or nephews?

"It's the disappointment, ye see. He should be gettin compensation." It wis the pervert noo. She nodded agreement.

"How mauch did you pey fawr it?" Snow White goes and the pervert turns tae her and says, "Fifty pence, it wis. Ah saw him."

Snow White hands ower the fifty pence. The pervert gied her a conspiratorial wink.

She got a coupla wee things fir the weans - no much - eftir that. The auld guy that hud spoke up tae Snow White didnae seem tae huv much at aw.

"Ah dinnae need much," he telt her, at the bus stop. "Ah'm jist on my ain noo." It turned oot he lived no far frae her. Mebbe he wis aw right but ye never knew these days. She wid huv tae remind Lesley tae keep away frae strangers.

At hame the wean showed her his twenty pence. She stared at him. "Ah thought ye hud spent thon on the wee record player."

"No, mammy," the ither yin pipes up. "He jist lifted it."

Before she could stop hersel she hud lifted her hand and skelped his backside.

"Whit did ah tell yous aboot stealin?"

Noo he's greetin. She remembered, tae late, whit the health visitor hud says tae her aboot counting tae three, or ten, or whitever wis necessary.

"Sorry, son," she tells him. "It doesnae matter. I ken ye didnae mean tae steal it. It's aw right. C'mon n look at this fancy lamp ah got us."

"Whit did ye buy anither lamp fir, mammy?" Lesley says. Tae fly, that wan. Could buy n sell her wee brither. It did look fancy tae, all thon black metallic look that wis aw the rage. She hud plenty o lamps. Fir some reason people were eyewis giein in lamps tae jumbles. Mebbe because they went oota fashion that quick.

There wis nae plug but she eyewis kept spare yins because ye never knew. Fuses n aw.

"It'll only take me a minute," she telt the weans who were aw interested.

Her hairt wis pounding again as she plugged it in. Nothin happened. Bastard Hitler. The wean stairted tae greet again.

"I'll go and get ye sweeties in a minute," she telt him. She wid dump the fuckin piece o shite the bastard made oot wis a lamp on the way tae the shop n aw. "Bit look at this lovely wee suit I got ye."

She held it oot fir him tae see. It wis only then she spotted the big scorch mark that musta been made wi an iron, right on the seat o the pants. Only an eejit wid huv missed thon. And noo Lesley wis hauding up the dress, poking her finger through the tear at the back.

She stairted tae laugh. "See they rich bastards."

## The Guiding Hand

Lorraine strode down the corridor, on her way to her office, keeping to her usual brisk pace. As usual, work occupied her thoughts. Labor omnia vincit . It was one of her favourite phrases from Virgil. Other, less welcome, thoughts would intrude from time to time. Tempus fugit . Although these days her thoughts more often occurred in English, that being the necessary tool of communication with one's staff. It was one of her deep regrets in life that the Classics had been all but abolished from secondary (and therefore higher) education. The Classics taught you precision in your thoughts. Precision was what the company was built on.

She was so wrapped up in her thoughts she almost missed Evans.

"All ready for the interviews this afternoon?"

"Quite ready, thankyou." She was pleased he had remembered. When Evans took the trouble to remember something you were doing it was akin to another notch in your list of achievements (for where, after all, was achievement without recognition?)

She saw to it her secretary had the coffee ready before they started. "We'll want coffee at the break too. Around three," she told her. She was good at delegating but some things she liked to make sure of and those included regular caffeine injections. With a job as high-powered as hers she had to have something. It was better, she told herself, than reaching for the booze when she came home. Drink and drugs, like everything else in life, had to be managed, apportioned, rationed. Otherwise where would she be? Not sitting in the Assistant Chief Executive's chair, that was for sure).

The interview panel had clear-cut roles. Alice's role was Equal Opportunities, Collins' was clearly technical and hers was the overall strategy of the organisation, the guiding hand. Straightforward. Clear guidelines, simple structures. It was the only way to manage.

Only Collins, it seemed, was not to be guided. "This Equal Ops thing," he began while she frowned slightly.

"Mr Collins," she interrupted him quickly before he could get too carried away, "Equal Opportunities is Mrs MacRae's area." She almost added "not yours" but she wanted to avoid antagonism. Antagonistic expressions did not exist in the language formulated by the company.

Collins smiled widely at her which infuriated her even more, as if she could be beguiled by a smile! "Lorraine, please call me Chris. Of course I wouldn't dream of treading on Alice's toes."

Here Alice gave Collins the most infuriatingly broad smile. She would have to have a word with her, Lorraine decided, about the appropriate use of the smile for, naturally, body language was an area one had to be careful of. Not that she was opposed to smiles per se, not at all, but not only did one not grin or smirk (of course): one's smile required a certain amount of - she searched for the word - reserve. Otherwise one was apt to be taken the wrong way. Gracious, one might even be accused of sexual harassment (and that, these days, of course, was not confined to men). In an ideal world she would have a word with Collins too about the use of the smile but, the world being what it was, there were enough problems with Collins for the time being without going into that one.

"But Equal Ops is everyone's business, to the extent that we all have to be aware of it." Collins smiled broadly again.

"Naturally. But time is pressing, Mr Collins." She frowned again, this time at the repeated use of the abbreviation, although its usage was increasing amongst a number of the staff. "Thankyou for that contribution, Mr Collins," Lorraine cut him short (oh, the power of language!) Naturally, the company had manufactured its very own personnel terminology. Like everything else, language had to be scrupulously weighed, measured and apportioned. Phrases and sentences had both a minimum and maximum length. The words should flow: a measured, even rhythm for maximum impact. And then there was the pregnant pause - an essential tool in efficient management in the late nineties (which Collins himself, she was forced to concede, had got off to a tee).

"You do realise, Mr Collins, that Mrs McRae, Mr Evans and I together spent six months drafting the Equal Opportunities statement? You can be assured a lot of thought has gone into it."

Collins liked to have the last word. "Six months, eh? Helluva long time."

She flushed, at once lost for words, so appalled was she at the use of the colloquialism. The company did, in fact, permit restricted use of a limited number of colloquialisms but "helluva long time" most certainly did not feature anywhere in prescribed personnel vocabulary (there was not yet a proscribed list but if there were, helluva would most certainly be on it).

Before the meeting wound up she was considering to which department Collins might be moved. Only if she wanted rid of Collins she would have to get Evans on her side.

Days after the meeting Collins' remark still rankled and Lorraine decided it was necessary to point out to him that the reason why it took six months to draft the Equal Opportunities statement was because it was necessary to consult the other staff. She told herself that it was necessary to inform Collins thus because it was company policy that all staff should be aware of the importance of teamwork, of pulling together. But Collins merely shrugged, as if it didn't matter. She tried to remember whether a shrug was on the company's list of frowned-upon behaviour, then realised she didn't know.

The first three interviews went relatively well. Not that they were a particularly impressive bunch (Number One stuttered once while Number Two had a slight tendency to ramble) but one had to make allowances for nerves, that sort of thing. The company required employees to be a little in awe of the employer, after all. A nervous cough, a laugh even, a slight hesitancy there: none of these things would make Lorraine write the candidate off. Rules were rules, structures were essential and the correct use of language (including body language) were prerequisites of progression with the company but, all in all, the company was a munificent employer. The company was merciful. The company would give you time to learn from your mistakes. With Number Three Collins had indeed (it was becoming predictable) gone a little awry, wandering away from the agreed questions and asking the young woman how would she go about drafting an Equal Opportunities statement. Before Lorraine could get a word in edgeways the young woman had begun to reply. She would consult the other staff, of course, and she reckoned it would take about six months. It was too late for Number Three (her answers, however impressive, could not, of course be taken into account, as such a deviation in interview procedure went against the Equal Opportunities statement) but Collins was not going to get away with another misdemeanour of that ilk. Fortunately, a look from Lorraine at the right moment, combined with a word in his ear at the break, ensured Collins behaved himself during the remaining interviews.

Only here was Number Four making out she hadn't received a copy of the Equal Opportunities Statement. At least, she didn't think so. She flushed when she said it. Collins, Lorraine was forced to concede, saved the day by handing her a copy of his. The young woman had sat and gaped at it and, although her answers to all the questions unconnected with Equal Opportunities were really quite perfect and in every other way indeed the candidate was quite perfect, this particular failure (if it was a failure on her part, rather than the company's - she had twinges of doubt now) was inexcusable. One had to adhere to the rules.

She tried to put Number Four behind her, at least for the time being. Number Five was much like One and Two: nothing to be excited about. Number Six was certainly an odd specimen. Never mind the jewel pinned to his nostril, his hair was well beyond the requisite length and Lorraine could have sworn he had a full day's growth on his chin. The company was indeed merciful but there were some specimens it was unable to help. Still, clothing and jewellery were not matters one could raise with the candidate at this stage because they were not agreed matters.

Yes indeed, the appearance of Number Six was sufficiently unconventional as to be quite distracting. Splodges of red, purple and green on his tie, for example. No member of the company's staff had ever worn such a combination of colours and that in itself said a great deal. Non-action, like silence, spoke volumes.

Collins was raising the matter of the jewel pinned to Number Six's nose.

"Don't see that that's got anything to do with my ability to do the job, Mr - er, Collins," Number Six went.

Collins' ears were turning bright pink at the tips. Time for a little improvisation. "Thankyou for that, Mr, erm, Munro. Now I want to ask you, first of all, about our mission statement. You were sent a copy in the post. I want to ask you why you think the mission statement is important," she smiled. Despite the tie (it was rather dazzling, in fact, she was beginning to think - perhaps the colours weren't really so dreadful - one had to move with the times, after all), the nose jewel (she wondered what you called that) and the accent (she wasn't at all sure now about accents either for the company had always preferred the Queen's English for certain posts, hadn't they, except when it came to dealing with a lot of regional clients when of course a hint of a local accent was positively advantageous. Only Mr Munro had rather more than a tinge of the regional accent: his was downright broad. Still, did it really matter?).. Yes, despite the tie, there was something about Number Six, something she could not quite formulate in her thoughts.

Mr Munro - Peter, his name was, in fact (rather sweet, she thought it sounded) \- stared for a moment without speaking. Oh, dear. Well, interview nerves. A bit of reassurance required, perhaps.

"I didn't get any mission statement."

"You must have." It was Collins. His voice sounded harsh in her ears. Goodness only knows how it must sound to poor Mr Munro - Peter.

Mr Munro shook his head, firmly. "Nope - there was none in the pack. I'm absolutely certain."

Collins' ears were by now puce. This time it was Alice to the rescue. Alice was looking at them both. "I'm sure we could give Mr Munro the benefit of the doubt, couldn't we?"

Collins' neck was reddening now too. She ignored the look of contempt he threw at them both (ridiculous considering Number Four had been given the benefit of the doubt) and plunged into the sheaf of papers before her, seeking a spare copy of the mission statement. There was none. It was of no consequence, she decided instantly. She knew the mission statement - all eight paragraphs of it - off by heart. The company required improvisation at such times. The secretary would have to be reprimanded for omitting to send out the statement. She believed Mr Munro implicitly. Her job required that she be a good judge of character and over the years she had learned how to tell the difference between the truth and a lie. Generally it was facial expression that gave you away although occasionally it might be different body language - fidgeting or muttering inconsequentially. She smiled again as she took her own copy of the mission statement from the top of her pile of papers and passed it to Mr Munro who smiled at her as she took it.

"Take your time and have a read. We'll give you ten minutes. If you would like to go back into the reception area I'll make sure you're given a cup of coffee."

Mr Munro smiled again. "Great. Milk and two sugars. And I'll be allowed to bring this back in, won't I?"

"Certainly," Lorraine agreed before Collins could get a word in edgeways. Although it was mildly discomfiting to see that Mr Munro thought she was in some way responsible for his milk and sugars.

"I can see why you had to say that - give him a fair hearing and all that," Collins sounded almost sympathetic when Mr Munro had gone. "Although it's the oldest trick in the book, of course."

Lorraine's cheeks burned and she was about to interrupt him but, to her amazement, Alice was agreeing with him.

"Happens all the time, I would say, Lorraine. Panic - nerves or something. Their minds go blank and they lie in their desperation. Obviously you'll speak to Jenny but you know as well as I do how reliable and thorough she is."

"Naturally," Collins piped in, "any sort of lying - desperation or no - is unacceptable to the company."

Lorraine nodded her agreement. Of course they were absolutely right. Why, then, did she experience a stab of pain in her stomach at the thought of not taking Mr Munro on. One could brush thoughts aside but pains in one's stomach were regrettably harder to dislodge.

The feeling did not go away as the interview progressed after the break. Mr Munro answered the questions imperfectly yet his imperfect responses were what made the interview so interesting. Mr Munro, it seemed, had his own ideas about everything. It was not that he was exactly critical of the company's mission statement: rather he initially proceeded to give perfect answers and then embellished his answers with an additional flourish. Lorraine couldn't rid herself of the notion that what they should have included as part of the selection procedure was an informal chat over coffee but, of course, it was too late now: one had to treat the other candidates equally. She knew by heart the reasons for this: it was essential in order to avoid nepotism, or accusations of nepotism. When she had started with the present company there were thinly-veiled accusations of such malpractices. Only not now: over the last few years (and certainly since Lorraine had been in post) such accusations had disappeared in their entirety. It was all down to the Equal Opportunities policy, of course, drafted initially by Alice's (Alice too had only been in post a couple of years), Lorraine's and Evans' predecessors and latterly redrafted.

Only perhaps they had not got it quite right. Perhaps the mission statement too had its imperfections (Lorraine, too, had been involved in the redrafting of that). Perhaps the dress code was imperfect and the language and body language codes.

They were going over the list of candidates. It was already five o'clock and Lorraine needed another caffeine injection but Jenny would be going home. She would have to get some herself.

Collins would be discussing the candidates behind her back, she thought, as she hurried about the kitchen. She should have insisted one of them help but it would undoubtedly be Alice who would offer and the thought of Collins scheming alone was even harder to stomach. Damn these stomach pains: if they got any worse she would have to go and lie down somewhere. She could hardly bear the thought of driving home. Still, after a coffee and a couple of Ibuprofen.... Thankfully here was the key to the medicine chest.

Back in the interview room Collins was looking relaxed. Only the pains were becoming unbearable.

"I'm not really feeling very well. I think we should put off reaching a decision until tomorrow," she told Collins and Alice.

"Surely it's a foregone conclusion, anyway?" Collins was positively blasé. "Besides, didn't Mr Evans say he wanted a result this evening?"

"Oh, yes, you're right. All right then, carry on."

She had to concede there were obvious failings in candidates One, Two and Five. Four and Six were out of the question, owing to their dishonesty (and now a feeling of great sadness almost overwhelmed her to the extent of reducing the stomach pains quite considerably for a moment or two: when were they going to have a candidate like Number Six again - not in her lifetime, even? Had individuality like that really quite gone out the window as the millennium approached? Was that what the twentieth century would be remembered for - individuality or its destruction?)

"Number Three's the only possibility."

The stomach pains were back with a vengeance. Lorraine, at this point, could scarcely remember a thing about Number Three. She agreed, weakly (Alice was all for it and Alice knew her stuff, even if Collins' approach was somewhat unorthodox) that Three was the only possibility.

"I'll telephone Number Three - erm, Mrs Jackson - Janice, isn't it? - and, erm, speak to Mr Evans in the morning and Jenny will write to all the candidates," she told Collins wearily, as he and Alice trooped out. Thank Christ! she thought as she only just made it to the toilet in time. As her bowels emptied at what seemed like the speed of sound and the pains in her gut at last receded in their intensity a vision of Number Three came to her now. Pretty young woman. Late twenties. Well-cut clothes, well groomed, nothing wrong there. Only Number Three had been asked one or two additional, and certainly unorthodox, questions by Collins. Still, they had not taken into account her answers, had they? Even though her responses about Equal Opportunities had been quite impressive.

It was only when she was driving home that she remembered something else. Something Collins had said about Evans wanting a result today. Only Collins had not been present when Evans had said that to her. Still, she brushed the thought aside, one must not get paranoid: Collins may have started off a little askew but he had proved himself a clear thinker. Clearer than she was even (although the stomach pains did not help - that was not her fault. Still, it would have been unthinkable taking someone like Munro on. She tried to imagine Evans' reaction at her going against the grain like that, against everything the company stood for). Evans may have mentioned it casually for he and Collins seemed to get on well. In future, she decided, she too would make an effort to get on better with Collins. One must never forget the importance of team spirit. After all, co-operation was an important company principle.

The next day she felt as good as new. She was at work promptly at eight thirty and checked Evans' diary with his secretary. It was best to see him as soon as possible.

"Mr Evans is seeing Mr Collins just now," the secretary told her.

"Oh." Odd he hadn't mentioned anything earlier. Still, why should he? Nothing connected with the interviews, of course.

"Mr Evans was wanting to see you himself," the secretary went on.

As she busied herself with the mountain of tasks similar to those that awaited her every morning she congratulated herself on the achievements she had totted up over the years for, of course, her earlier work experience (outwith as well as within) the company was not merely a necessary precursor of her present employment but one built one's career on one's past achievements, did one not? Not that she would ever leave now; in truth, the company was her life, her soul even. The company was what brought her happiness, what made her tick. She had never married, of course. It was too late for marrying, childbearing, all that now, no doubt, but there were no regrets, never.

As she sat down on the moderately comfortable chair Mr Evans offered her she felt a sense of peace, almost, that she had come this far. That she was (almost) on a par with someone like Evans. It mattered not a whit that Evans was nine years younger. Experience had taught her that men got ahead quicker because they had always got ahead quicker and, well, the structures erected by society as well as the company (which were slowly changing but too slowly, certainly, for women her age ever to catch up) enabled them to do so. But envy was not in her.

She waited a few seconds while Evans, uncharacteristically, fidgeted with his tie.

"It has been decided you should be transferred, Ms Paterson. Publicity. You will retain the same salary, as all transferred employees do. Your new post will commence as from tomorrow and you will clear your desk today. Mr Collins has all the details." Evans lifted a pen from his desk and began to fidget with that. He had not yet looked her in the eye.

She stared, open-mouthed. "I don't understand, Mr Evans. Why?"

He was looking beyond her now, at the wall or something she could not see. "I'm sure you are familiar with company policy regarding the transfer of employees to different departments. We, all of us, are required to be flexible at all times. But, since you ask, it was felt your creative abilities - your, erm, imaginative powers - would be put to better use in Publicity." Evans' use of language was impeccable, she thought, only there was a (surely inappropriate?) hint of a smile on his lips now and for the first time he looked straight at her, the bastard.

"Who's 'it'?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I think you know what I mean, Mr Evans. Who made the decision?"

"And I would again point out company policy, Ms Paterson. The decision was made at a meeting the day before yesterday attended by Mr Collins, Mrs MacRae and myself and ratified by the Board, in accordance with procedures, yesterday afternoon."

"I want to appeal," Lorraine began desperately but Evans silenced her with a wave of his hand. "The Appeal procedure was done away with three days ago. A decision approved by our legal team and ratified by the Board, erm, yesterday - before the decision to transfer you was ratified, I may add."

Because retrospective decision-making is not allowed, Lorraine thought.

When Lorraine had left the room Evans picked up the telephone. "Chris? The deed is done. Have you told your sister yet?"

"Brilliant, Mark. About time we got rid of that cow. Janice is delighted. I told her to keep it hush-hush, of course, until she gets the letter but I couldn't say nothing, could I? Only we'll have to do something about this other candidate - Munro," Collins pursed his lips at the memory of the man. "He's definitely the type to go to an I.T. Sex discrimination, all that crap."

"Have Alice stick him in Publicity."

"Brilliant idea, Mark."

Collins put down the `phone. The other day he and Evans had decided to wind down Publicity. In a matter of months it would be merged with Sales. They could get rid of Paterson and Munro in the one go then. Redundancy. He had Evans' trust now, he felt. Not that he would tell Evans everything. Like the powdered senekot he had slipped into Paterson's coffee. Or the unpleasant telephone call he had received from Munro late last night. Christ knows how the man had got his personal telephone number. He would have to change it again. Still, with Munro sorted out he would soon have the upper hand: in six months time he would be sitting in Evans' chair. He was whistling as he dialled his sister's work number.

"Right, sis. When can you start?"

Janice laughed. "Thanks a bunch, Mark. That stuff you gave me about policy-making and whatnot really came in useful."

Before Lorraine left for Publicity she decided to leave an e-mail for Jenny. Only for some reason Jenny's name was not appearing on the address list. When she went to the secretary's office to check she was told, by someone she had never seen before, that Jenny had been transferred.

The first few days were most disconcerting: Publicity was never her sort of thing (perhaps because she tended to associate it with the tabloid press, dishing up the dirt, that sort of thing and, besides, the department seemed to be full of Philosophy graduates). Naturally, there were structures and rules here too only sometimes it was difficult to tell how flexible the rules were. She went to her manager for assistance, in accordance with procedures.

She was surprised to find the manager she was only just getting used to had been transferred. No-one had even troubled to tell her. In the deep cushioned leather armchair where old Mr Stevens usually lounged, sat Mr Munro, whom she had interviewed for the Policy Development Assistant post. She had a peculiar sensation in the pit of her stomach not dissimilar to that experienced at the interview. She hoped to Goodness she wasn't getting diarrhoea again.

"I don't know where to start." She gave him her most winning smile (it was allowed in Publicity, wasn't it?)

Only Mr Munro frowned. "You're supposed to have been transferred here because of your creative abilities."

She stared. "All new transferees are supposed to get training. I was going to speak to Mr Stevens about that today."

"Well, as you may know, Mr Stevens has taken early retirement. Besides, the training policy has been, erm, redrafted, I believe. Look, why don't you just have a look through the files and see what you come up with?"

Peter Munro was no fool. He had had a word with his cousin Jenny about the missing mission statement and she had told him it was Collins who had insisted on sending out the application packs. The two of them might have guessed. There was no way it was just a balls-up. No way did he trust Collins. All that about using his imagination was a load of bollocks. He'd set about creating structures right away to make sure they didn't turf him out. If he couldn't do that he'd have to start looking to dig up the dirt. His previous job (he'd got the sack for insubordination) had been on a tabloid newspaper so he knew how to go about it. Every company had some. Already he had seen photos of Collins posing at the Christmas party with MacRae, from Human Resources - kissing, that sort of thing. Instinctively, Munro felt sure there was more to it than kissing. Collins was a married man. Any crap from Collins or Evans and he'd dish up the shit to the wives. He'd manufacture the shit, in fact, personally, faster than you could say "Jack Robinson". Besides, if he had to, he could go back a long, long way to when Collins had been taking acid at uni (or was it dealing?) All he needed were a few of the old crowd to back him up. He still had plenty of contacts in the trade, didn't he? He fingered the soft leather of his chair. He liked a bit of comfort. He didn't really have to wait till Collins tried to turf him out (look at the state of the place). He fancied Collins' job, anyway. Collins first and then Evans. If Paterson behaved herself he might even let her stay. She had a nice arse on her, after all.

Six months later Collins was, indeed, out on his neck (it could well have been a dirty business but in the end Collins had settled for a pay-off ) and Evans had been transferred. Ms Paterson, however, was doing very nicely, Munro thought, as head of Publicity. Lorraine thought so too. As far as Collins was concerned, she felt he had got his deserts. Auri sacra fames . There was more scope for using one's initiative after all, she decided, in this area of work, than in her former post as Assistant Chief Executive. She reminded herself that what had attracted her to the Classics was not simply a fondness for precision. What of the grace, the splendour, the sheer glory of the Aeneid ? So could she translate the splendour of the company's purposes and make them music in the clients' ears. She talked of all this to Peter who took it all quite seriously, stroking her bottom all the while. Sexual love, she no longer needed to remind herself, was by no means an alien concept to the ancient Greeks and Romans. Labor omnia vincit was probably something Virgil dreamt up when he was feeling depressed. After all, had he not also written omnia vincit amor ? Just as Peter did not believe in overwork nor did she now. She spent her spare moments (when she and Peter were not engaging in the wild abandon of sexual love, including sodomy and other hitherto unimaginable acts) writing poetry in Latin and Greek (naturally making use of dactylic hexameter). Just so that she should have an interest, in case love waned, or Peter decided to transfer her. Although she had recently taken on a new dynamic male assistant who was quite attractive (and had a degree in Classics) so there was always the possibility of the two of them organising a coup. She had the ear of one of the directors now. Peter, lacking management experience, relied on her for far more than managing Publicity (and sexual favours). It was thanks to Peter she had made a number of presentations to the Board which Peter did not trouble to attend, being of a lazy disposition. She remembered she had a meeting this afternoon with the new assistant (he had a shapely backside too) and, depending on how it went, she would make up her mind then. After all, tempus fugit.

## Unspecified Matters

As Managing Director of Crivens & Co. (Hi-tech Componentry) for nigh on 15 years, there was no question of Frank's ability to manage. Frank managed the whole of the 350 staff from the Assistant Managing Director right down to the most junior of office juniors and the staff who cleaned the toilets. Naturally, such large-scale management could only be achieved by way of delegation and Frank was Delegation personified. Frank delegated Operations to the Operations Manager and Catering to the Catering Officer, Waste Disposal to the Waste Disposal Officer, Staff Recruitment to the Human Resources Manager and so on and so forth. So adept was Frank in delegating that in all of his fifteen years with Crivens & Co. he had not once had a complaint from anyone. Any complaints or problems never got past the Assistant Managing Director (and only rarely did they get that far).

So perfect was Frank's system of delegation (the devisal of such system itself being, of course, delegated - in this particular case, to the Assistant Managing Director Tom) that decisions were all but taken prior to board meetings, the final stage only necessitating Frank's rubber stamp. Tom would slip the agenda (via one of his secretaries) to Frank a week or so before Board meetings (or the odd extraordinary meeting with staff or clients) and if Frank had any queries (which was rare - he trusted his staff implicitly) they would all be attended to before the meeting took place.

Of necessity - due to his awesome responsibilities – Frank's delegation skills extended throughout his personal life. Like many senior managers Frank was, to a large extent, reliant on his Personal Assistant Arlene who delegated, of course, in her turn. Arlene had been with Crivens & Co. for a number of years now and understood perfectly that the role of Personal Assistant included attention to Frank's personal and family life as well as assisting him in his role as Managing Director. Thus Arlene would arrange matters such as the purchase of birthday, Christmas and other presents for Frank's wife and family. Such tasks, although nowhere specifically mentioned in Arlene's contract of employment, were understood to be subsumed in clause Four (B) (iii) which referred to the employee's duty to undertake "such other tasks as may reasonably be required".

Naturally, Arlene had had to devise the means of acquiring such intelligence for Frank, with all his onerous responsibilities, could not be expected to involve himself in the minutiae of domesticity. Arlene herself was finding that her duties were increasing to the extent that she was required to delegate more and more matters. Only, in truth, Arlene enjoyed most of her work and she particularly enjoyed writing the reports. Tom would send a memo to Frank asking for a report on a particular matter and Frank would pass it onto Arlene. In the old days Frank would simply ask Arlene to look up various documents or old reports and he would cobble something together himself. However, when the gossip started about Frank not being bothered with writing anything new and just rehashing reports he had written months or years before (or worse, someone else had written) Arlene had decided to take the matter in hand (she was a bright girl) and cobble something together herself. Not that there was ever any question of Arlene actually writing the report in its entirety. Frank always got to do the last paragraph (which was always one of a limited number of versions of the same homily about how the company was one big happy family) and occasionally he got to add a word or two to the main body of text. No-one complained about the final paragraph, trite though it was: it was viewed as Frank's rather elaborate, even eccentric signature and many found it reassuring. The reports were an important form of communication between Frank and his staff: it was hopeless trying to get a word of sense out of Frank about company matters during one of the staff bonding weekends Frank liked to participate in (or even during a prolonged lunch break in the pub) but then weekends away were not for the purpose of discussing detailed policies and nor, for that matter, were lunch breaks. Except for keen young folk like Arlene and the other administrative staff who rarely took a lunch break. Still, it was understood that Arlene was after promotion, as all keen young folk are.

"You're after promotion, aren't you?" Tom sneered at Arlene one lunchtime on his way out to the pub. Arlene was furiously typing up the monthly Progress Report (including statistics of all high tech componentry sold, stocks, purchases etc. etc.) and did not have the time to engage in chitter-chatter. She had spent half the night drafting the report at home in longhand because, with three kids to keep in trainers and the cost of childminding and whatnot, she couldn't afford a home computer. Increasingly, it was becoming impossible to find the time to do the reports at work and, also, she worried it might be seen as disloyal if anyone senior (the admin. staff all knew anyway) found out she wrote all of them herself.

"Not much chance of promotion in this place," Tom muttered, so quietly Arlene almost thought he was talking to himself. "Still, a lass like you should have no trouble finding something better elsewhere. If you ever want a reference you only have to ask."

"Thanks very much." Arlene tried to hide her astonishment. When Tom had gone she realised the Recruitment pages of the Scotsman were sticking up out of her bag. Hastily she tucked them away neatly before anyone else could see them.

That afternoon Arlene found herself, however, becoming increasingly distracted. That morning she had glanced at the Recruitment pages on the bus on her way to work. It was the first time in all her years with Crivens & Co. that Arlene had even contemplated getting another job. Only the reference aspect bothered her. She could hardly imagine Frank writing anyone, least of all her, a reference. She doubted Frank knew her surname. Only now perhaps there was a chance of trying her wings (the money at Ballast & Co. was better, after all) and she had the required experience.

The application pack duly received there was no harm in actually filling it in and in drafting a presentation on "The role of the Personal Assistant today". She had to think very carefully about what such a role should entail and she spent her evenings trundling the kids to the library and borrowing books on "The PA" and studying them. Having digested the books she decided that she would limit the role to the aspirations of the company and leave out the boss's personal and family matters and the staff birthday cards. She would emphasise, however, that a PA should be familiar with company policy and be able to draft reports to assist her boss in formulating his. After all, it was important that a PA who these days generally had a degree (as she did) should not be treated purely as a secretary but should be encouraged to develop her own perspective and contribute to the company's ethos.

In the weeks that followed Arlene quite forgot her application, so engrossed was she in drafting Frank's annual report which was due in next month. Then, one day as she was rushing out the door with the kids she met the postman who handed her her mail.

On the train she opened the first one that didn't look like a bill. Her eyes skimmed the page. Something about an interview. Post of Personal Assistant. Next week. Her heart raced. She was in the running after all.

She had a quiet word with Tom as soon as she knew he was on his own.

"You remember you offered to give me a reference?" She stopped. She hoped he had not been joking.

Tom looked up at the lassie over the mountain of paper - half of it complaints - on his desk. Sales had been declining fairly drastically, the best executives long gone and the mediocre about to follow. At first he had thought of them as rats leaving a sinking ship but he no longer blamed them. Only Tom was forty seven and there were no lifeboats for people his age. He wondered when it would be Arlene's turn.

"Got a job in the offing then?"

Arlene told him.

"Great stuff. Make sure you take the whole day off for the interview now. I'll say you were doing something for me. OK? Unless you want to go on the sick, of course? No? No, no, of course not." He flushed now as Arlene, who had not been on the sick once in her five years with the company, stared at him. "Well, then. Glad to be of help. Good luck," he added, as she went out. When she had closed the door behind her he tried to contemplate the future with Crivens & Co. Even if the lassie didn't get this one she was the resilient type as well as able and entirely presentable, of course. She wouldn't be long in this place.

When Arlene arrived back at the office the day following the interview, grinning all over her face Tom knew she had got the job. He had deliberately left time free to meet with her that morning and go over a few things.

"I'll give a month's notice, of course," Arlene said carefully, "although really I'm entitled to three weeks' holidays. I mean, I just haven't had time to take them."

"Don't worry about that!" Tom brushed her aside. "Just you skittle off at the end of the week. Have a break before you start anew. A new job can be very exhausting." Tom remembered his first weeks with Crivens & Co. when Frank had him running around like a maniac until he got his own system of delegation sorted out. "Although there's plenty that just take the last week off on the sick."

"I won't do that," Arlene said thoughtfully, "but if it's all right with you I'll skittle off at the end of the week as you put it. There's just one thing: the annual report. You realise that I, erm, help Frank quite a bit with the reports?"

Tom nodded. "Anything you have, you leave it with me. I'll see to the reports."

When Frank returned to his desk next Monday he did not immediately realise Arlene was gone for he did not get round to reading his e-mail before noon. On a Monday he preferred to start with the newspapers, including last week's financial pages. Normally, due to a three hour pub lunch on the Friday, he never got round to the financial pages until the following Monday only last week being a Bonding week he hadn't look at the financial pages at all so he had a bit of catching up to do. And here was Tom insisting on a meeting and going on about some staff crisis. Arlene somebody.

"Of course I know who she is," he snapped. "One of the secretaries."

"I believe she helps you with your reports," Tom was saying.

"I write my reports myself," Frank retorted, at that moment almost believing he did. Any fool could write reports, couldn't they?

"Have it your own way," Tom muttered as he went out.

Frank sighed as the `phone rang for the third time that morning (so far he had refused to answer it). Really, to be bombarded with telephone calls the Monday morning after a Bonding week was too much altogether. Still, he had been catching snippets of gossip to the effect that he was becoming unapproachable - ungrateful children, these staff of his despite all he did for them. Wearily, he picked up the telephone.

It was the Human Resources Manager. "I just wanted to let you know I've arranged for two temps to start immediately. Jane and Alison. It was felt one was insufficient, in view of Arlene's excellent abilities."

"Oh, um, yes, whatever." Frank put down the `phone, satisfied. Of course he had an excellent relationship with his staff who always kept him informed of what they were doing.

On the Thursday it turned out the new temps or whoever it was that was responsible for remembering his wife's birthday had forgotten. His wife glared at him as he went to work that morning and when he came home there was no dinner on the table so he knew something was up. When one of the kids (he wasn't sure which one - he always got them mixed up when they `phoned) telephoned to say she had left him and they were all staying at her mother's he had gone out and picked up a box of chocolates at the corner shop only to find they didn't accept credit cards and had to go and put them back. He drove to the supermarket to buy a box there and was about to head off to his mother's-in-law when he realised he didn't know the address. He went home and raked through his wife's dressing table but - nothing. It would have to wait until tomorrow.

When the office junior managed to sort it out for him on the Friday morning he decided something more than a box of chocolates was necessary to placate Roberta (and, heavens, it turned out today was their wedding anniversary too, as one of the secretaries had discovered) so he sent one of the temps out to buy perfume and have it sent to Roberta's mother's via courier. Roberta sent a message back to the effect she hated the stuff. Stupid bloody arsehole of a temp! He gave her a right dressing down and she left in tears. Then the Human Resources Manager was onto him about how difficult it was to keep temps these days and one must not expect too much of them. Quite a few of the admin. staff were off on the sick as it was.

By the Friday he was most agitated. He must take control of the situation, he told himself. That was the sort of thing he used to say to himself in the old days when he used to write his own reports from start to finish. Gracious, he realised as he skimmed through his diary, the AGM was next week, wasn't it? Generally Arlene or one of the girls anyway gave him a couple of copies about a week beforehand. Surely he should have been sent a copy by this time? He always liked to skim through it, particularly at the points Arlene underlined or marked with an asterisk (only on his copy, he understood).

The PA and her junior's office was empty. He strode into the secretaries office.

"I need a copy of the annual report - urgently," he told the first admin. worker he came to - whatever her name was.

The girl stared at him. "I don't know anything about it."

"Arlene - whatshername - the girl who's left. She would have told someone. Come on, someone must have it. What about her diary, for Christ's sake?"

The girl's voice creaked with annoyance now. Umpteen people had left in the past week, for Christ's sake."I don't know anything about Arlene's diary. I don't even know any Arlene. I've only been here three weeks myself."

He tried another girl who looked more familiar. "Come on, now, I'm putting you in charge here. I want that report by - let's see," he looked at his watch, "two o'clock this afternoon. Everything stops until it's found, right?"

The girl stood at ease, insolently silent, her lips pursed. "Two o'clock," he smiled now, "on the dot!" He was about to turn away when the computer caught his eye. "Obviously it'll be saved on the computer," he reminded her without turning his head.

As he headed back to his office he reflected how long it seemed since he had spoken at such length to the admin. staff. Generally things ran themselves, didn't they? All that personal contact was a bit nerve-wracking really. Perhaps he should use the `phone more often. And the computer too. He had liked the idea at first, mainly for the style of the thing: the technology baffled him. He could send and receive an e-mail and while away a couple of hours playing Patience but that was about as far as it went. He still thought of computers mainly as machines for secretaries. Only perhaps he should be going on those courses those leaflets were always telling him about. At any rate he would have to find Arlene's report, come hell or high water. He picked up the telephone tentatively and dialled the switchboard operator.

"Do you have the extension for the secretaries' office?" he enquired politely.

"It's on your telephone," a voice snapped back. Evidently the voice was unaware of whom she was speaking to. He stared down at the spotlessly white telephone. Sure enough there was a label stuck to the `phone with various extension numbers next to names. Only how was he supposed to know the secretaries' names?

The whole business was becoming impossible. He could take a week or two off on the sick, of course (stress or something; or perhaps he could fabricate a chest infection - whichever got him off longer. Perhaps he should take up smoking to make it more credible). Only people would expect him to have got so far with the report. Plus he had made a right cock-up going around asking for a copy of it, as though he had finished it. Except that Arlene could always have lost it. Yes, there were various possibilities, he told himself, one must not despair. He could even, conceivably, contact Arlene at home, ask her what the hell she'd done with the bloody thing? If he could just locate it on the computer he'd be fine. Any idiot could use a computer, after all.

He dialled the switchboard again, determined this time. The lassie was marginally \- but only marginally - more respectful when he pointed out he was the Managing Director. He got the secretaries' office.

He spoke quickly, but not too quickly, and to the point, almost his old self. "Frank, Managing Director here. I need the following info. as quick as poss. Arlene's password, Arlene's home `phone number and, erm, address - and e-mail address if she's got one. Oh, and her new work address and telephone number."

"Human Resources has all that," the impudent voice was telling him.

"I don't care who has it," he snapped back. "I'm asking you to get it for me."

"I'll see what I can do, Frank," the voice said wearily.

As he put the `phone down he wondered who had started this business of first names. It was all very well in the secretaries' office but when it came to people like himself it was quite a different matter. He had put up with it from Arlene because the girl was so helpful, he supposed, but he had not really spoken that much to the rest of them, except for the chappies who came on the bonding trips.

A girl came in with a coffee. He sipped it gratefully and nodded to her. Only there were no biscuits. He always had a biscuit with his coffee. Really, the place needed a shaking-up. And the coffee was not quite hot enough, not quite to his liking really only he could not be bothered complaining (and who would he complain to - Catering or Secretarial - how was he supposed to know?) As the lukewarm coffee slid into his stomach he recollected that, apart from the damned report there were other matters that ought to have been attended to, such as the minutes of the last meeting and the agenda. Only he hadn't had a whiff of either. The whole business was getting out of hand. He switched on the computer only to find various e-mails messages from various executives wanting to know why they hadn't received a copy of the annual report. Wearily he telephoned the first one only to find that, apparently the executive had already been onto secretarial and when that proved fruitless he had approached Tom. Tom had said words to the effect that it had nothing to do with him. Livid now, Frank `phoned Tom himself.

"I have never taken anything to do with the annual report," Tom said sweetly. "You and Arlene always sorted it out between you. I'm sure, if you gave it to Arlene, it would be on the computer, even if one of the temps has mislaid the hard copy."

Frank found himself stuttering. "But - but what about the agenda and the minutes?"

"I have those in hand," Tom said quietly. "They will be distributed this afternoon. I was rather hoping they could go out with the annual report."

Frank put the `phone down. He was almost in tears. He must pull himself together, he told himself as the `phone rang again. It was one of the secretaries - Lorna. She gave him the details of Arlene's password which would be defunct after today, according to Human Resources, and also details of her home address and telephone number. There was no e-mail address and Arlene wasn't due at her new job for a fortnight so did he still want her new work address? The girl spoke briskly and did not repeat any words, the way Arlene always did.

"No, no. Hold on!" He fished in a drawer and found a pocket notebook he hadn't noticed before and wrote down the details Lorna had given him. As an afterthought he added Lorna's name. He might have to `phone her back and he might as well know who he had been talking to.

He was smiling to himself when he found the folder titled "Reps". He had a good understanding of office shorthand then. Only it turned out that folder contained only monthly reports. Aha, he permitted himself a chuckle: there was another folder entitled "Anreps". Sure enough, the annual reports for the last five years - the whole of Arlene's time with the company - were there. Only not the one for this past year - the one he was going to have to present at next week's AGM. There was nothing else for it. He would have to get in touch with the lass herself. If it wasn't for the fact that he needed her so badly he'd give her a jolly good telling-off too, leaving him in the lurch like that.

He let the `phone ring for a good few minutes before deciding he'd have to go round there. Leave her a note. Maybe she had just popped out for a bit of shopping. He glanced at the address again. He knew the area. He'd head off round there right away and then he'd have an early lunch. With all the palaver this morning he needed it. A bloody good stiff drink too.

He told Lorna to order him a taxi and set off to Raigmore Terrace. A dingy little hole. He banged on the door several times in quick succession before getting out his notebook. He was so busy scribbling he scarcely noticed the woman peeping behind the curtains next door. He was pushing the note through the letterbox when the woman came to the door and called to him.

"She's away on holiday!"

"What?"

"I said `She's away`."

"I heard what you said. Do you know when she'll be back?"

"Couple of weeks. She only went away yesterday. She's taken the kids to the seaside, she says, before she starts that new job of hers."

"Oh." Damn and shit. "I don't suppose you've got a key, have you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I feed the cat. Why?"

"Well, you see, I'm her old boss and I believe she has, erm, a report of mine - you know, a confidential document in the house. So if I could just go in and take a look for it."

"You must be joking!" The woman did indeed burst out laughing.

"I assure you it's no laughing matter. Much is at stake." He looked the woman up and down now. Her hair was lank and greasy and she was in her slippers. A toddler appeared behind her. The stench of poverty clung to them both. Frank smiled to himself: he knew how to win people like her round. He took out his wallet and considered. Ten pounds, perhaps. It was coming out of his own pocket (after all, he could hardly ask for a receipt). Still, he had emphasised the significance of the matter; reluctantly he took out two ten pound notes and proffered them. "I think we could reach an understanding, don't you?"

"You must be off your head!" the woman practically yelled at him. "If you don't clear off this minute I'll get the police!"

"Don't be ridiculous! Forty then and that's my final offer!" The words were out before he realised he was in no position to bargain.

The woman marched off into her house, muttering darkly again about the police. Wearily, Frank trotted off. Trust Arlene to go and leave her keys with some nutter. He would come back when it was dark and he would put his shoulder to the back door. With any luck it would do the trick: the place looked like it was ready to fall to bits anyway. Only he would have to keep an eye out for the busybody next door. What else? Ah, yes, a torch, of course as he wouldn't want to go putting on the lights what with the busybody. He would give the pub a miss today, he decided, looking at his watch. He'd go and get himself a sandwich (since those bloody secretaries couldn't be trusted to get him something he liked) and then he'd send one of them out for a torch. Better make sure they remembered batteries.

Back in his office munching his chargrilled vegetables on sundried tomato bread; so good he wished he'd bought another. Perhaps the lassie could get that too. He picked up the `phone and asked for Lorna.

"Lorna's still on her lunch break," a voice he didn't recognise told him.

"Well, someone else then. A junior. What I require is a torch and a packet of sandwiches."

"The new memo says we're not to undertake any personal tasks for staff," the voice told him cheekily.

"I beg your pardon."

"You can look at it yourself. It's on your e-mail." The `phone went dead.

He was so shocked he looked at his e-mail anyway, just in case there was some error. Sure enough, there it was. From now on no staff will spend time in office hours performing personal tasks for other members of staff. Any queries see me. The memo was from Tom. See me. He'd bloody see him all right. He'd chop him up into tiny pieces; he'd make mincemeat out of him. As he picked up the `phone he noticed his hands were trembling.

His voice shook with anger as he heard Tom's complacent tones at the other end.

"The place is going to pot, Frank, don't you realise that? We can't afford to be sending staff out on personal errands. There's got to be a stop to it." Tom had decided there was no sense in beating about the bush.

"I'm your superior, Tom," Frank practically whispered, amazed at himself. Frank had never found it necessary to remind Tom of this fact in fifteen years.

"This particular matter, you may or may not recall," Tom sounded nonchalant, weary even, "was delegated to me. You can check on the "Tasks" file, if you like. If you can't find it I have a hard copy here."

"Look here, old chap. It's just it's a bit of an emergency, that's all. I take your point entirely, entirely, old chap. Need to watch the pennies, what?" Was Tom a public school chap or not? Damn, he couldn't remember? Always useful if you drag out the old school tie.

"Actually, it's more than just pennies, Frank," Tom said. "I'm sorry. If you need something personal you'll have to get it yourself."

And so it was that Frank found himself in the middle of Woolworths (someone he stopped in the street had suggested Woolworths for torches) wandering up and down shelves of goods he did not want and unable to find a sales assistant for love nor money. He wandered up and down the aisles, like an explorer in alien territory. He wandered past the stationery and the sweets, past the dishcloths and the plates and pots and pans and the toys. He wandered past CDs and the videos (where he was tempted to linger a while but didn't because he knew how to prioritise things, being a senior manager, after all). At last he found them, right at the very back of the store, in the most improbable place, near the paint and brushes and other decorating materials. Bad planning that, he reckoned. Could definitely do with more signposting. He would mention it to Roberta, his wife, who liked to write letters about things like that. Then he remembered Roberta had left him. Not that he expected her to be away for long. She would be back in next to no time, he was sure.

He had the torch now as well as a good-sized spanner that might be useful in the absence of a crowbar. Of course he knew about crowbars and what not from the crime fiction he liked to browse during the odd free hour at work. Now he definitely needed a sandwich. He wouldn't bother going back to the office, he decided. He would go to the gym and have a drink afterwards. He didn't have anyone to tell him what to do, after all. He was grinning now as he paid for the torch.

The assistant smiled back. He remembered, just in time, about how difficult it had been to find the torch.

"Jolly bad organisation in here - couldn't find it for ages."

The assistant shrugged. She was a wearing a badge that said "Sally".

"I shall be complaining to your superiors, Sally," he added, as he put the torch in his briefcase. As he walked away he could hear tittering and a remark about some "pompous prick" that made his cheeks burn.

He had set his alarm for ten o'clock that evening. He set off in his car and parked it a few streets along from Arlene's house. After all, he didn't want to call attention to himself. Minutes later he was in simply by putting his shoulder to the back door. In his state of near-delirium at having gained entry so easily he tripped over something on the floor which screeched before scuttling away in the darkness. Thankfully he kept his cool: of course, the busybody had said something about a cat. He tiptoed out of the kitchen and made sure the room he was in had the curtains drawn before he switched on the torch.

After a good scout round the living room he decided there was nothing doing and made his way upstairs. He breathed a sigh of relief upon entering what was evidently a study as well as a bedroom: a filing cabinet. He tugged at the top drawer but it refused to open so he tugged at the bottom one. Fuck it, it was locked. He scrabbled around in the dressing table drawers for a key - nothing. He took the spanner out of his briefcase and jerked at the drawer handle with that. The bloody thing wouldn't budge. He began to bash at it but still the damn thing was stuck fast. He stopped, panting with the effort. He must do this thing methodically: there was no point in panicking. Perhaps if he bashed away at the top of the drawer he would create a hollow so that he could force the spanner through? To his immense relief and satisfaction the plan worked although it took a good few minutes of battering like fuck to get it to give way. Eventually the drawer fell away. Pity the cabinet was destroyed but it wasn't as if it was his fault the girl had left no key. He raked through the contents quickly. Jesus, it was full of reports belonging to the company. All handwritten. Not a bloody thing typed. He didn't have time to footer about with all this crap and it wouldn't fit in his briefcase. He'd have to get something bigger. He headed off downstairs again. He was tempted to put the kitchen light on: there wasn't much chance of anyone seeing him, after all but intuition told him to proceed with caution. He left the light off. He raked about in the cupboards until his hand touched what felt like a roll of polythene. He shone the torch. Just the job: a roll of plastic binbags. As he left the house, after closing the back door carefully, struggling with the two binbagsful as well as his briefcase, he failed to notice the busybody next door peeking behind her curtains.

Having already telephoned the police about the terrifyingly loud crashing noises next door Brenda Jackson was somewhat gratified to catch a glimpse of the arrogant old bastard who had offered her money to poke his nose round her neighbour's empty house that very afternoon. She knew fine where Arlene used to work: that hole where they'd worked her like a dog. She would have plenty of information to give the police when they arrived.

Frank spent the weekend in a hotel so he was unaware that the police were seeking him to assist with their enquiries about a break-in at one hundred Raigmore Terrace.

In the hotel suite (the company would be footing the bill, he reckoned: the loss of one's wife was an emergency, was it not? - hopefully Roberta wouldn't be back too soon) he spent most of the weekend sifting through the documents and at last found what he was looking for. A pity it had so many insertions and deletions and was scarcely legible but, still. One of the girls would have to sort it all out on the Monday.

He had just given the document to Lorna (who took it "under protest") when the police officer arrived. At the police station he exercised his right to remain silent, as his solicitor advised him, and all afternoon withstood manfully the barrage of outrageous questions hurled at him by some fools in uniform. Then there was the ultimate humiliation of being placed on an identity parade, like some common criminal, before being charged with housebreaking and theft. After his court appearance the following morning he was released on bail. There was no time to freshen up before the AGM and he arrived at the meeting two hours late with two days' growth on his chin.

"Growing a beard," he smiled.

Tom beckoned to him to come outside. In the corridor he handed him a copy of the agenda and pointed to item three. Appointment of New Managing Director. "We waited as long as we could," he sounded almost apologetic. "The Board wanted to give you a fair hearing. Only really it was a foregone conclusion. We held an extraordinary meeting yesterday. In the circumstances. Only I didn't want you to leave without a handshake."

The usual term was golden, wasn't it? Frank thought. Perhaps he was getting tired. Needing to spend time with his family. Needing to woo them back. He was about to ask "How much?" but Tom was suggesting he might like to have a wash and brush up before he got his things together.

"You'll get a month's pay, of course."

It was only when Tom stretched out his hand that Frank realised what the scheming bastard meant. He lunged at the treacherous fucker but then he felt his arms pinned behind him and he was caught like a rat in a trap.

## Lies

When I joined the Socialist Workers' Party in 1982, at the age of twenty three, I was well aware I was something of a late starter. All the comrades who were at least as old as me had been in the Party for yonks while the new recruits were mostly teenagers. Late starter or not, I was not to be dissuaded from embarking on this new chapter in my life, even though my partner (in those days I called him my boyfriend) declined to take the all-important step of signing on the dotted line. Steve would come along to the odd meeting, help out at the crèche - that sort of thing - but always drew back at the last moment.

I couldn't really blame him. I had been out of work since graduating while he had got a start with the council the year before. As an unemployed person I was required to make only minimal contributions to the Party whereas Steve's would have been quite substantial and would certainly have eaten into the weekly household budget, even though he was on the bottom of a pretty low salary scale. The arrangement therefore suited the two of us pretty nicely. Steve was able to carry on going to the pub with his pals once a week (I went out every week for a drink with the comrades myself) and we certainly weren't starving. I, in my turn, was able to sustain my fervent belief in the inevitable decline and fall of capitalism and know that I was doing something to assist its demise.

One or two of the comrades, nevertheless, had their doubts about Steve. They obviously considered he was swinging the lead as far as his commitment to socialism went. Even though I pointed to his low salary, the fact that we had no car and lived in (pretty cramped and damp, as a matter of fact) rented accommodation some folk were just not satisfied. Folk like Jim the miner, for example. Jim was one of the few actual workers in our branch, the rest, apart from the unemployed majority (graduates mostly), being students (who were also relieved of the burden of having to fork out more than a pittance out of their miserable grants). Jim, by comparison, must have earned a reasonable salary, so a fair percentage of that went straight to the Party. "To feed all the fat arses at Party HQ," Jim would joke behind the leaders' backs and we would all laugh, knowing fine the Party was his life and he probably dreamed of one day becoming a leader himself. The comrades were also my good friends in those days and my commitment to the principles of socialism remained firm. It had to. I couldn't find a job; where else was I going to find meaning in life? Besides, I had the desirable if not strictly essential PC background and was no stranger to poverty, my old man having been laid off his factory job after an industrial injury. Plus of course, I had studied Politics at uni.

In truth, though, I was less than enamoured by some of the Party hacks who invited themselves to the "educationals" every couple of months or so: meetings that turned out to be little more than brainwashing sessions where the Party faithful contributed pat answers and engaged in rapturous applause and foot-stomping rituals at predictable moments. Think of all the uproarious applause and minutes-long standing ovations at all the mainstream party conferences rolled into one and you are getting there (only this was a small group so you had to clap or stomp fifty times as loud).

"That Jim thinks I'm some sort of nerd," Steve moaned one evening and I knew then something had to be done. Just because I had made a lifelong commitment to socialism, if not the SWP, didn't mean I was prepared for our relationship to go slithering down the drain. I didn't wait for the "It's either them or me". I remembered the old adage: "A stitch in time saves nine" and acted immediately.

"You know that home brew kit you're always talking about putting on?" I began.

Steve stared at me like I had lost my marbles. "But you always said you couldn't stand the smell of the home brew!"

"Aye well," I gave a sheepish shrug. "You could put it to good use, though. Like in the cause of the Party. Help raise funds and all that."

Steve was still uncomprehending so I proceeded to explain. "You could have a party and sell it. Lots of people from the Grange would come. Anyway, we could do with a bit of a fling. Neither of us has been to a party in yonks."

I could see Steve was tempted. "Aye, but - selling it?"

"Aye, why not? You'll be telling me it's illegal next! Tell them it's instead of bringing their own booze." I laughed.

"I suppose it would be nice to have a crowd round again," Steve said wistfully, evidently thinking of the last party we'd had – more than six months ago.

I grimaced. "Aye, well, just so long as that Jimmy Boyd doesn't come and throw up on the living room carpet like he did the last time!"

Steve laughed. "I shall personally kick his arse out of here if he does!"

"It'll be a good chance for you to get to know the comrades better too," I said slyly.

"Aye, you'll be wanting to recruit me next."

I took the last remark seriously but Steve was wrong. I had no plans to recruit Steve and not just for financial reasons. Some people in your life it is good to keep in separate compartments, maybe in case they spoil if contaminated by the rest of one's messy existence. The wee shindig, as we referred to it, was, as far as I was concerned, primarily, if not entirely, for Steve's benefit, rather than the Party's. Only some things it is hard to have complete control over. Together we agreed that Steve would take care of the invitations for those not in the Party while I would bring along the comrades.

Most of the comrades arrived first. Andy Hamilton - an unemployed teacher and one of the longest standing Party members as well as the oldest (a balding thirty year old) - appointed himself chief bouncer and money-taker at the door. Steve began to object to the idea of stopping people as they came in but was forced to agree they could hardly be intimidated by wee Andy who was all of five foot four.

"Besides," I reminded him, "quite a few of the SWP crowd are students themselves \- or used to be. Some of them will know some of the crowd at the Grange." (The Grange was the student union).

Steve grumbled at the fact that Andy hadn't paid his own (nominal) entrance fee but relented when I pointed out that Andy had been out of work for five years and was probably blacklisted because of his Party membership. Plus he had a wife and two weans (whom I sometimes, I must confess, believed to be a figment of Andy's imagination because I had never actually seen any of them in the flesh). Well, truth to tell, maybe I wanted the wife to be imaginary because I quite fancied Andy myself. I had an inkling, too, that he sort of fancied me too. Something to do with the way his eyes lit up when he spoke to me, the way he put his hand on my shoulder when he was expounding Marxist-Leninist theory and how it related to late twentieth century capitalism and its inevitable downfall, the way he caught my eye at the end of a meeting or the weekly pub visits and offered to walk me to the bus stop. Once he even walked me all the way home - miles out of his way. Our conversations were not, however, limited to praising revolutionary leaders and theories: we also talked of the socialist perspective in Scots literature and it was Andy who introduced me to the works of Lewis Grassic Gibbon and Neil Gunn.

Still, despite Andy's attentions, the wife, imaginary or not, got in the way. Revolutionaries or not, the Party members were pretty conservative when it came to personal relationships. Monogamy was the watchword, infidelity a sin on a par with the most heinous capitalist crimes. Somehow our chats never got too personal, our body language too intimate. We were both innocents, in a way.

After surprisingly few initial grumbles from the Grange crowd the party was soon in full swing. As an erstwhile Grange-goer I prided myself on having forfeited the somewhat decadent pastime of drinking myself into a state of oblivion (as befalls many a recipient of Her Majesty's Unemployment Benefit) for higher things. I mingled mainly with the comrades who maintained their usual self discipline and declined to partake of more than a couple of pints per person (even at the ridiculously cheap price of forty pence a pint). The Grange crowd, by comparison, were all well and truly sozzled within the first hour or so. In the living room couples lay on top of each other, tugging at each other's clothes and fumbling beneath them. Even for a crowd of students, their behaviour verged on the indecent. Still, what the hell. Only the beer was becoming too disgusting to drink (we must have been nearing the bottom of the barrel, although some folk were too far gone to notice) so I decided to go to the hall cupboard to fetch a bottle of cider I had been keeping for emergencies. As I approached the cupboard I could hear a weird grunting noise. I remembered Steve had mentioned the other day that one of neighbours had lost his ferret. Summoning all my courage I nudged the door open only to discover a couple, stark naked from the waist down, engaged in the act of copulation. I slammed the door shut, annoyed with myself that I hadn't thought to retrieve the cider earlier; I would be lucky if it was still there, I reckoned, once the lovebirds had finished with their fornicating. Probably they were half cut on the stuff as it was. Still, I agreed, back in the living room with Steve, the dreaded Jimmy Boyd hadn't turned up and, apart from the two or three couples only feet away from us, the others were only being mildly anti-social (doing things like pissing outside in the yard but only, I reasoned, because of the lengthy queue for the toilet) and Andy and I had calculated that the party had already raised a pretty penny. We would probably run out of drink before some of the Grange crowd got too pissed. Jim was smiling away too and chatting away to Steve so I was well contented. What could go wrong?

Most of the Grange crowd had already left and the comrades were beginning to go too and I was drinking orange juice in the kitchen when I thought I heard a minor commotion in the hall. Before I was out the door there was an almighty crash. I reached the bathroom and stood aghast, only vaguely aware of Steve's presence some feet away. Unbelievably, the bathroom door - a huge hunk of solid oak - lay on the floor, off its hinges. Over the previous decade or so the once-handsome Victorian flat had been ravished by cowboy builders in the employ of a landlord who cared nothing for the principles of sympathetic restoration but the bathroom was the one area left untouched - till now.

"Sorry `bout that. Had tae push it - put my foot tae it. Just couldnae get oot any other way."

The voice was Andy's and the words were slurred but that was the gist of what he said. But the little band who had gathered round weren't really listening to Andy; we were looking at the young girl beside him. She was about fifteen, her makeup was all smeared and her hair and clothes in a dishevelled state. Andy was standing beside her. I realised, despite my state of shock, he was obviously half-cut. I gazed at him with suspicion as well as disgust, the reason slowly dawning on me why the home brew had disappeared so quickly.

Jim had come up behind me. Jim, too, was a married man. Like me, he had put two and two together. "For God's sake, Andy. I thought better of you than this. Jesus, what would Eva say if she saw you?"

Andy shook his head and promptly vomited onto the carpet. I walked away in disgust. After that things were never quite the same with the Party. I only went back to the one meeting and Andy wasn't even there. Jim wasn't there either which made wonder whether Jim ever did tell Andy's wife about the goings-on at the wee shindig. Surely even straightlaced Jim could not be so hard-hearted? In fact, I never saw Andy again. A few months later I got a job in marketing and became slowly entwined in the world of capitalism and its pleasures. I spend my days dreaming up slogans for various companies selling various products. Needless to say, now I am paid to fabricate fantasies, I have become particularly adept at telling lies. Such is my expertise in mendacity that the hyperbole so frequently associated with revolutionary socialist organisations palls when compared with the way I distort the meaning of words when in the course of my employment. When I am at work it is entirely possible that I cannot distinguish fact from fiction. At the beginning (although I cannot now remember a beginning) I told myself that one must draw a distinction between the public and the private, between the world of work and the domestic sphere. There are other deprivations, of course: the use of Lallans, or the vernacular, being frowned upon by my colleagues and associates who are now all middle-class. I sympathise now with those whose mother tongue has been eroded or even lost altogether in the cause of imperialism. My children, who attend public schools, speak the Queens' English. One thing I have always insisted upon, however, and that is that our home life must not be soiled by lies (unless our use of English is a lie - I had not previously considered that), otherwise all is lost.

Now, years later, Steve and I have the requisite marriage contract, two kids and mortgage (a bloody big one too: Steve has left local government for the greater material rewards in the world of insurance and money marketing so he, too, has become adept in the art of sophistry). We are doing very nicely, thankyou, even if life is one long uphill struggle, despite the au pair and cleaning lady; one is forever kept on one's toes trying to keep apace with it all: the school fees, keeping the family in designer clothes, trying to organise the two or three holidays abroad every year, replacing the cars every couple of years (Steve is thinking about a Porsche next time). We frequent parties where up-and-coming dot.com yuppies rub shoulders with more mature ex public school Tories and New Labour types alike amid the canapés, vol au vents and buckets of champagne. There is still the odd couple (not so odd really) to be found fucking in cupboards or, occasionally, the conservatory but never again have I sensed the sparkling atmosphere of those halcyon days. When I feel depressed (as I often do), before I reach for the Prozac I chide myself for my tendency to view the austerity of my youth with rose-tinted spectacles.

Sixteen odd years on from the end of my flirtation with the revolutionary socialists Steve and I were sharing a brief moment of nostalgia about the good old days. "You know," Steve remarked. "There was nothing wrong with that door. It was just that it opened the wrong way. Hamilton just panicked, that's all."

I smiled. "Aye, he always was the excitable type, ken." (I use Lallans from time to time when at home: Steve has not so far objected).

"You know," Steve went on. "That night at the party. He was asking me these really weird questions. About being unfaithful and all that. He asked me what I would do if you were having an affair with someone else."

"What did you say?"

"I told him I would bash the bugger's brains to smithereens."

I was shocked. "You werenae serious?"

"Of course not." He snickered. "I think Hamilton believed me, though," he added, thoughtfully.

Funnily enough it was only days later that I read the death notice in the local rag, inserted by the Party faithful. "True to his ideals to the last. He devoted the whole of his adult life to the cause of socialism. Sadly missed by the socialist community, Party members, his wife and son and daughter."

I hadn't bought the Socialist Worker for years but I took one off the first guy I came across selling it the following week. Inside was an obituary. Andy had been in the Party for thirty years. He had died of a heart attack at some socialist gathering. There was to be a memorial service at his local community centre the following weekend.

There was a do on at Steve's work the day of the service. The thought of yet another round of the canapés and champagne depressed me utterly. I lied to Steve that I had to nip to the office for a couple of hours \- some bastard project I had to finish (lies between us were becoming increasingly commonplace in our rat-race existence - I could no longer keep them at bay at home). Instead of nipping to the office I sped away in my new Golf (fuel injection) and headed for the community centre.

The hall was beginning to fill up but I recognised no-one. It seemed to be mostly young people in their twenties and early thirties. Only a grey-haired man about my age was standing in a corner of the room chatting to a woman also forty-something. The man looked across at me and, after saying something to his companion, made his way towards me.

"I didn't recognise you at first, Sarah."

"Nor I you, Jim."

"Long time no see."

"Aye." He turned towards his female companion who had joined us. "I don't think you've met Eva - Andy's wife?"

We shook hands. "I was very sorry to hear about Andy. I was in the Party many years ago, as a matter of a fact."

She nodded. We could find nothing more to say to each other.

Instead of singing hymns we sang "The International" and "The People's Flag". The solemnity granted these timeless anthems struck a chord in me: I was humbled by the devotion of the gathering not just to Andy's memory and "all that is good and true" as Jim said in his speech but also by the unswerving devotion to socialist principles I, like so many successful others, had long forsworn. Only I detected a note of falseness, of insincerity, surely, when Jim began to speak of how Andy had been true to his wife and family, as well as to the cause of socialism, having never once been unfaithful in all the long years of his marriage. Och, what was the harm in a wee fib, I thought, as he did his summing up, sure it was for Eva's benefit, to give her some comfort, wasn't it?

Afterwards Jim again drew me aside. "Will you come to the house for a bite to eat?"

I shook my head. "I have to get back."

"We're having a collection for the headstone. You know the funeral grant doesn't cover it? Maybe you could spare us something?"

I wrote out a cheque for a couple of hundred pounds. Jim's face broke into a huge grin when he saw the words and figures. "That's brilliant! Look, Sarah, I never told you but, you know, that party at your place...."

"Och, that was years ago. What does it matter?" I was appalled now that he was going to bring all that up again, after such a lovely speech too. Maybe there was a tinge of embarrassment, of guilt there too. I could have afforded more, after all. As I stared at Jim's animated face I found myself wondering if he had ever found another job after the pit closed down.

But Jim was insistent. "No, no. It's important. Remember I thought - we thought \- that Andy and that girl were - you know..."

I nodded, affronted, hoping no-one else could hear.

"Well, we were both wrong. Andy broke down the door. He wasn't in the bathroom at all. A couple of folk saw him - including your Steve, apparently."

"But the girl," I began, remembering her state of undress.

"There was a guy, attacking her - tried to rape her in fact - but he climbed out the bathroom window and ran off. The poor girl was hysterical - that's why she couldn't work out how to open the door. If it was nowadays we'd all insist she went to the police but not in those days. It was expected she'd be too ashamed. I know Andy had a drop too much to drink and I gave him a right rollicking for that but I felt guilty about it afterwards because he was a hero, really, you see."

As I continued to stare at him Jim began to look annoyed. "You didnae think I'd stand up there and tell a pack of lies, did you?"

I shook my head, unable to look him in the eye. Before we parted I asked him if he had ever found work.

He shrugged. "Cleaning the toilets. That's all there is these days." He gave a cynical laugh. "Only you wouldnae believe it: the council's thinking about closing down the public toilets so it looks as though I'll be on the dole after all. Och well, there's always the Party. Any time you want to come back, Sarah!"

Back home I knew I had to raise the subject with Steve, for one final time, before I could lay Andy's memory to rest. It was very late when Steve returned from the party, smashed out of his skull.

"Andy Pandy. Him that kicked the bucket," he started. Ignoring my frown, he continued, "I must say I had to laugh when I saw you and Jim standing there, berating him for the adulterous pleasures he never knew. He wasn't exactly the type, was he? Can you imagine him, trying to chat up a woman?" He began to titter. I walked out of the room, disgusted, not at Steve, but at myself. I cannot rebuke Steve for lying to me. For years I have been deluding myself. For years

my whole existence has been one enormous lie. I have been submerging myself in untruths that grow bigger with each passing year. Unless I force myself to climb out of the trough of deceit, I will find myself buried in the avalanche I have myself unleashed.

## The Empty Room

I was hurrying, as usual. I hardly glanced at the shabby figure with the bundle of papers standing outside the dole.

"Hiya!"

"Jesus, it's you, Richard. Long time no see."

It was too. Nearly a year. Richard was one of those people I imagined (if I thought about them at all, which was rare) as belonging to my old life, up in the Highlands.

He was up visiting my friend Angus. Richard lived in Glasgow, thinking, no doubt, like all far lefty politicos, he had to ply his trade in the big city, despite what Marx said about being a shepherd in the morning (or was it the evening?).

"Ye think we're all ignoramuses up here, don't ye?" my father told him. "Well, the Highlanders have a history of rebellion, too, I'll have ye know. We'll revolt again when the time is right." As Richard looked away embarrassed my father winked at me. It was fairly obvious from Richard's discomfiture he knew nothing of any Highland revolt. He was, after all, English (well, half-English - he was a Geordie) and, in those days, well, there wasn't even Braveheart or Rob Roy to go and see. In those days too no self-respecting nationalist would dare rub shoulders with extreme lefties like Richard, lest he contaminate them with international socialism which was, after all, anathema to the old-style Scottish nationalism. Those were yet the days of the Soviet empire and the oppression of all indigenous peoples therein. In such circumstances I did not blame Richard for his ignorance of Scottish history.

Angus mentioned Richard was keen to start a branch of the Socialist Revival in Inverness. After all, it was sort of the capital of the Highlands, wasn't it, Richard hazarded.

To tell the truth I felt a bit sorry for Richard. There was something innocent, if not exactly naive, about him. Compared with the other socialists I'd met (far left and not so far left) who loved the sound of their own voice so much they never let you get a word in edgeways and shouted you down with peals of thunder if you so much as uttered a peep of dissent, compared with them Richard was as meek as a lamb. He would simply outline what his particular grouping stood for, and then only when he was asked. From time to time he would refer to a particular doctrine propounded by Lenin or Trotsky in the group's more academic monthly journal. Maybe I'd like to take a look at his copy? He never patronised you and never assumed for a moment you might not be immediately familiar, for example, with the doctrine of dialectical materialism, even though Angus had studied Physics and not Politics, History or Sociology at uni and I hadn't even gone (yet).

He was a stickler, was Richard. I got to know him well enough during the few months he spent up north (I flirted with the far left in more ways than one). While the comrades were out getting pissed of a Friday night in the local boozer, Richard was faithfully ensconced at his post at the train station, shivering in the freezing November fog, desperately trying to flog the red rag. He never seemed to find the time to sit down and, when he did (usually bullied into taking a break by Angus) he was always socially awkward. He would smile that nervous smile he had. It showed he really wanted to be at his ease with you but couldn't. When he talked it was always at a tremendously fast pace - so fast it was difficult to catch everything he said. Angus - who almost always accompanied him whenever he came round - would fill in for him, as though he could anticipate what Richard had been meaning to say but, in his hurry, had left out. Richard would sit there with that twitchy smile and nod his agreement. I never once saw him angry with anyone. I went to the odd meeting but frequently the meetings left me in such despair I came away feeling if this was what socialism was about I wanted none of it. Of course I wanted an equitable distribution of wealth and for the workers to receive the full fruits of their industry (the group had at one time been affiliated to the Labour party so its somewhat archaic rendition of its principles resembled Clause Four, only in rather greater detail). Only hadn't Marx said anything about having a bit of fun, for Christ's sake? I never said anything of this to Angus, whom I was going out with at the time, still less to Richard, whose mind I viewed as too pure in a way to be adulterated by such treacherous thoughts. After all, what better fun was there to be had (especially when you had no money) than plotting the revolution? Particularly when much of the plotting was done in the pub.

When I left for uni in the big city I promised to keep in touch with Angus and the wee band he had gathered together. Only what with all the distractions of my new metropolitan existence I somehow never did. I lost Richard's address and got on with having a whale of a time at uni. At first it had been my intention to keep in with the socialist/Trotskyite crowd but it was already the mid eighties and that brand of socialism was fast becoming old-hat (or perhaps it always had been: perhaps that was even why Richard had been hoofing it so far north seeking socialists of the good old-fashioned variety?) Feminism was the thing for me, I decided within a matter of weeks. I'd fallen in love with one of the leading lights of Glasgow's lesbian socialist feminists: an anti-nuclear, pro-choice (abortion), pro-Irish freedom (but with certain reservations not so much about the armed struggle and the patriarchal perspective of the so-called liberators). So besotted was I with the lovely Vanessa that, when Richard spoke to me, a sensation like an electric shock ran through my veins. It was during my first summer vacation which I was spending ostensibly on the dole but in reality deeply involved with all sorts of feminist projects. Since coming to Glasgow I don't think I had had a conversation, let alone a relationship, with a single man apart from those out of necessity, say, in the course of my studies. I wanted to keep men where they belonged - in the past (I couldn't imagine what Vanessa would say if she thought I'd ever slept with a man, even though there'd only been the one).

Only here is Richard, larger than life, almost, the same shabby (not even trendily shabby) trousers, the same old bicycle he cycled everywhere on, the same twitchy smile.

"How's it going?"

Maybe because I was nervous too I began to chat about my new life, carefully leaving out Vanessa. Richard, after all, only really talked about politics, didn't he? Although he must have a personal, a social, life of some sort, I began to think, as I droned on and on about the Women's Peace group, all the demos and educationals and conferences and everything we were organising.

"Women-only," I had to add, apologetically. He carried on smiling so then I told him about Women and Ireland.

"That's really great. The left is always equivocal about the Irish struggle - as you know," he muttered, apologetic too.

"Oh no. I mean, I know the Socialist Revival do a lot of good work," I told him hastily. It was true, too, but I was keen now not to talk too much about what I was doing not just because Richard would have felt excluded but because I felt a bit of a fraud. After all, if Vanessa cleared off out of the Women's Movement tomorrow where would I stand, apart from the fact that I'd be out of my mind with grief?

"As a matter of fact the Bands Alliance are organising a march in the East end of the city in a couple of weeks' time. It'd be great if your women's group could come along - show their solidarity." My hesitation must have been obvious because he felt it necessary to add, "I know they're not exactly ideologically sound and all that but I mean, we have to take folk as we find `em. It'll be an educational thing for them too, won't it? Seeing that there's women like yourself - yourselves - interested in Ireland."

"Yeah, you're right." What else could I say? He was always bloody right, was Richard. I could hardly turn round and say, " Look, I know all that but see my girlfriend, just because she supports Peace and Troops Out of Ireland and all that it doesn't mean she actually wants to work with men." Or come within a hundred yards of you, even. Maybe I could have said it to any other man at that moment in time because I could have told them that it wasn't that we were denying the rights of half the human race (the way they'd denied ours for centuries, if not from time immemorial). It was just the fact that you lot made it so bloody difficult, because you were so terrified of letting go the reins of power that you squashed every idea that came from a woman and that you did this so unthinkingly you scarcely knew you were doing it. I could have said that to any other man but not to Richard because I knew Richard wasn't like that. Maybe I should have been able to slag off other men to Richard but I wasn't sure he wouldn't take it personally. So I agreed to speak to the group about the march.

The next Women and Ireland group meeting was only a few days away. When we had got to "Any Other Business" I mooted the idea of giving our support to the demo. To my surprise there was no outright opposition; if there was no obvious enthusiasm there was certainly curiosity there.

"It'll be mostly men, of course," I muttered, somewhat superfluously.

"We haven't got a banner or anything to distinguish ourselves from, well, you know," one woman was saying.

Of course I knew. We didn't want to be too closely (or at all) identified with the sectarian crowd that dogged these events in the west of Scotland. Sectarianism was not what we were about. As thinking (many of us academics, after all) feminists (and what feminist wasn't a thinker?) our motives were rather purer than that: the liberation of a people in the war against British imperialism. I knew Richard's motives were almost identical to my own. It was but an accident of fate that Richard had been born a man and mostly of no consequence (apart from the fact that he couldn't actually join our group or any other women-only organisation). It was not Richard's fault, any more than it was mine, that anti-imperialist struggles (and the Irish issue rather more than most) tended to attract undesirable sectarian types who might just be out for a fight.

Vanessa's voice broke into my thoughts. "There is a banner, actually. I found it the other night when I was looking for stuff to make posters for Women for Peace. I think it may date back to the hunger strike." Vanessa got up and began rooting around in a cupboard. She emerged from the flotsam and jetsam of the women's movement - rolls of posters and stacks of leaflets curling at the edges- bearing aloft a red banner on two tall wooden poles. A few of us helped her unfurl it.

Troops Out of Ireland

Women say No to British Imperialism

Broad black lettering on scarlet cloth. Curled up inside lay a bundle of yellowed leaflets calling for Thatcher to grant the Five Demands.

We sat, awed, for a moment or two, having almost forgotten that we were not the first, nor would yet be the last, feminists to engage in such struggles. We had thought of our history as the suffragettes, primarily, but were slowly realising that our struggles were at once older - centuries old, even (we had learnt of Aphra Behn, by this time) and deeper than our contemporary concerns. At once linked with British and international socialism and yet more all-encompassing. Vanessa did not say all of this (or at least not at that particular meeting) but she said enough to deepen my love for her and to be glad that we were united in more than body.

I `phoned Richard that evening to tell him of our decision.

He seemed surprised, wary even. "You'll be careful, won't you? Because there's likely to be trouble, of course."

"Of course," I lied because the thought of trouble hadn't entered my head. I did not tell Richard I had never been to a demo on Ireland. No doubt Richard, with his usual care not to patronise or to be seen to patronise, had not wanted to refer to matters he assumed I knew of already.

"They'll want to put you at the back," he continued, apologetic as ever. "Our lot have nothing to do with the organisation, of course. It's just because of the trouble - not because you're women or anything," he added hastily.

I laughed nervously, now genuinely scared. "Oh, I expect we can handle that."

I wasn't sure what Vanessa would say to our being dumped at the back but decided I would deal with that when the time came.

Only Richard (again, because he would have been anxious not to patronise, to assume ignorance on our part) did not mention anything about when, or how exactly, trouble might flare up.

Four of us met at the Women's Centre to collect the banner and, convinced we would not be allowed on the bus with seven foot long poles, decided to walk the couple of miles to the starting point. Only the walk took us into alien territory for the group, to a woman, dwelt in the more salubrious parts of Glasgow - mostly the west end. Fortunately we had brought a map and already protestors (against the march, against us) lined the streets. One man carried a banner bearing the grim warning: "Hang the IRA". It slowly dawned on us it would have been far wiser to have forked out on a taxi, particularly as we neared the outermost reaches of the scheme where the march was to set off. We hurried past assembled crowds of hostile onlookers, trying to appear inconspicuous. Judging by their demeanour, political debate was anathema to this crowd of thugs and the resolution of disagreements achieved by means of physical affray. I glanced over at Vanessa and, without a word passing between us, could see what was crossing her mind as well as my own. Bowed under two tall poles, slung together with what could only be a folded banner wrapped around them, we were obviously bound for a certain destination and therefore marked women. Only it was too late to turn back. The four of us stumbled on, praying that the scores of police Richard had also anticipated accompanying the march would start to appear but there were none.

"Fenian scum!" was at our backs now so the enemy was on all sides. We ploughed on regardless, attempting to avoid looking at those alien faces surrounding us now, doing our best to keep our expressions neutral, although I am not convinced that, in such circumstances, there is such a thing as neutrality. Would a smile have been interpreted, for example, as provocation? If there really were an onslaught, unprovoked (of course) would we behave as we had done at Greenham and lain limp? (Of course not.) At Greenham we had thought ourselves brave but now we knew in our hearts we were nothing but cowards, to a woman.

When I heard a plopping sound, accompanied by jeers and laughter and felt a wetness on my scalp, I knew finally we had been reprieved. Although one onlooker (in fact a woman, one hand holding a child - she could not have looked more harmless - or vulnerable, even) kicked out at Vanessa who winced but carried on walking. Then, only seconds later, we could see the little groupings of people unfurling banners and hear the sound of pipe music, faintly at first, then growing stronger, that we knew heralded the beginning of the march. Even more welcome - though none of us admitted it even afterwards - at least not to each other - were the clumps of uniformed police officers (all men, it seemed), then policemen mounted on horseback.

Tipsy with relief we approached the demonstrators we were forced now to see as comrades and asked where we should join the march. Vanessa reached up and gently pulled my head down towards her. I stood there, awkwardly, sure that she was going to kiss me in front of all these strangers (who might, for all I knew, be as hostile to lesbians as the crowd we had encountered were to our Troops Out stance). Instead, she began to brush off the raw egg in my hair I had quite forgotten.

"At least it's good protein - good for the roots." I looked up and saw that she was grinning.

"How's your leg?"

"Fine. Just a couple of bruises."

"We were pretty lucky," the other women were saying and now we were laughing out loud.

None of us uttered a peep about being escorted to the back but got meekly into line as we were told. The march set off in the sunshine and I watched with interest as a policeman ordered the man with the "Hang the IRA" placard to put it away. We marched to the tunes of the Celtic bands and the music that was not unlike the melodies from my childhood. There might be a war in Ireland but I was in love in Vanessa and at peace with the world.

As we arrived at the city centre hall I began to notice people with cuts and bruises. An ambulance arrived and a man was put on a stretcher, bleeding profusely.

"Hi, there."

I turned round and came face to face with Richard.

He waved at someone in the crowd. "A bit worse than we expected - all the trouble. Quite a few arrests made. Did you see any of it yourselves?"

"We were too far back."

"Oh, right. No, there were quite a few stones and bricks and bottles and whatnot thrown, that's all. Guy beside me was in quite a bad way, actually."

"But that's terrible." Vanessa stared accusingly at me now, as though I had been keeping a secret from her.

We feminists didn't stay long at the meeting. It was typical of the kind of meeting you always got after a demo: boring interminable speeches, old male farts spouting the usual meaningless rhetoric. Less trade unionist jargon and more revolutionary socialist palaver but worse than usual because you felt that the folk doing all the talking had steered well clear of the stones and bottles, although they were only too happy to praise the heroism of those injured in "our struggle".

We had thought taking part in the demo would be an enlightening experience but, instead, were more confused than ever. Was this more real than Greenham? None of us had been suffered violence at the base, beyond the odd scratch when the police dragged us off a little too roughly. The worst injury sustained was the time Vanessa had fallen off the fence during the Hallowe'en action when she had twisted her ankle. Was our politics moving into a new phase where we would engage in struggles hitherto unimaginable, stretch the boundaries of political activity as we knew it? Alternatively, was it just macho behaviour after all, going to these things when you always anticipated violence? None of us had any answers. We were in danger of sinking into a trough of despair.

Vanessa, as usual, pulled us out.

"We'll have to talk to this Richard again. We need an input from an outside source."

We all knew she meant outside Feminism although even Vanessa didn't dare say that. No-one spoke for a minute and then I bravely suggested an alternative meeting place (naturally no man could darken the door of the women's centre). The Star Club - the Communist party HQ. A lovely Georgian building overlooking the Clyde. It was even the right colour (pink). They hosted everything from miners' soup kitchens and meeting points for their city-wide collections on a Saturday to trade union meeting places and Lesbian Line discos. Why not Women and Ireland? Except that the CP weren't exactly right-on as far as Ireland was concerned, as Richard pointed out at the meeting. (To give him his due Richard said nothing about the CP's other policies although we all knew very well how the Socialist Revival and the CP were poles apart).

He had done a good job, I felt, with some pride (as if he was my creation, or something - just because I'd met him first and in my own backyard, so to speak). There we were, inside the CP HQ which now resembled, what with all its fancy cornices and ceiling roses, a wedding cake in white royal icing bordering a smoother style creamy white fondant. We sat spellbound while Richard showed us slides of the Anti-Strip Search marches in Belfast and Derry and won our hearts as well as our minds; socialism and feminism coming together in holy matrimony. We feminists could, after all, rub the hard edges off the far left while they could toughen us up against the onslaught of the ever-misogynist right. This was something far greater than our petty little concerns about crèches at conferences (none of us had any kids anyway), more immediate than getting rid of Cruise even. We even gave Richard a round of applause, agreeing to arrange another meeting. He suggested he bring one of the comrades next time (a woman actually) and they could talk about the history of the civil rights movement, internment, Diplock courts, supergrasses (although not all at once, of course). Socialist Revival was obviously a mine of information about such matters. He gave us a list of dates when he and his comrade were free. None of us thought it in the least odd that he did not speak of his comrade by name.

Richard had far too much to carry so Vanessa and I insisted on seeing him home and helping him with the projector and other stuff he'd brought. I told myself he didn't invite us in because it was late but, as Vanessa pointed out, it wasn't that late.

"He's just shy," I explained and she grinned wickedly at the thought of a man being embarrassed. Till then I think Vanessa had considered such emotional displays were women's prerogative.

The day next I duly arranged dates and times for three more meetings at the Star Club.

"I suppose I'd better `phone Richard," I told Vanessa.

"Why don't we go and see him - surprise him?" Vanessa suggested. "He doesn't live that far away."

Why not? Our friendship went back a long way. Plus I was mildly curious about where he stayed. A half-decent-looking place on Dixon Avenue. Bedsitland. He must be pretty lonely sometimes. Although there were always the comrades.

I half expected a landlady or somebody to turn up at the door but no, it was Himself.

"Hi. We just came to tell you about the next meeting at the Star Club."

"Oh, right." He stood there like a lemon, sandwiched between the half-open door and the doorframe.

"Aren't you going to let us in, then?" As always, it was Vanessa who broke the ice.

As he opened the door wider and let us into the hall, his face crimson, it occurred to me that we might have called at an inopportune moment, that he had his dirty washing or perhaps his bicycle parts strewn about, something like that. We followed him into a largish, clean room. Spotless, in fact. Not a thing out of place. Not a thing out of place because in fact there appeared to be nothing in the room. Apart from a single bed with a coverlet something between the shade of French mustard and vomit and, tucked away in the corner, a cupboard of some sort. For his clothes, I imagined. I looked around the room again, feeling like some nosey neighbour. I couldn't help it. Three books and a magazine neatly arranged on the window sill. One of the books was poetry.

I picked up the poetry book. "You read poetry?" I asked, astonished. "I like poetry too."

He only nodded in reply. I gave up, unable to sustain the conversation out of context. My gaze wandered round the room again. Where were the posters? Troops Out Now, Support the Miners, Jobs not Bombs. Where the clutter of banners and books, pamphlets and general paraphernalia that no self-respecting socialist or feminist would be without? We all lived in rented rooms or flats and suffered restrictions imposed by our landlords with regard to painting and decorating but we had our imaginations, hadn't we? Hadn't we?

For once, Vanessa was lost for words. The meeting (what else could I call it?) was brief and to the point. I told Richard about the meeting planned for a fortnight's time, omitting to mention that I had, in fact, arranged another two meetings over the next couple of months. A couple of months was a long time, I reasoned. God knows what might happen in between. These were strange times, after all. Vanessa did not remind me of my omission.

For a moment or two we walked in silence back to our flat.

"He doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve, that Richard," Vanessa said at last when we'd rounded the corner into Pollokshaws Road.

I stared at her. Her face broke into a grin, then we were beside ourselves. We both thought we'd laugh till the cows came home. Then we stopped, abruptly.

"He has no - imagination!" I sputtered angrily.

"Don't be too hard on him," Vanessa warned. "He likes you. In fact," her eyes twinkled mischievously, "I think he's in love with you."

I was appalled. "How can you possibly say that? We've never been more than friends \- not even that, comrades. Hardly even that." Now I was embarrassed. I had never told Vanessa much of my socialist activities up north.

"Dinna fash yersel, hen." Vanessa had a gift of the vernacular when she was especially moved. "It'll pass."

Afterwards I decided Vanessa was probably right. Every time I saw him Richard's face went a dark maroony-purple shade. Although there could be no doubt that Richard's feelings were not based on anything real, anything concrete, because there had never been a real relationship there. I didn't know the first thing about the man apart from his politics! But of imagination he must have had plenty. How else could he sit in that dreary bedsit dreaming about world peace, where all men and women are free and equal and there is no poverty or greed and no nation oppresses another? I wondered now if he dreamt of me too. Or perhaps we were both wrong and everything he had told me was just the regurgitated party line. I spotted him in the Mitchell library from time to time, absorbed in learned political journals but it was still politics, after all. He didn't see me as I watched his pale face pucker into a frown as if he had read something he didn't quite understand or perhaps disagreed with.

The next meeting of the Women and Ireland group at the Star Club was poorly attended. Richard's female comrade did not go down well at all. Afterwards women were muttering dogma and brainwashing, even crap. Again I sensed the whole ethos was floundering. There were no more arrangements to meet with Socialist Revival.

Then, months later, I met him in Stirling's library.

"What're you reading?" The blush on his face reminded me I had never asked him such an intimate question before.

I peered at the books in his hand. Eliot. Adrian Mitchell. Some Anthology of Verse.

"Of course, I realise Eliot was a fascist and all that but I don't suppose he was all the time, do you?"

I shook my head. "Of course not. I like Eliot too," I added. "Especially The Wasteland".

"Do you really? I mean, I like fiction too, of course - feminist fiction. Marge Piercy and Maya Angelou. Zoe Fairbairns. Alice Walker. Jeanette Winterson."

I wanted to tell him to shut up but I couldn't get a word in edgeways. He started on again, reeling off lists. I made an excuse to leave, cringing at the thought that he had read all that stuff just to impress me - if he'd read it. Yeuch.

Women and Ireland developed its own ethos, its own perspective, without the help of Richard or his comrades. We sent delegations to Armagh jail, then the new Maghaberry prison. We wrote letters of support to republican prisoners as well as protest letters to MPs, protesting about the strip-searching of male as well female prisoners. It did not last. We wore ourselves out. The bitter war that raged in the north of Ireland threatened to transplant itself, on a smaller scale, to our group. Only we were too small to withstand internal feuding and the group quietly withered away as sectarian murders across the water spiralled. Over the next few years the peace movement waned but at least Cruise was going. Vanessa fell in love with a male stockbroker (or perhaps it was just his money, I consoled myself). I graduated and had a career for a few years and fell in love again too. Thanks to AI my lover and I became involved in another world altogether and moved away back to the Highlands. Fresh air for the weans, we told ourselves. A clean, healthy environment. Time to put the politics aside and get on with a bit of living at last.

It was when I was on a shopping trip in Inverness one day, scouting round the charity shops for kids' clothes, proudly pushing the buggy with wee Dick in it, that I saw him outside the dole office, handing out leaflets. He looked a bit scruffy, I thought, remembering the Socialist Revival had long since expired. Richard must have been devastated at the time. Even the odd single issue campaign would surely leave him bereft when its purpose was spent?

I was about to turn and walk the other way but he had seen me.

Inevitably, he handed me a leaflet. I vaguely thought of Unemployment, Prisoners Rights, Social Security cuts. Definitely not Animals, even though that's what Angus had got into, him and his missus. Weans and all. Out every Saturday with the stall on the High Street, hail, rain or shine. I am a vegetarian myself but I generally avoided him because every time I saw him all I could think was dogma, brainwashing, even crap. It was the means, if not the message, I found distasteful. The gory pictures. When I could be bothered to look.

I skimmed through the leaflet Richard had handed me. All about pesticides and stuff. The harm they can cause to the unborn child. He didn't know I was expecting our second (my lover had the first one so we wanted to make it quits). There were no gory pictures but still the message was shocking.

"We're having a picket next week," he told me. "Pontoon's Chemicals. Want to come?" There was a ghost of a grin on his lips.

I took another look at the leaflet. It was well-drafted, None of the usual jargon that is always plastered all over these things. I looked at the name of the group. Green Revolution, they called themselves. I had never come across them before but there was something familiar about the prose style. Poetic, even. A touch of Adrian Mitchell, perhaps, mingled with a dash of Eliot?

I smiled up at my old friend. "Right," I told him. "You're on."

## Perpetual Torment

It was not as if it had come as a surprise, like a bombshell straight out of the sky. If you stopped to think about it, it was inevitable. Those were not even Shirley's own words but Penelope's ominous forecast. It all came back to her now. Naturally there were mutterings when word first leaked out about the transfer. Certainly after the privatisation, what, five years ago now. The most committed (or, depending upon your point of view, the lucky) had skittled off into academia. Like Penelope. The ones who made out they were bound for higher things, or maybe were just no good at marketing, full stop.

It's shite, right enough, her second-in-command Jonathan muttered while the rest of them struggled to express their feelings. Unfortunate, not what we would have chosen, the odd shake of the head, were all they could muster. It was not going to be Custer's last stand. More Dunkirk. Some would leave in dribs and drabs but for others there would be no lifeboats.

Inwardly Shirley agreed with Jonathan. Shite was the only way she could describe how it felt being turned from a librarian one minute into a Media Facilitating Officer (grade IV) with the Do Your Head In (Multimedia) company the next. In accordance with the Transfer of Undertakings (Employment) regulations, the salary was the same. Even the degree of responsibility was the same, when you looked at the matter purely quantitatively (Shirley had overall responsibility for fifty thousand clients compared with around sixty thousand or so nominal library users in her old job and the number of staff under her wing had not dwindled since the cuts immediately following privatisation). As regards the library users, of course, nominal was certainly the operative word, the number of active members (those who had borrowed books in the past year) forming only a fraction of the nominals. But the hell with the numbers: facilitating the doing-in of heads was not strictly qualitatively comparable, was it, to the improvement of minds? Clearly the company's role was entertainment and sometimes people – or at least some people – read books to be entertained, Shirley conceded. But the improvement of minds was central to the role of district librarian (albeit entertainment had a peripheral role). After all, Scoonerstoun was (at least once upon a time) a relatively literate, not to say affluent, town.

So how was she going to cope now books were, if not exactly banned, no longer an important aspect of her job? It is true that even before privatisation of the library service at least half the physical space once allocated to books had been given over to videos, DVDs, computer software and games machines. At the beginning it seemed churlish to complain when the numbers visiting the library, let alone borrowing books, had reduced by ninety percent in the previous decade. Every year just before the figures were released Shirley would experience a twinge of optimism, based not on previous experience or concrete reality but on the hope that surely to Christ things could not get any worse this year? Only in the circumstances such a hope became a crazy dream. Things did indeed get worse and Shirley always gave in to the next fad, telling herself next year would be better and eventually, some day, they would be able to buy all those books she had been wanting the library to stock for years but which, so the research kept telling her, no-one wanted to borrow.

The fact is, the union rep told the little group of transferees, libraries are done-for. You lot are lucky to have a job at all, as far as I'm concerned. Bloody decent company, agreeing to a transfer, if you ask me.

If libraries are done for, Jonathan enquired haughtily, why should they bother transferring us? Why would anyone want to take us on?

The rep shrugged. Beats me. Just count your lucky stars, that's all I can say.

So much for being a member of a trade union that represented local government workers. Although a good percentage of its members these days must be in the private sector the union still liked to pretend otherwise. As far as Jonathan was concerned the union would be quite happy if all the private sector members left tomorrow. Too much trouble. Bunch of bloody yes-people. Shirley used to think Jonathan was exaggerating but today she could see what he meant.

The thing is, though, Shirley said, aware she was clutching at straws, people need libraries. I mean, where would we be without books?

The rep stared at her uncomprehendingly. Personally, I can get all my information needs on the web.

It's not just information, Shirley began but something about the way Jonathan was looking at her silenced her. The union rep was a fool, it was clear. What was the bloody point?

Forget him, Jonathan advised afterwards. At least until we need him. Then we'll screw him for everything we can get.

Mmm. It was not merely that screwing at least this particular union rep was not Shirley's cup of tea ( she had nothing against his status which was as good as hers, these days anyway it was, she reasoned but really he was not attractive to her): quite simply, she thought she was above cronyism. Despite all the talk about its prevalence in Scottish local government for decades, if not centuries, Shirley had no experience of it. She had begun her career at the sharp end and remained there simply because she did not know how to court favour, had not learned it from the cradle. It was not her province; what she knew was books. Sometimes she thought it was all she knew. Sometimes, in her wildest (or perhaps lowest) moments she thought the union rep was right, that yes, you could get all your information needs from the web, and more (because the rep meant all your intellectual needs, didn't he?) To have a love affair with books these days, especially fiction, as Shirley did, was to be old-hat, past it, away with the fairies even.

Once upon a time (in her great grandmother's day) people had lamented the passing of an oral tradition. Shirley's great grandmother was Irish, from a dirt-poor family who couldn't afford books but had sat by the lamplight, or perhaps in the dark (Shirley used her imagination to embellish these tales) and told one another stories. Tales of the Banshee and the Giant Cuchulain, of Oul Mother Forty Cats and the fighting during the Civil War. There was no distinction made between fact and fiction, between truth and falsehood, between stories for children and ones for adults, between education and entertainment. Therein lay life and the pursuit of happiness whereas now, now was all consumerism. A kind of death or, worse, perpetual torment.

No-one cares about imagination any more, Shirley sighed. No-one cares if there are no more books.

Look on the bright side, Brigit advised. The staff were having an impromptu meeting before the new director arrived to give her pep talk. The Parliament has increased its block grant to universities and colleges so they have more to spend on books as well as other materials.

But books are not just for academics, Shirley pointed out. They're our heritage. And what about access? Not everyone has access to university libraries.

Anyone can apply for membership, Brigit insisted.

The nearest university is fifteen miles away, Shirley began angrily. How can you call that access?

I think we need to remember, Brigit said quietly, that the government is strongly in favour of any project, whether in the private or public sector, which seeks to promote social inclusion and which provides alternatives to drug abuse. Such a project can only be welcomed, despite any residue of cultural prejudices we may harbour.

Brigit's parents before her had been in local government service. Her speech, certainly once she was on her high horse, still bore the hallmarks of bureaucracy. Shirley always felt that, could you get beyond the jargon, Brigit might actually be an interesting person to talk to. There were times she had become very close to it. But not today.

The director had arrived so the meeting had to break up there, without anything being resolved. Far from instigating a debate about the value of books Shirley and Jonathan listened quietly, along with the others, to the director's ideas about how the Do Your Head In Multimedia company proposed to do more heads in. The director was young, approachable and went straight to the point. She insisted everyone call everyone else (including herself – her name was Anna) by their first names. The most important thing to remember about DYHI (pronounced die high) was that it was fun. Staff should therefore wear permanent smiles (at which point everyone smiled) otherwise why should the customers choose DYHI over any other Multimedia company? They could frown at home after all, tear their hair out all they liked but when they came to DYHI they must know they are going to have a bloody good time. The key phrase was maximising impact. The company was going to completely revamp the existing premises but it was not anticipated there need be any moves. A major part of the revamp would include new software. All staff would of course receive the necessary training. Indeed, staff would be invited to draft their own training programmes. Anna would liaise with Shirley to discuss implementation.

At this point Anna looked about her. Oh, of course, you have books as well. Taking up rather a lot of space too. Well, any ideas on those?

All heads apart from Anna's turned to Shirley (Anna was evidently unfamilar with the notion that librarians had anything to do with books). Shirley smiled. She had been thinking about nothing else ever since she heard about Anna's visit (she had of course also thought about books her entire life long and she was now forty one). She was determined, not to be merely candid, but to make maximum impact on her boss.

Of course books are inherently fun. I have had a lifelong love affair with books. I couldn't live without them.

Anna smiled broadly. Shirley was satisfied she had got the pitch right. Although it was not mere hyperbole Anna would assume it was nothing else, the company's foundations, after all, being built on its over-the-top approach. Only now she would have to be practical.

Book readings, the enactment of plays. We can invite our customers to take part. Dress the part too.

Jonathan grinned. Shirley had made some such vague reference the other day but he had assumed she was joking. Still, if it was that or nothing.

Anna nodded, then flicked through the papers in front of her.

Of course, the lending of books is currently a loss-making area. But certainly charging substantial fees for what you suggest could turn that around.

There are substantial subsidies for book lending, Brigit broke in quickly.

We never like to rely on subsidies, Anna said sharply. Here today, gone tomorrow, that's DYHI's view. All areas of the business should be profitable. She turned to Shirley. I like the sound of what you're suggesting, though. Certainly sponsorship would be required. The publishing companies, I daresay. Look, I can give you a year to turn it around. That should give you ample scope for your plans.

The bloom of Shirley's enthusiasm wilted instantly but Anna was too busy gabbing on about her other ideas to notice. How could one begin to tell someone like Anna publishers had no interest in promoting their books in libraries when they made such a pittance from them? How could one begin to tell Anna anything about books full stop? Was it too late to try and get out of this hellhole and into publishing?

Tell me, she said to Brigit afterwards. What's the difference between sponsorship and subsidy?

Brigit shrugged but Jonathan, who was always hanging around eavesdropping these days, thought he had the answer.

It's a question of keeping face. Subsidy has the stink of poverty, or so companies like DYHI think, whereas sponsorship equals popularity, success.

You're serious, then, about the plays stuff? Jonathan asked her afterwards in the pub. Their meetings – if you could call them that – were becoming a regular occurrence. There was nothing sexual in it, although neither had a current partner and there was desperation there, no doubt, not least because of their respective precarious careers but their friendship had never entered the realms of sexuality, each having mortgages and children and all the paraphernalia of single parent domesticity to worry about. Sex could not, after all, pay the bills.

She shrugged. Not plays exactly. I mean, we don't exactly have many of those. Plus can you imagine drawing crowds for Waiting for Godot or Death of a Salesman when ninety percent of our clients who ever borrow a book choose romance or crime? Maybe it's a lost cause, after all. We should all be looking for other jobs.

Abandon your crusade?

It's not a crusade. Well, not exactly. Besides, even if it was, how on earth can we possibly obtain sponsorship for activities relating to books? The broadsheets have been taking turns to sponsor book festivals for years but why should they want to spend money on a cause like ours, with all the profits going to the fat cats in DYHI?

You're not entirely averse to the end justifying the means, are you?

What do you mean?

He explained, in some depth and after a few minutes the two were enmeshed in animated discussion. There was a gleam in Jonathan's eye that Shirley had not detected since the days they worked for the council and a flush on Shirley's cheeks that Jonathan had not seen in eight years, not since the days following the publication of her article in a national newspaper: Social Inclusion and the Library of the Future.

My brother's in advertising, Jonathan told her. He should be able to come up with a few big names and Bob's your uncle. Although I don't expect it to be a walkover. Even arranging meetings could take months.

That's no problem. I'm sure we can come up with a presentation. Only what about the rest of the staff? Do you think they'll go along with it?

I don't see they've got much choice. Not if they value working with books.

Or their jobs.

Yeah, right.

It took some months to arrange the first presentation. Anna, true to her word, had arranged for all staff to have the requisite training. So where before Shirley's knowledge of computers was largely limited to word processing and the internet now she was engaging daily with such advanced software her presentation was three dimensional and animated. She even introduced characters to illustrate how books could become live in the DYHI environment.

The majority of the panel were enthusiastic enough although one old codger remarked that the proof of the pudding was in the eating. Too true, Shirley thought. Besides which, she was now realising, it was not just the company she had to convince but the local populace, the clients. It was they, not the company, who in the end would decide whether the idea was workable.

That evening in the pub she confessed her anxieties to Jonathan. They met weekly now outside work as well as having regular meetings at DYHI. Jonathan had wisely suggested a new meeting room as part of the revamp. It meant squeezing the library area still further but they had agreed to it without any argument, using the ever-increasing excuse that the end justifies the means.

I don't see what you're worried about, Jonathan said. We've got massive sponsorship from The Mad Cow Burger Company and the Don't Do Drugs Cola lot. We can afford to pay professional actors. A couple of burger and cola machines are hardly going to make that much difference to people's reading habits.

Or people taking their clothes off, Shirley tittered.

Jonathan began tittering too. Shirley tittered so much she drew the attention of a group of men dressed in cowboy hats and knee-high cowboy boots.

See, Jonathan said, recovering himself. They don't think they're strange at all. It's all a question of having the confidence to convince people your idea is workable. That's the secret of success. Changing people's realities. That's what my brother says anyway.

Why do you think people want to see people taking their clothes off, though?

It's a substitute for sex, of course. In a way, it is sex.

Mmm. I'm still worried we're going to give them a substitute for reading. When there's no such thing.

Oh no, there's no question of that. I mean, it's aimed at a different bunch of people entirely. The stripping/porno show – call it what you will (they had not, of course, called it anything of the sort – they were not that mad) is just to make money. Although obviously we need to link it with the books we stock in order to justify the continued existence of the library.

Surely the company aren't that stupid, though? Surely they'll see through our little scheme sooner or later?

As long as it's later, that's all.

Mmm. In the meantime, though, are you thinking about looking for another job?

Oh, yeah, well, obviously. Only they always ask for a reference from your current employer.

Of course it might be slightly more difficult to get a job in academia – though not a employer's reference – once this thing gets off the ground.

Mmm. You mean, scandal?

Well, yes, I suppose the papers will make a fuss.

Which is partly what we're looking for.

Of course we can justify it on the grounds it is art.

Because it is art or because it would suit us to be art?

She wasn't sure if he was joking. At the beginning – at the very beginning – of course she had assumed it would be art. Book readings were, of course, art (assuming they did not include the reading of drivel). Pornography was not art but not all of what they were proposing was pornographic – only a small proportion, really. Only enough to get them the sponsorship they needed.

As they went their separate ways it occurred to Shirley it was in her interest to delay the show for as long as possible. She could contact the actors, certainly, quite soon, but it was not difficult to delay a theatrical production, surely? One could think up any old excuse, even sabotage props, if necessary.

Although of course it was art. Had there not been a court case some five decades ago? Had not top literary figures (pity she couldn't remember who they were) come out in its support?

Except an adaptation - whether on stage or film - changed not merely form and structure, but possibly also the very essence? Done badly enough, could it not turn art into pornography? Perhaps Lawrence would curse them from his grave. But it was all right for him: he did not have to live in an age where the written word was under threat of annihilation – or at least there was a threat to written works of the literary imagination, or at least there was a threat that such works would no longer be widely distributed because town libraries were fast disappearing. The local authority had only a retained a skeleton staff, following privatisation, when they operated a website with All the Information Families Need to Know (my arse). Aye, it was all right for the Lawrences of this world for whom the brave Shirley and Jonathan were, after all, putting their necks on the line. She could go and get another job anytime (couldn't she?) but there was a need to safeguard the future generation, to ensure they were not permanently deprived of literature. For once books are gone out of the public domain, once the literary imagination is stunted, what then? A cultural desert, that's what. A stripping down of the last defences of humanity against the evil forces of the market. A fearful scenario indeed. Unthinkable. Against such a state of affairs what is a little stripping-off and who but the most loony of religious sects (say, the Taliban) could object to the removal of items of clothing which, in an age of near-universal central heating, served little purpose other than inhibiting desire? It would also be, Shirley saw now with great clarity, a symbolic act. The removing of clothing would symbolise not just the removal of inhibitions but the baring of the soul, the laying naked of the inner psyche, the exposure of raw emotion. Shirley went to bed that night dreaming of Karma.

In the clear light of the next morning she came face to face with the stark reality of the situation. She had not touched dope in twenty odd years. It must have zapped her brain cells. Who was she kidding about making a profit? Not herself, not Jonathan or the rest of the staff, anyhow. There was no rush to do anything, apart from getting out of the hellhole, was there?

Or so she thought until the morning of the letter. From the Mad Cow Burger company. Withdrawing sponsorship.

They're our main sponsor, Brigit confirmed. The Cola people were putting up a pittance compared with them.

But it's breach of contract, Shirley protested, though feebly because she hadn't actually read the fine print.

They have allowed themselves the freedom to withdraw at any time, Brigit's friend – a law student - comfirmed later. There's nothing you can do.

Anna will have my guts for garters, setting up all these contracts without even a lawyer's advice. I should have contacted the company's legal department, she sighed at the next (emergency) staff meeting.

It wouldn't have made any difference, Brigit was firm. They've made up their minds anyway. They want to do away with the lending side.

Oh, well, that's us out on our arses sooner rather than later, Shirley sighed. Once upon a time it would not have been respectable to use the word arse but with the Do Your Head In Multi Media company such expressions were seen as au fait. In fact, arses were positively respectable (still Shirley couldn't quite bring herself to say arsehole, still less the americanised asshole). Anybody found anywhere else to go?

A couple had. Crap jobs in customer services. Once upon a time local authority workers included a fair proportion of union and party hacks but with privatisation had come disunity, even disarray.

Seen any university jobs? Shirley was the first to raise the subject that had been on the more academic-oriented minds anyway.

Brigit shook her head. Not in the libraries anyway. They're overstaffed – or so they say. And there's nothing else, really. I mean, I suppose the lot of us should have got out when the going was good.

Are you bitter?

Oh, I'll find something eventually. It's you and Jonathan I'm worried about. I mean, I can get into something else. I'm on the School Board and before that it was playgroup management committee meetings, this, that and the other. Actually, there's a post of Social Skills Facilitator going in a school just down the road from me. I quite fancy the change, as a matter of fact.

Shirley was silent. Brigit was not going to say the obvious, that she and Jonathan were simply too old. The Age Discrimination Act, brought in some years before, was rarely enforced and a laughing stock among the in-crowd, legislators and law enforcers among them. Shirley knew what the in-crowd were thinking because she read the papers from back to front but, like Jonathan, she guessed, was too removed from the thinking of your average citizen to fit into the plethora of new jobs created for ex-local authority staff since the privatisation of services such as social housing, much of transport and the leisure sector, not to say libraries. I could no more be a Social Skills Facilitator in a school than I could do striptease to keep my job, she said to herself.

Jesus, whatever was she thinking of? Who said anything about striptease? Had she actually spoken aloud? Everyone else had disappeared apart from Jonathan but the grin on his face told her that, if she hadn't spoken aloud, he must be able to read her mind.

It's a pity about the Mad Cow Burger Company backing out, Jonathan mumbled. I mean, to tell you the truth, I was looking forward to Lady Chatterley's Lover. They practically agreed to give me a part, you know. A small one but still a part. When I was a kid I wanted to be an actor, you know. I was in the school dramatic society – until the school decided they couldn't afford a drama teacher. I mean, growing up where I did there was just no chance of going to drama school. People like my parents never heard of grants or anything and the teachers just discouraged us. You were supposed to get a straight job, if you were any good. Supposed to teach. That was the height of my parents' ambition. It didn't occur to me to go against them.

But you didn't like teaching.

Probably I was unlucky. Got into it at the worst time. Thatcher, the cuts, all that. Creativity out the window. Back to Basics, the three Rs. You know.

Shirley nodded.

Obviously I'm not saying this is my big chance – Jesus Christ, if anything it's my chance to fuck up my career for good.

Some career.

They began tittering again.

We could do it on a shoestring. There's still a few grand from the Cola Company. I mean, there must be plenty of people running around festivals who would love to perform in a decent theatre. In fact I was talking to these guys the other week. They mostly do stand up but they're not averse to satirical stuff. I mean, they're clever guys.

Of course, part of the DYHI revamp included a theatre. Quite an extravagant one at that. When Shirley enquired as to its purpose Anna laughed at her ignorance. Advertising, of course, what else? Live advertising. Live shows. Clearly she anticipated Shirley & Co.'s little effort was going to be yet one more instrument to enhance the sound of DYHI's fantastic orchestra.

What about a script writer?

Well, actually I've been having a go myself, you know.

Have you now?

Yeah, but I could do with some assistance.

They talked into the night after that. How satirise Lady Chatterley's Lover? Rather, how use Lawrence's ideas, his talent, to satirise The Do Your Head In Multimedia company? How poke fun at consumerism, at the paucity of the intellectual, the ethical bankruptcy of modern society, or at least how do it without going totally over the top?

In the end the team of actors, as well as Jonathan and Shirley, pulled a script together. One came up with the title: The End of the Affair. Totally apt, considering it was to mark the end of Shirley's and Jonathan's respective careers.

The Scottish Executive is always harping on about how the country's desperate for new teachers, Jonathan mused in the weeks before the big performance. I wonder if they're looking for drama teachers?

He was distracted, Shirley thought, when he should be on a high. Surely to Christ he didn't think he could train as a drama teacher at his age? He didn't really have a hope in hell either of making a living out of acting. Many's the professional actor had a job doing that, relying on odd jobs in factories and farms outside the festival season. Whereas she and Jonathan had had careers since they left uni. Could they really live without the security?

To add to her anxiety, not to say uncertainty, Anna had approached her the other day about the possibility of a new role. Educational software development. The woman had seemed genuine enough, realising that staff needs have to be met as well as clients'.

She had a peripheral-enough role in the bloody play, God knows. She could carry on with this half-hearted, hopeless attempt to take on the big corporations or she could bite the bullet and compromise. In the end she could not change the world (anymore than Jonathan & Co. could – as she now thought of the theatre company that had taken off on the backs of capitalist enterprises like the Don't do Drugs Cola Company and DYHI). It was not a case (or not simply a case) of If You Can't Beat `Em Join `Em; rather, it was a case of bringing out the best (or the least worst) in an otherwise culture-forsaken, soulless empire.

She bit the bullet. Anna seemed pleased, if not ecstatic and asked her to draw up a business plan. Not her favourite activity but she would enlist Brigit who excelled in such things. Best of all, Anna let her off the hook with the performance.

You won't have time, she smiled sweetly. You'll have enough on your plate with this lot.

Jonathan's really taken it over, Shirley admitted. She was not landing him in the shit (he had landed himself in it, after all): she was simply ensuring she was not going carry the can for sedition. Besides, as far as Shirley could see, Jonathan seemed to be so wrapped up in this performance thing he couldn't give a toss about his job. Well, it was all right for some. For all she knew he had a private income or maybe a rich auntie about to kick the bucket.

Only when she went to look for Brigit she found Brigit had taken two weeks of the holidays she was due as part of her month's notice. She would only have Brigit's assistance for a couple of weeks' at most. There was no-one else to ask now Jonathan was totally involved with his play. Oh, well. Anna, surprisingly enough, hadn't given her a deadline. She would muddle along for the next couple of weeks, have a good mooch throught the internet, find what contacts she could in the world of education and software (and the world of educational software, such as it existed) and Brigit would have further details of potential contacts, no doubt, and how to go about approaching them. After all, asking someone to develop what did not yet exist was rather different from getting hold of books.

And of course she would have to speak to Jonathan. Emphasise she was not letting him down but there was the mortgage to pay and the kids to feed (and if he could not pay and feed his own it was not her fault).

No need to apologise, we'll manage without you, Jonathan was positively blasé, even rude. A little hurtful, really, considering how close they had become in recent months. Just as well she had not slept with the bugger. Only she was a strong person. Despite the knocks life had thrown at her in recent years, there was vigour in her yet. She might not be able to change the inner psyche of Capitalism but she could bring out what benevolence remained. Anna at least was not all bad. No doubt once she got to know the rest of the bunch she would find good in them, too. If she could not yet see a bright future, at least she could still see a future of sorts. Like everything else, she would have to work at it. She would have to work on the directors too. She was not a manipulative person but she was learning pragmatism because she had to survive.

The performance was scheduled to run days before Brigit's return. It was difficult not to notice how much interest Anna was taking in it. By the looks of things she had managed to persuade DYHI to come up with a hell of a lot of cash. No wonder Jonathan was grinning from ear to ear every time she bumped into him. He seemed genuinely happy.

What will you do? she asked him on one of the rare occasions he wasn't rushing off to rehearsal, with no time for more than a nod.

He spread his hands before her like some Maharajah. Who cares about tomorrow? There is only the present.

She smiled. It was a pity to lose his friendship but it seemed her former friend had also lost his marbles. Too much of the old waccy baccy, no doubt. He was certainly giving DYHI a run for their money, though – she had to give him credit for that. When Jonathan and Co. were gone and done with (assuming DYHI didn't sue the lot of them for libel in which case their aura would linger) doubtless Shirley would think of the old days fondly: she and Jonathan sitting plotting together.

Of course she was not going to go to the performance. Her daughter was in her school pantomime the following evening and the dress rehearsal coincided with it. Just to make absolutely certain she was not going to be manipulated into going to Jonathan's little effort, she told Anna it was the first night of the panto, conveniently forgetting to mention anything about a dress rehearsal. If need be she would have made something else up. If need be she would lie and say she had misunderstood but no way, no way was she going to be manipulated.

I didn't expect you to want to come anyway, Anna told her when they met in the corridor. Actually, the first night is invitation only, formal dress and all that.

Oh.

Yes. The dress rehearsal went very well, by the way.

Did it?

They must have prepared two plays, Shirley decided afterwards. There could be no other explanation. Even DYHI executives were not so culturally dense as to confuse satire with – with, well, whatever it was they had confused it with. The mind boggles.

Jonathan was evasive the next day when she stopped him in the corridor to ask how the first night had gone.

Well, the most important night is when the public see it for the first time.

She smiled but wished he wouldn't talk in riddles. Why was he being so bloody coy? OK, so he couldn't exactly spill the beans in the middle of the corridor when anyone could be walking past (and the presence of members of the public was no longer such a rare occurrence now DYHI were achieving respectable numbers of borrowers – almost like the old days if it hadn't been for the fact that it was DVDs and not books which people came to borrow). Still, he might have given her credit for the fact that it was her bloody idea in the first place, for Christ's sake.

She was unable to get a ticket for the first public performance. She had assumed there would be plenty available but she had not reckoned on DYHI's marketing capabilities. She began to feel annoyed: how come they could spend a bloody fortune on this silly bloody performance (and they didn't have a clue how bloody silly, did they – boy, were they in for a shock!) and she, the Software Education Manager, had to struggle woefully on without so much as an extra brass farthing (well, practically) to do her job? Well, come this evening DYHI would get their come-uppance. Come this evening all would be revealed.

But she was going to do the decent thing (didn't she always?)

She telephoned Jonathan since he never answered her e-mails and she didn't want to speak to him in front of his actor pals.

I thought we might go for a drink. Old times sake.

Awfully busy, Shirl. You know how it is.

No, actually I don't. I mean, Jonathan, I'm just talking about one drink at lunch-time, right? For Christ's sake, why are you so bloody serious about this whole thing? I mean, it's a laugh, right?

Well, I've always known that's what you thought about it.

She hung up. Fuck him and his stupid performance. She had no money to waste on crap. She had a job to do. Perhaps it was just as well there were no tickets; she did not want to be tainted now, did she?

Except what exactly was it she did not want to be tainted with? For the past week she had skimmed the pages of the Scotsman, the Herald and the Record but - nothing. Was it not important enough to merit a review?

It was just a few weeks later when Anna came running past waving a newspaper – not at her (Anna scarcely looked at her these days) but at Jonathan who waved his shirt tail at her in return. Right enough, Shirley had noticed, he'd started wearing designer gear recently. Like he'd come into a bit of money or at least had the promise of money, as an aunt of hers used to say. People becoming more optimistic when they anticipated being better off.

She was being paranoid. Just because she was feeling marginalised herself, having got nowhere, but nowhere, with the educational software people. Empire builders, the lot of them. The software people were little better and the educational lot – well, they were at best woolly and at worst offhand, even superior. She had started off saying she was from DYHI and repeated the abbreviation when asked to. Only, after the education guy kept saying, Who? What's that? she gave in and spluttered it all out. She swore there was tittering in the background. No bloody wonder, she thought, as she put the `phone down; how long was it since she had been superior and tittering herself?

If Jonathan had the promise of money did she think she had the promise of redundancy? She was taking less care of her appearance. She needed a good hair-cut, for example, but could not be bothered. Her daughter had been a demanding little besom all weekend, looking for this, that and the other for Christmas.

The bombshell (although of course when she came to think about it it was inevitable) came on the Monday. She was being offered redundancy, although, as Anna very quickly made it clear, if she did not take the offer she would be out on her neck before she could say Jack Robinson. And none of your crap about unfair dismissal. Hadn't she refused to co-operate in the new project?

New project? Lady Chatterley? she laughed.

It's a very generous offer, thanks to the recommendation from our new advertising executive.

Advertising executive?

Jonathan.

Jonathan. Who else? The rest of the former library staff were outmoded, old hat. She had thought Jonathan was one of them but she was wrong. Now she saw the light in his eyes when he spoke of striptease. She had thought it a slip of the tongue but was it?

Give me a few days to think about it, she murmured.

Till tomorrow. That's as long as you've got.

Of course it was inevitable. There was no choice. Her daughter would be too humiliated by an unfair dismissal case. The tabloids would have a field day. Let bygones be bygones. She picked up The Scotsman absentmindedly, flicking. The paper fell open at the business pages. DYHI had made the sub headlines.

DYHI AND EROS TO MERGE

The fastgrowing multimedia company DYHI looks set to increase its share of the book market. Sales and Marketing director Anna Rimington has announced a merger deal with Eros, the major erotic publishing company. Rimington announced that her staff's recent erotic live production had convinced her the future of the multimedia industry had to include books as well as DVDs and general computer software. The company had been negotiating the deal for some months but it was thanks to newly-appointed advertising executive Jonathan Young that the company was persuaded to make an offer Eros couldn't refuse. Ms Rimington, when pressed about the future of DYHI's Software Educational Programme, would not be drawn. She preferred to concentrate on certainties, she emphasised. Together DYHI and Eros planned to launch a new imprint in the autumn. The name? Perpetual Torment. When asked about inspiration for the idea Ms Rimington replied that she and Mr Young had been inspired by the great erotic classics, specifically D.H. Lawrence.
