“That’s more like it,” I said. “You had me going there for a while. I really did think that you were intelligent.”
“April fool,” said Harry.
“It’s not April,” I said.
“Had you again,” said Harry. “Could you just open the door on your side?”
“Why?”
“Just open it, please.”
I opened it and Harry pushed me out. “See you tomorrow,” he called, as he sped away.
I picked myself up from the road and dusted down my Fair Isle, then I plodded, as the doomed must plod, across the car park and into the telephone exchange.
A receptionist sat at a desk in the reception area. Her desk had a little sign with the word RECEPTION printed on it. The sign matched the badge that she wore upon her breast. And also the one that she wore upon her jaunty-looking cap.
“Are you the receptionist?” I enquired, putting on the face known as brave and smiling out of it bravely.
The receptionist viewed me down the length of her nose. “Are you the new bulb boy?” she asked, in the tone known as contemptuous.
“Telecommunications engineer,” I corrected her.
The receptionist, visibly unimpressed, leaned forward and produced from beneath her desk a light bulb.
“And what will I need that for?” I asked.
“In case your present light bulb burns out. It’s your initial replacement. All subsequent replacement bulbs must be ordered by you with a green requisition docket. I am not authorized to issue you with a green docket. You must request that from Stores Requisition Documentation on the fourth floor.”
I took the bulb from her hand and examined it with more care than it truly deserved. “Is my present bulb likely to burn out?” I enquired.
The receptionist laughed. Loudly and longly.
“Why are you laughing?” I asked. “And why so loud and long?”
“Because you are so thick,” she replied.
“I beg your pardon?” I said.
“What does this badge say?” asked the receptionist, pointing to her breast badge. “Does it say ‘electrical supervisor’? Well, does it?”
“No,” I said. “It says ‘receptionist’. Which must be an anagram for stupid tart.”
The receptionist stared me pointy daggers. “It says ‘receptionist’. Which means that I deal with matters appertaining to reception. If you wish to know the likelihood of your bulb burning out, you must address your enquiry to an electrical supervisor.”
“I see,” I said. “And where might I find him? Up on the fourth floor?”
“Fourth floor?” The receptionist laughed again. “You really are thick, aren’t you? Fourth floor is Stores Requisition Documentation, Stationery Outgoing and Sales Division. You’ll want first floor annexe, Electrical Supervisor Services.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I think I’ll just mooch up there now, then,” I said. “Get a crate of bulbs in, in case I have a really high burn-out day.”
“Bulbs have to be requisitioned singly.” The receptionist rolled her eyes heavenward. “God, you are so thick.”
“Then why are you calling me God?”
“You’ll have to sign this,” said the receptionist, producing a clipboard with a bright white document clipped to it. And a wee biro dangling down on a string.
“And what is this?” I asked.
“The Official Secrets Act.”
“Whoa!” I said. “I’ve never seen one of those before. Let’s have a look at it.”
“You can’t look at it,” said the receptionist. “You just have to sign it. At the bottom, where it says ‘signature’.”
“I think I’d like to read it first.”
“Are you an anarchist?” asked the receptionist.
“Why? Is there a job going in the Anarchy department?”
“Just sign the form,” said the receptionist.
“And what will happen if I don’t?”
The receptionist laughed once more.
“No, don’t tell me,” I said. “You can’t answer that question. If I want an answer to that question, I’ll have put it in writing, possibly on a pink docket, to your legal division on Floor 32.”
“Correct,” said the receptionist. “So please sign the form.”
I really should have read that form. I should have, I really should have. Because in a future that was not too far distant, only a few short hours distant, in fact, the fact that I had signed the Official Secrets Act was going to cost me very dearly indeed. But you know what it’s like. When a form is put in front of you, especially one with lots of small print, you just can’t resist signing it, can you? It’s a forbidden-fruit kind of thing, isn’t it? The temptation to get yourself into all sorts of really big trouble just by flourishing a single signature. I didn’t really want to read it anyway. It looked very boring. Although it would have wasted a bit of time, which wouldn’t have been all that bad. But I did have a bulb to switch off. Especially if I was going to earn enough money to save some up and buy a motorbike. Which I had now definitely decided to do.
“There you go,” I said, signing the document with the wee biro on the string and handing the clipboard back. “In for a penny, eh?”
The receptionist peered at my signature. “Cheese,” she said. “Gary Cheese. That’s a pretty stupid name, isn’t it?”
“You’ve really blown any chance you had of having sex with me,” I told her.
Mr Holland came out of his office to welcome me. He escorted me to my little booth the next door along, reacquainted me with my duties, in case I had forgotten some of them, patted me upon my shoulder as I sat down upon my chair, wished me well and departed, shutting the door behind him.
I looked at my wristwatch. It was now seven-thirty of the early-day clock. I really should have been home in my cosy bed. But here I was. Here in this – I sniffed – smelly little room. It smelled of wee-wee, not ozone. Waiting for a light bulb to go on. Oh well, it was a living.
I leaned back, put my feet up on the table, took out my book and settled down to chapter one.
At eight forty-five my light bulb went on. So I switched it off again.
It came on once more at eleven-fifteen. Again at twelve-twenty, and at one o’clock I went for lunch.
At one-o-five I was back at my table.
“Have you gone insane?” cried Mr Holland, who had collared me in the corridor. “Leaving the bulb booth unattended!” Veins stood out on his neck. His face had an unhealthy glow.
“I was going off for my lunch,” I told him. “One o’clock is lunchtime. Everyone knows that.”
“You brought sandwiches, surely?”
“Do you mean to say that I don’t get a proper lunch hour?”
“Aaagh!” went Mr Holland. “The bulb’s gone on. Switch it off! Switch it off!”
I reached out a languid hand and slowly switched it off.
“Phew,” said Mr Holland. “That was a close thing. Now, do not leave this booth again until it’s time for you to clock off.”
“I never clocked on,” I said. “No one told me about clocking on.”
Mr Holland shook his head sadly. “Then, that’s cost you half a day’s pay, hasn’t it? As this is your first day, I will break protocol and clock you on now myself. Although it’s more than my job’s worth to do it.”
“I’ll be for ever in your debt,” I said bitterly. “But actually I need the toilet, so I’ll have to pop out anyway.”
“Didn’t you bring a bag?” asked Mr Holland.
“A bag? What are you talking about?”
“Your predecessor, Mr Hurst, was so dedicated to his profession that he had a colostomy bag fitted. Paid for the operation out of his own money. Or her money at the end. It was confusing. But you should think about doing the same. It can be agony holding it in until home time.”
“I have no intention of ‘holding it in’ until home time,” I said. “I need a pee and I need it now.”
“But you can’t leave the bulb booth unattended.”
“Then you sit in until I come back.”
“I can’t do that. It’s not my job.”