Mr Shooter worked in an untidy office entirely walled with a special kind of glass. Outside, a press of some sort was noisily making accessories. Every thirty seconds it stamped something out; so loudly that conversation above the concussions was difficult, and hardly easier between them. Grinding and rolling mills made up a background evocative of the nation’s industrial effort. Mr Shooter possibly found the general atmosphere of toil, stimulating; but as he was entirely bald, and rather yellow, it was not easy to say. The plywood door of his office bore the legend ‘Personnel Manager. Do NOT Disturb’ in ugly modern lettering. Above his electric heater was a large framed reproduction of de Laszlo’s portrait of Lord Roller in the robes of a Baron.
Griselda was shown in by a sniffing child, fresh from some Essex hamlet.
‘Maudie,’ screamed Mr Shooter, as the infant was about to depart, ‘I want some real tea, not this stinking slops. Get busy, will you, and don’t forget next time.’
Maudie shuffled away.
‘Take the tray with you.’
Maudie returned for the tray. As she bore it towards the door, she winked at Griselda. It was impossible for Griselda to wink back, even if she felt so inclined. The office door rasped along the floor every time it was opened or shut.
‘Well?’
Griselda handed Mr Shooter the letter. Mr Shooter really did not seem an easy man to talk to.
‘May I sit down?’
‘If you think it worth while. Bring that chair over from the window. You can put the box of samples on the floor under the dictaphone.’
‘Thank you.’ The box of samples was difficult to lift and tended to burst open.
‘Sorry. Can’t read this. What’s it say?’ Mr Shooter tossed the letter back in the direction of Griselda, but it fell off his desk on to the floor. ‘Sorry. You read it.’
‘I can’t read it.’ Griselda had succeeded in towing up the rickety little chair. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s from the great white chief isn’t it?’
‘From Lord Roller, yes. Is this his factory? I didn’t know.’
‘One of his factories. He’s got twelve in Canada alone. This one’s only a sideline.’
‘What do you make?’ enquired Griselda politely. ‘I’m afraid I’m very ignorant.’
‘Nothing but accessories,’ replied Mr Shooter. The fact seemed to pain him; but it was as if the pain were something he had learned to bear. ‘Let’s stick to you. What’s it all about?’
‘I understand from Lord Roller that you might be able to offer me a job. If you think I’m worth it, that is.’ Griselda was far from sure that, even desperate as she was, she wanted to devote herself to making merely accessories.
‘You got that from the chief personally?’ Mr Shooter stared hard at Griselda. His eyes were like guns mounted behind slits in the yellow pillbox of his face.
‘Certainly,’ said Griselda with hauteur.
‘Well, there’s one thing.’
‘What is it?’
‘Welfare.’ Mr Shooter’s eyes were keeping Griselda covered more ruthlessly than ever.
‘I might be able to help with that.’ Griselda saw herself dressed as a hospital sister and wondered whether she could call upon the required amount of saintliness. At once she doubted whether she could.
‘Our last four welfare officers have had to leave us rather suddenly. Oh, personal reasons in each case. Quite sufficient. But now the job’s going once more.’ He stared again at Lord Roller’s letter, which Griselda had replaced upon his desk.
‘Could you tell me a little more about it?’
‘Knowledge of people, that’s the main thing. Knowledge of the common people. The welfare officer must be guide, philosopher, and friend to every worker in the place. She must be able to get inside their minds. If she can do that, special qualifications are less important. There’s a bit of simple nursing, of course, and first aid, naturally. Have you a first aid certificate?’
‘Actually, yes.’
‘You have?’ Mr Shooter seemed surprised and impressed. He took a writing pad from the drawer of his desk and made a note.
‘Then there’s librarianship. Do you read?’
‘It’s my favourite thing.’
‘We don’t want a bookworm, you know,’ replied Mr Shooter, glowering. ‘Only the lighter stuff. Religious guidance is another side of the work; for those who want it. Mostly the young girls. You do that in co-operation with Mr Cheddar, the priest-in-charge. What else is there? Oh yes, help with games of all sorts, and advice upon the food in the canteen. Mrs Rufioli superintends the actual cooking, gives the kitchen girls hell and all that; but the welfare officer has to see to it that the canteen expenditure doesn’t exceed the firm’s financial provision. I suppose you can keep simple accounts?’
The figure of Mrs Hatch and her terrible ledger recurred in Griselda’s imagination. ‘I think I can,’ she said faintly.
‘The main thing is that the welfare officer must be on her toes morning, noon, and night. If she keeps on her toes all the time – and I mean all the time – the job’s not difficult to hold down.’
Griselda looked at her toes. Whatever Louise might imply, she thought her shoes were rather attractive. She wondered at what point the applicant introduced the matter of remuneration. Mr Shooter, his oration finished, had produced a rectangle of madeira cake on a plate from another drawer in his desk, and now sat crumbling it into debris, and stuffing untidy briquettes of the debris into his small round mouth. It seemed to Griselda an inefficient way of eating madeira cake. Meanwhile, Mr Shooter said nothing further.
‘How much,’ enquired Griselda tentatively––
But Mr Shooter cut her short. ‘The usual Rawnsley Committee rates,’ he said with his mouth full. There was little difference in hue, Griselda observed, between the cake and Mr Shooter’s complexion.
‘And hours?’
‘I think we’re adopting the Giddens Council recommendations, but the whole subject’s still in the melting-pot. You’ve nothing to worry about, though. This is a modern factory, based on efficient time and motion study.’ The banging press outside underlined his words. ‘Besides which, we go all out for welfare.’
The door rasped and Maudie reappeared with her pale green plastic tray. The teapot was smeary; the cup, saucer, and milk jug discrepant. The sugar basin, however, was of the sanitary variety. Maudie had evidently resolved to seek re-entry to Mr Shooter’s favour by augmenting her allure: she had shaded her eyelids, cast off her cardigan, and assumed a mode of speech modelled upon that of Miss Myrna Loy.
‘Your tea, Mr Shooter,’ said Maudie, still sniffing. ‘Nice and strong.’
Mr Shooter looked up at her. ‘Thanks, Maudie,’ he said, in almost cowboy tones. ‘Sorry I was short with you.’
‘That’s quite OK, Mr Shooter. We all know how hard you work.’ It was difficult to believe that Maudie would long continue an accessory. In two years time, when she would be fifteen or so, she would be conquering new and wider fields. Griselda suspected that Maudie was precisely the type which brought welfare workers into existence and rendered their existence unavailing.
‘Now I must go into rather a lot of details,’ said Mr Shooter, imbibing strong tea, to Griselda. ‘Some of them are pretty personal, but there’s another lady present to see fair play.’ Maudie had seated herself on a stack of unopened parcels. They appeared to contain Government circulars upon questions of personnel management.