01/01/2019
A short story for 2019:
I AM NOT A GRADUATE
by Kevin Gill
The snow was wet and thick under my once highly polished work shoes. I had brushed them with some energy before I had left my house. My wife had said, ‘You’re wasting your time doing that. Wear the boots that you bought in Austria last winter.’
‘I want to look my best for this interview. I’m fed up with these tossers looking me up and down, as they sit behind their rosewood desks. With their Oh-so-smug expressions.’ I replied.
‘You’ll never get the job if you go in with that attitude,’ she said. Then blowing her nose with some violence. Another winter cold had befallen her. Poor love.
I trudged down Fenchurch Street. It was a quarter past ten and my appointment with TransEurope Logistics wasn’t until eleven. I decided that a coffee would be the way to kill time. And to warm my shivering body also.
I stopped at the steamed-up windows. I attempted to peer in but it was hopeless. Stamping my feet at the entrance, I kicked off the last of the snow. Looking down I should have listened to my wife and worn the Austrian boots. ‘What the hell,’ I thought, ‘I won’t get the job anyway.’
The coffee shop was empty, except for one hunched and over-coated figure that occupied a chair to one side of a roaring log fire. I made my way to the far end and sat in the chair opposite the man. He didn’t look up. His old-fashioned trilby hat was pulled down and his knitted scarf covered the lower part of his face. He sniffed at a dew-drop that was trying to escape a red nose. The man was crying.
A teenager approached. She wore a white apron over her long black skirt. A woollen hat hid most of her hair, except for a few blond strands that had escaped to one side.
‘Get yer’ something?’ she questioned.
‘Just a coffee. What’s up with him?’ I said as I looked across at the hunched figure. She followed my gaze.
‘Ignore him. He’s in here every day. Sits there for hours. Well, nine AM to eleven thirty anyway. Every Monday through to Friday. Never speaks except to ask for one cup of tea. Then he leaves just before the lunchtime crowd. I’ve been here for nearly two years and I’ve never known him to miss a single day.’
The waitress returned to the coffee machine. It hissed and gurgled as she made my drink. Then she returned with it. I took it from her. And to my surprise she pulled up a chair and sat down between him and myself.
‘Want to know his story?’ she said.
‘Should you? I mean it’s none of my business, is it? Really, I mean…’
‘I’ll tell you anyway,’ she answered.
The man started to look. I saw his tear stained face. He dabbed his cheeks and then his nose with a grubby handkerchief.
‘He’s the chairman of the freight company in the office next door. I found out that he goes in there early every morning. About seven AM, I was told. Then he leaves about eight, just before any of the staff arrive. He crosses the road and sits on that bench, under the tree. I’ve seen him sitting there. And that’s every day. He watches the entrance door to the offices of the freight company. He’s usually got that big newspaper. The Telegraph, innit’? To try and hide his face. So one of the staff told me one day that he fell out with his son, big time. The son is the MD. So he don’t go in anymore. Except when the place is empty.’
The old man was staring at the girl. Yet he didn’t speak. He just, slowly, shook his head from side to side for a moment and then he resumed his previous pose, with his head lowered. He sniffed, and then dabbed his nose with the handkerchief.
I pulled up my left coat sleeve and I glanced at my wristwatch. Placing the empty coffee cup back onto the saucer, I stood up.
‘Well that’s all very interesting but I’ve got an interview for a job with the very company that you’ve been talking about. And that’s next door. Isn’t it?’
‘Good luck. Come back and tell me how you got on. If you get the job I expect we’ll see a lot more of you when the time comes. But be careful with what you say, cos’ if the son interviews you, you could easily lose your temper.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. If they don’t hire me they’ll be the losers,’ I replied.
Pushing my chair back, I walked to the door, opened it, and went out to the street.
Turning to the left on the pavement I squelched though the melting slush. I was just five paces until I arrived at the entrance door that showed TransEurope Logistics etched into the glass.
Glancing up at the clock that was fixed to the wall above the reception desk. I saw that it was showing ten minutes past eleven. I gasped with horror and re-checked my wrist watch. The second hand was not moving. The time showed ten-fifty. My battery must have given up.
There was nobody around. I saw that there was an information board to the side of the reception desk. I scanned it. I was looking for the office of my interviewer. He was shown as the Managing Director, Peter Simpson. The office was on the first floor. I glanced around. There was a lift and a set of stairs.
No time for lifts, so I strode to the stairs and ran up them. Turning half-way I ran up the second set to arrive at the top. There was nobody to be seen.
The MD’s office was at the end of the carpeted hallway. I quickened my pace and covered the distance in seconds. Both walls were adorned with many framed portraits. I ignored them in my haste.
Then I heard the sound of voices. Arriving at the open door of the MD’s office there were six or seven people standing just inside. They were all facing inward so all I could see were the backs of about five men and a couple of women. Their voices were mostly hushed, except for one lady who was sobbing into a hanky.
Looking further into the office I could see the worn leather soles of someone’s shoes as they faced me on the carpet. I could just see the trousered legs of a man. His socks were odd. One was black and the other was blue.
I coughed in order to declare my presence. All of the men turned to look at me.
‘What do you want?’ said the tallest of them.
‘I have an interview with Mr Simpson,’ I replied.
‘Good luck with that mate. That’s him on the floor. He’s been dead for a couple of hours I recon’. So you’ll be seeing me now. And I’ve already looked at your CV. It seems incomplete as you haven’t put down what university that you went to.’
‘I am not a graduate,’ I replied.
1st January 2019
