LITMIR.BIZ

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      We get our results the day after the exams and I discover that I have passed out ninth out of forty-two candidates, five of whom have been failed. Despite my lack of enthusiasm, I cannot help feeling a pang of pride as I line up to receive a certificate from Tredegar Smith, the dynamic managing director of HomeClean. He is an amazing man because although he only looks forty-seven he is in fact thirty-one and has apparently clawed his way to the top via the hand holds he has hacked in other people’s backs with a small knife he keeps especially for the purpose.

      The only thing that blunts my satisfaction as his cold, damp hand clamps over mine and his gimlet eyes probe over my left shoulder for sight of the clock on the wall, is that I can see Mum and Dad in the audience. I certainly have not informed them of the ceremony and I can only imagine that HomeClean have performed the service on my behalf. Dad is asleep with his head lolling back nearly on the laps of the row behind, and Mum is nudging him and snuffling into a large handkerchief. It all seems pretty typical, especially when Dad wakes up with a start and almost kicks the bloke in front out of his seat.

      ‘Oh Timmy,’ says Mum afterwards, ‘I’m proud of you. I always knew you had it in you.’

      ‘I don’t know about that,’ snorts Dad. ‘He always had it in, whenever he had the opportunity, now that I’ll grant you.’

      Mum tugs at his sleeve. ‘Don’t be coarse, father,’ she says primly. ‘Not here.’ She looks around like she is inside St. Paul’s Cathedral.

      ‘It’s nothing to get excited about, ma,’ I tell her, feeling embarrassed. ‘I’m only going to become a bleeding rep., I mean assistant sales manager. And then I’m on probation.’

      ‘Not again!’ says Mum. ‘What have you done? You never told us!’

      ‘Relax, relax! mother.’ She is a stupid old boot, isn’t she? ‘Not that kind of probation. I have to go out with one of the HomeClean Area Managers and practice all the stuff I’ve learnt here. If I can do that alright then I’ll become a fully fledged A.S.M.’

      ‘You haven’t got mixed up in any trouble?’

      ‘No mother. It’s impossible in this organisation.’ But I am not quite right there.

      I am supposed to be going out into the field with a bloke called Jack Kenton but on the eve of my departure Brian Belfry calls me into his office.

      ‘Slight change of plan, Lea,’ he says. ‘Kenton has had a heart attack. Most unfortunate but these things happen. Especially in a dynamic organisation. You can’t stand still, Lea. You’ve got to move, and you’ve got to move fast. And to move fast takes effort. And effort causes strain. And if you can’t stand strain you don’t belong here in the first place. Do you understand me, Lea?’ He unscrews a small, brown bottle and gulps down a couple of pills. ‘Indigestion,’ he explains. I nod understandingly. ‘So you’ll be going out with someone else,’ he continues. ‘Arthur Seaton. Arthur is—well—’ he pauses for a moment and looks at the ceiling, ‘– you’ll see for yourself. He’s been with the Company a long time.’ I nod more understanding in Belfry’s direction.

      ‘I’m sorry about Mr. Kenton.’

      Belfry tucks his biro in the breast pocket of his suit and stands up.

      ‘Yes, well – like I said – these things happen.’

      After all the bullshit that has been whizzing round my ears at Knuttley Hall I am decidedly wary prior to my encounter with Arthur Seaton and get to our meeting place fifteen minutes before the agreed time of eight thirty a.m. ‘One of the old school,’ Belfry has said, and I have a picture of a retired Indian cavalry officer bashing me over the bonce with an upright cleaner.

      I have been told to wait outside a department store in North West London but by eight forty-five I am wondering if I am in the right place. Punctuality is one of the things HomeClean prides itself on and all the instructors at Knuttley Hall had their watches set ten minutes early.

      At about five past nine it occurs to me that there may be more than one entrance to the store so I walk round the corner to find myself across the street from a small cafe. A slightly balding middle aged man, wearing a grey raincoat, is sitting in the window getting outside a cup of tea and a doughnut. He sees me glancing around, taps on the window and beckons me towards him.

      ‘Timothy Leak?’ he says when I go inside.

      ‘Lea,’ I correct him.

      ‘Oh. They must have got it wrong at head office. They get everything wrong there – stupid buggers. What happened to you? You’re a bit late, aren’t you?’

      ‘They told me to wait outside the store,’ I say, feeling aggrieved.

      ‘Yes, I know, but it’s bloody parky out there. I expect you to use a bit of common, lad. Never hang about in the open if you can help it. It gets into your bones. Now, do you fancy a cup of tea?’

      ‘Have we got time?’

      ‘All the time in the world, lad. There’s no point in getting started ’til about ten. We’ll get a cup of tea then, if we’re lucky.’

      This is something less than the ruthless dynamism I had been expecting and I feel obliged to comment on it.

      ‘Why do we meet at eight-thirty if we don’t start doing anything ’til ten?’

      ‘Gives us time to plan our calls, that kind of thing. I wouldn’t mind another cup of cha if you’re getting them in.’ He holds out his cup and I pad off to the counter.

      In fact it is ten thirty before we leave the ‘Black Cat Cafe’ and as far as I can remember we have not discussed any calls. The conversation has mainly centred around what bloody fools they are at head office and how much Arthur dislikes his company car, the company’s advertising, his wife, children and next door neighbours. There is nothing bitter about Arthur’s dislikes. It is more a statement of depressed resignation. I think of Belfry and the rest of them bouncing up and down at Knuttley Hall and find it difficult to believe that Arthur Seaton belongs to the same company.

      ‘What about the SM 42?’ I say eventually, waiting for Arthur to explode.

      ‘Typical,’ he says. ‘They never learn. You’d have thought that after the RG 238 they’d have checked this one out properly.’

      ‘Problems?’ I say.

      ‘“Problems”!? I heard from a bloke in the factory that they calculated the door-closing pressure without taking into account the weight of the stabilising mechanism.’

      ‘“Stabilising mechanism”?’

      ‘That’s the piece of concrete they put in the bottom of the machine to stop it jumping out of the window when the drum starts rotating. With that and the clothes inside it the door won’t open. Blooming marvellous, isn’t it? Every time I go into a dealer they throw one at me. We’ve had to fetch three thousand out of people’s homes.’

      ‘I know. My Mum had one.’

      ‘She has my sympathy. I’d never buy one. The best product they made was the old TX 22. The hand wringer. Marvellous machine. Never went wrong; that was the trouble with it. They’re still about today. People won’t part with them. I don’t blame them. Right, here we are.’ He pulls up the hand brake and starts to open the door.

      ‘Aren’t you going to take your briefing folder?’ I say, surprised. This is a hardcover folder containing acetate sleeves chock-full of the latest information on new products and promotional campaigns, all lovingly prepared by head office and supposed to be used as a bible by all HomeClean salesmen.

      ‘No!’ says Arthur contemptuously. ‘What do I want that for?’

      ‘I thought you were supposed to sell from it.’

      ‘Bloody dealers would think I was some kind of narner if I had to read everything out of a bloody book, wouldn’t they? I’m a salesman, lad.’

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