SMYTH - WITH AN 'E'

by Lee Dickman

Hugh Staines made his grey way from the Westminster Underground station and entered the gloomy building that housed his office. He shambled along the worn line of the Ministry of Pension's corridor to room 27, his working home since he  left school, full of hope for a posting to some far-flung corner of the Empire. Over the years, his daily routine had leached out all ambition; the gloom of post-war London now underlined the web of sameness that lay over him and his five fellow-assistants to the Minister. All but Ellis.

Edward George Ellis was cast in a different mould. Trained in South Africa, he was always up to something, and he carried it off with a breezy voice, a hearty backslap and a disarming smile. His colleagues secretly envied  him, but gathered in corners and clucked that ‘it was not the done thing’.

It was Ellis who had first introduced the 'refer' system into their lives; since doing so, he had contrived to go home each evening with an empty 'IN' tray. It was a simple system, very successful when played by Ellis.

Staines had been the first victim, and a firm favourite ever since. Whenever a tricky file arrived on Ellis's desk, he merely wrote ‘Refer to H.E.Staines - E.G.E.’ on a memo, attached it to the top right-hand corner, dropped it in his 'OUT' tray, and forgot about it.

"Now, look here.." Said Staines the first time.

"But you can do it so much better than I can, old man", said Ellis, brushing aside his feeble protests.

There had been many "Now look here"s since then, all with the same result. All the others had tried it once or twice, (on each other, not on Ellis), but the 'Refer' system became Ellis's prerogative – and Staines's purgatory.

But yesterday was too much. Late in the afternoon, the Sergeant had quietly placed the well-worn folder of the Arden report in his IN tray He had no need to look – neatly paper-clipped to the top, right-hand corner was the note 'Refer to H.E. Staines- E.G.E.’ This was too much. This was a hot potato.

The Arden Commission was appointed shortly after the (1914) war to investigate and report 'on the conditions obtaining at the Crossley Rehabilitation Centre and the steps being taken to ensure the speedy relocation of the military pensioners housed there'. Under the amiable convenership of Lord Arden (dead now for twenty years), the commission had inched its way through an inspection in situ, several sub-committees, and many plenary meetings (lunch invariably provided).

Interrupted only by the 1939 war and the deaths of three chairmen, the commission was still grinding towards some finality. Each year, after the Whitsun recess, the Right Honourable Member for Upper Kidminster rose to his feet (latterly he had been helped to his feet) to give notice of a Parliamentary Question 'That this House calls for a statement on the progress made by the Arden Commission and the implementation of its recommendations'. The formal reply was always the same. 'The Right Honourable Member can be assured that all steps are being taken to complete the terms of reference of the commission, at which stage, a full and comprehensive report would be laid before the House'. The Arden Report was hot.

It was unusual that a matter concerning a parliamentary question was entrusted to an assistant to the Chief Clerk, but there was the haunting fear that the question would, one year, be rephrased in a manner that would, Heaven forbid, call for a variation in the Minister's reply. After all, the Right Honourable Member for Upper Kidminster had recently celebrated his eightieth birthday and had assured his constituents at the last election that 'he would shake Whitehall yet'.

"No, this is too much", repeated Staines. Too late for mutiny yesterday, he had carried home the flame of righteous indignation, jerking back and forth through his strap-hanging journey on the District Line. Even after he had found a seat, he stared sightlessly through the darkened window until he reached his bed-sit in Wimbledon, repeating over and over how he would confront Ellis in the morning.

 **************************************************************

 "Now, look here, Ellis" he rehearsed again as he hung his raincoat and umbrella on the rickety hat-tree: "Now, look here, Ellis" - " Now, look here, Ellis" - "Now, look here, Ellis".....The phone was shrilling, - insistent.

"Extension 27 Staines speaking", he said, his mind elsewhere.

"Mr Bancroft, please." The voice was cheery, brisk and expectant.

"I m afraid you have the wrong extension. He doesn't work here. I'm sorry."

"Oh". A pause. "Has he left the Ministry?"

"I really can't say. He's not in this section, you see."

A pause, slightly longer this time. Then, a little less cheery, a little more brisk. "Can you tell me how I can find him?"

"I'm sure his extension would be in the Personnel Index." Staines, now in full public-servant mode, beamed genially into the mouthpiece.

A still-longer pause.. "Do you have a Personnel Index?"

"Oh, yes, we all have". Staines-Wallace said, comforting, re-assuring.

Another pause, even longer. "Can you look up Bancroft's correct extension for me?" The voice was cold.

"Of course, of course... let me see ... here we are 'B'... Baker, Banbury,  ah , yes Bancroft H.A Extension 114".

This time there was no pause. "Can you transfer this call?"

" Certainly, mind your ear", and he jiggled the telephone cradle. The operator sounded bored, but the loud click was efficient and the voice disappeared.

Staines replaced the receiver and stared at the well-worn, doodle-patinaed cover of the Arden report. "NOW, LOOK HERE, ELLIS...."

A full five minutes passed. The phone interrupted again. The voice was weary and plaintive now. "I'm still looking for Bancroft - are you sure he's not in your section? He specifically mentioned Extension 27 to me and no-one seems to know where he is...." It was some little while before the voice gave up.

"I'd better send him a note. Sorry to have bothered you." Brusque - quick- click.

"Hard to believe. No-one seems to know him - just disappeared". Staines shook his head disapprovingly as he put down the phone the second time. He peered at the entry in the still-open Personnel index. 'Bancroft H.A....... > Ext 114', sure enough –

WHY NOT REFER THE ARDEN REPORT TO BANCROFT!

He sat quite still, his whole being appalled as the thought flashed through his mind. Gradually, despite himself, he found he was enlarging on the theme, wandering down pleasant byways of empty IN trays, a clear desk - he grinned - what a triumph over Ellis!

"Tcha!" He shook his head, and reached for a virgin memo pad and the top folder in his IN tray as if to chastise himself for his crazy thought...

His memo pad, no longer virgin, suddenly bore the neatly printed phrase 'Refer to H.A. Bancroft - H. S.' No, Bancroft was dangerous. There was, or had been, a Bancroft. Something more anonymous - Brown, Smith - better - Smythe, Smythe with an E. He carefully crossed out Bancroft's name, and replaced it with J.E Smythe. He jerked Ellis's memo from its paper clip, and inserted his own.

So much more appropriate. He placed the now-redirected file in his OUT tray while he crumpled Ellis's note and dropped it in the waste-paper basket. He steepled his hands, forefingers pressed to his pursed lips and dwelt on the pure joy of getting even with Ellis. Even? This was one up on Ellis. What a lark!

**************************************************************

Sergeant Miles was remarkably spry for a military pensioner - veteran of two wars - and very solicitous over the Assistant Secretaries in his charge. He just slipped into their offices quietly, cleared the ‘OUT’ trays and  bundled the files into the maw of Registry - where they would nestle with a hundred thousand exact look-alikes.

Staines watched without expression as the sergeant picked up the files from his ‘OUT’ tray. A faint smile played about his lips as the door clicked shut on the sergeant's broad shoulders. He leaned back in his chair, and for the first time in months, laughed out loud.

Lee Dickman was born in South African and emigrated to Canada twenty years ago.  From 1940-1945 he served with the South African Engineer Corps in North Africa, Italy and  Austria. He received an undergraduate degree in corporate management, later bought a travel agency, and for 14 years visited many out of the ordinary places: Antarctica, Galapagos Islands, Tristan da Cunha, behind the Iron Curtain in East Germany and Hungary. He sold out to Thomas Cook, retired, emigrated – at age 81  “embarked on a literary career” – as yet unpublished – began scribbling wartime and travel experiences, discovered freelance journalism on the Internet, and is now an addict.