RightSmart: The Third Round

19

RightSmart: The Third Round

    “The phrase ‘It’s been a long, long, lonely winter’ springs to mind,” said Iain mournfully to the RightSmart receptionist after the usual exchange of greetings was over.

    Whether Marlene recognised the reference was not absolutely clear—well, dealing with all the nutty persons that rolled up to the reception desk was, after all, her job: she’d long since developed an immunity to any and all dotty utterances. “It’s all that barcoding,” she replied sympathetically. “Never mind, it’s spring now!”

    “Something like that, mm.”

    “How’s your mum?” she asked sympathetically.

    “Pretty good, thanks, Marlene. Plunged herself into the massage thing with her friend Jacqueline: it’s all systems go. They’re renting a nice little suite of offices and starting to be quite busy.”

    “That’s good. And is she still living with Daph Harris’s dad?”

    “Yes, though she’s out half the time: if it isn’t helping Jacqueline out on reception it’s shopping, or trying different restaurants. And Jacqueline’s actually got her to look at some houses.”

    “Great! She’s really perked up, then?”

    Iain smiled at her. “Yes, she has, thank God.”

    “I’ll just see if Jase is ready for you.” He was, and Iain was allowed to go through to his office.

    “Not more barcoding, Jase, please,” he groaned.

    “The money’s not bad. Well, there’s a couple of other warehouse jobs, but they need people with a forklift license. If you wannoo keep on temping, you oughta get your license.”

    Did that imply he didn’t ought to want to? Iain eyed him suspiciously.

    “Let’s see... There’s a new mall opening up, they want some spruikers, and some clowns, and someone on stilts.”

    “Can’t do stilts. How long is the clown stint for?”

    “Just a week.”

    If all else failed, he’d take it. “Mm. Anything longer-term, with or without false noses?”

    “Well, there’s an ABC Shop promotion—is that the same mall?” he asked himself. “Um... yeah, new branch. B1 and B2.”

    Iain blinked. “Pardon?”

    “B1 and B2,” Jase repeated patiently. “Bananas in Pyjamas.”

    “Par—oh! Um, yes, Daph’s little granddaughter watches it. More padded suits,” he noted evilly.

    “Yeah. Dunno how they manage to walk in them,” said Jase cheerfully.

    “But you’d quite like me to find out for you?” he retorted evilly.

    “I wouldn’t mind!” Jase admitted with a grin.

    Iain sighed. “What else?”

    “Building a rockery? A Mrs Simpson. Seems like quite a nice woman. The husband’s an engineer of some sort, got a contract in Vietnam.”

    “Doing it being his back: mm. Go on.”

    “Mrs Baines wants a gazebo. Mrs Howard wants her garage rendered to match the house—her hubby’s in Malaysia,” reported Jase with a grin. “Mrs Pearson—no, Mr Pearson wants a chauffeur-butler—”

    “That’s Pixie Pearson and he doesn’t, he wants a boyfriend!” said Iain crossly.

    Jase had gone rather red. “Sorry, think Christie took the call. I’d better put a note in the file—hang on. ...There. Emco’s want—”

    “Not barcoding!”

    “No, it’s in their Head Office. Reorganisation of their office records: heaving stuff about and reshelving it. You’d need to watch your back.”

    Iain blinked, then realized he meant it literally. “There’s nothing wrong with my back, thanks: I’m fit as a flea, spent half the winter running. –Working it off,” he added viciously.

    “Um, Veronica’s cooking?” Jase ventured with a nice smile.

    “No, Veronica’s absence!” said Iain viciously.

    “Oh. Oh, heck. Sorry.”

    “Yeah, me, too.”

    Jase swallowed. “Annette and I popped up to the B&B for a weekend just recently—we had thought of making it Labour Weekend, but her parents have decided to come down from Queensland for it. Anyway, Mum and Dad were happy to take the kids, just for two nights—we came back on the Sunday. Laurie did the afternoon teas, they were great, she bakes a great cake and her scones are light as air, miles better than Annette’s or Mum’s, between you and me!” he admitted with a laugh. “Veronica was waitressing, said she was loving it.”

    Iain sighed. “Yeah.”

    “We bought a really nice woven rug at the crafts centre.”

    “Uh—yes, think she did mention they had some lovely rugs,” said Iain with an effort. “Laurie wanted one for her place but they were too dear.”

    “I suppose it was a bit pricey, but it’s beautifully made, and all organic dyes: we’ve got rid of the carpet we had in the lounge-room, it was bringing on Caitlin’s asthma. The doctor said she’s probably allergic to the moth-proofing they put in all the commercial carpets these days.”

    “I see: so your little girl’s got asthma, Jase? That’s no good.”

    Jase made a face. “Yeah, bit of a worry. She’s not too bad, thank goodness. Loads of kids seems to have it, these days. One theory is that their immune systems don’t get exposed to enough infections early enough: our modern lifestyle’s too hygienic—”

    He went on in this vein for some time and it finally dawned on Iain that it wasn’t because, or not just because, Jase was comfortable with him by now: it was because he, little Iain, had joined the ranks of those likely to produce lawful asthma-prone offspring and buy houses with floors slathered in fume-laden polyurethane—they’d had theirs stripped and replaced with good old-fashioned shellac, which was, apparently, organic, having to move in with Jase’s parents while it was all going on—or covered in the aforesaid moth-proofed and stain-proofed body carpet, or with walls painted throughout in lead-based—oh, no, that had been when they first bought it: stripped before they moved in—painted in whatever-it-was after that, possibly also toxic: had it replaced with, ulp, milk-paint!

    “I see. There’s a Helluva lot more to think about when you’re buying a house than I realized,” he said ruefully.

    “I’ll say. Well, Dad’s been a tower of strength—though mind you, his generation thinks that polyurethane’s the last word in hygienic coatings!”

    Uh—yeah. How old was Jase? Early forties? Well, yes, his father’d be in his sixties. “Mm. Um, but if you use shellac—um, that is ordinary varnish, is it?’

    Jase plunged into it. Beetles? Crumbs. Well, yeah, beetles were organic, all right, but on the other hand so were toadstools and they were highly toxic to the human metab— Um, he wouldn’t mention that point—no. Not if the man had a kid with asthma, for God’s sake!

    “Right. But, um, doesn’t that mean the floors need an awful lot of upkeep, Jase?”

    Jesus God Almighty! Annette went over all their wooden floors every day with some sort of static-something dust cloth—oh, attached to the mop, well, that wasn't too bad—and Jase himself, because he believed in sharing the burden, polished them every Saturday morning with beeswax! Organic—right. Er, weren’t many asthma sufferers allergic to pollen, which surely beeswax—

    “Um, so how is Caitlin, then?”

    Jase beamed. “She’s fine, hasn’t had any more attacks since we got rid of the carpet!”

    Iain sagged. “Oh, jolly good show,” he managed.

    Jase turned back to his computer. “Well, let’s see... Littlejohn and Pretty, they’re an accounting firm, they need someone for data input: they’ve got a new system and they’re transferring  all their old records to it. You can use a computer, can't you?”

    “Yes, but I’m not fast enough for data input.”

    “Oh. –It’s Christie’s job, really, but I usually deal with them: they usually want temporary accounting staff.”

    “Uh-huh. Er, dare one ask why their records couldn’t be transferred automatically from their old system?”

    “Their computer records were, but they want all their old paper records on the system as well. Think Veronica might be interested?” he asked on a hopeful note.

    “I’d be interested in having her back in town, that’s for sure!” said Iain with feeling, “By all means ask her, Jase. But she seems so involved with the stuff at Potters Inlet...”

    “I see,” he said sympathetically. “So what is the situation at the B&B? Bob Springer seemed to be there most of the time when we were there.”

    “Yes, he does spend all day there, but he and Deanna are still sleeping at Laurie’s place. The latest is that they might not go back permanently to the B&B itself while they’ve got young kids, but build a separate cabin for themselves. Evidently Bob had some idea a while back of trucking over a derelict cottage—well, think Deanna had fallen for its looks!” he admitted with a grin, “but it’s been inspected and it’s only held up by the termites holding hands, so it’s out. He knows some fellow who sells kitset houses, they might fall back on one of those. It’d mean work for Jack Jackson putting it up, that’d be a plus, in fact you might tell Gail it’d be worth her sounding out Jack about it, it could be a RightSmart job! Think Bob’s still at the stage of forcing himself to bite on the bullet over it, but the early bird catches the worm, eh?”

    “Too right,” agreed Jase happily, making a note of it.

    “At the moment, however, the baby still occasionally roars at night, so they can’t possibly sleep at the B&B. And apparently Deanna’s discovered that motherhood is a lot more time-consuming, not to say exhausting, than she'd blithely assumed.”

    Jase nodded seriously. “Yes. Annette had been planning to go back to work after Neil, but she simply couldn’t manage it: she used to get very tired mid-afternoons. And then Nelson came along, so we decided she’d better just stay home until they were school age, and then perhaps look for something part-time. She helped out at the day-care centre for a while but then we had Caitlin, so she gave it up for a while. She’s doing fifteen hours a week as a school aid at the Montessori school, now.”

    “I see,” said Iain weakly. “And how old is Caitlin, Jase?”

    Caitlin was seven. Neil was now twelve and Nelson was eleven. In other words that had been twelve years during which Annette had only been able to do a bit of part-time work to aid the family coffers.

    Jase was looking at him dubiously. “I don’t believe in forcing a woman to work twice as hard as a man, just because they've got equal pay and conditions,” he said on a firm note.

    Iain jumped. “God, no! Me, neither! –Most of them do, don’t they?”

    Jase nodded grimly. “They do in Australia, yeah, I dunno about Britain.”

    “Uh—don’t think it’s any different, Jase. And you’re certainly right about Australian women. The Sugden sisters—um, Daph Harris, my former landlady, and her sisters, they’re on your books—well, they all seem to put in hours of hard labour at their thankless jobs, cleaning, mostly, and then take it for granted that they come home and cook and clean and feed the ravening hordes! Well, Daph’s and Cotty’s are grown up, now, but poor Roz has still got two huge teenage lumps at home. Thought I’d seen lads eat in the Army, but these two are like a pair of starving wolves!”

    Jase smiled a little. “Teenage boys always are. It’s murder on the household budget.”

    “Mm. You’ve got that to look forward to, then. Um, well, tell me to shut up if you feel it’s none of my business, but have you ever thought about, well, taking on a more managerial rôle here? Even a partnership, maybe?”

    “Annette and I have discussed it seriously, yes, but we both feel that it'd mean more time spent at the office, and that’s not our priority. I get little enough quality time with the kids as it is.”

    “I see.”

    Jase smiled a little. “Dad reckons you spend the years between twenty-five and forty-five thinking they’re never gonna be out of your hair, and then suddenly you turn around and they’ve flown the nest and you spend the years between forty-five and sixty-five wondering why you were such a tit, not appreciating what you had while you had it.”

    “Uh—yeah!” said Iain, very startled. “Hadn’t looked at in quite that light.”

    “No, you don’t,” he agreed.

    “You dad sounds like bloody good value, Jase,” he ventured.

    “Yes, he is. So’s Mum. I’ve been lucky. Don’t think we’d ever have got through that bad patch when Neil was still a baby and we found out Nelson was on the way without them,” he admitted. “Well, let’s see, where were we? The mall jobs, Mrs Simpson’s rockery, Mrs Baines’s gazebo, Mrs Howard’s garage. Um, not Mrs John Howard!” he conceded with a silly grin. “Um, hang on, think there was a butlering job, or was it only waiting on? –Penny was pretty useless, but we could certainly do with another pair of hands round here!” he noted feelingly. “Um... yeah. Coralie Catering & Cuisine want a reliable waiter. That's mostly evening work but they do a fair number of ladies’ lunches, as well.”

    “Mm; I’ve worked for Coralie before.”

    “It’s not fulltime, of course.

    “No. I’d really fancy a stint at something solid,” Iain admitted.

    “Well, most of our jobs just are part-time or temping or both: you do know that, Iain,” Jase reminded him calmly. “Um, lessee... This is one of Drew’s. Mrs Duckworth wants a fulltime butler-driver, with some work in the garden.”

    “Is this Leila Duckworth?” said Iain grimly.

    “Um—yeah.”

    “Then it’s with some work in the bedroom, hasn’t Gail sorted out that bloody file YET?”

    “Um—aw, yeah. That code doesn’t come up in the short jobs display,” he admitted feebly.

    “Then it did ought to! Thought she said Fee sorted out your databases after the Brenda-Laurie affair?”

    “Um, well, she did something; I mean, you can’t get away with using someone else’s Tax File Number any more,” said Jase feebly.

    “I’m so glad to hear that! Doesn’t anybody here have the expertise to see that all bases are covered?”

    “Um, well, only Gail, but she’s so busy, you see. I’ll make a note about the short display,” he said feebly, making a note. ‘Um, if you’re interested in databases we have actually got a job going with our database supplier, but it’s only an office-boy thing, really. Person-Friday. Um, they’re quite a small outfit but terrifically pressurized.”

    “And?”

    “Well, um, nothing, just so’s you know what to expect. Sort of place that’ll give you a tender document twenty minutes before it’s due in the box in Martin Place and if you don’t get it there in the middle of the rush hour it’ll be your fault.”

    “Are tender documents always due in the middle of the rush hour?” asked Iain feebly.

    “Yes,” replied Jase succinctly. “Five o’clock on Friday, usually. –They all work at top speed, all hours of the day or night, and they expect their staff to, too.”

    “Uh—I would be on an hourly rate, would I?”

    “Yes, but that won’t mean the boss won’t ask you to do unpaid overtime, he’s that sort.”

    “Little Iain is more than capable of dealing with that sort, Jase,” replied Iain sweetly.

    “We don’t want to alienate a client, especially not when he’s our supplier as well.”

    “I wouldn’t alienate him, but I certainly wouldn’t let him rip RightSmart off. Happy to do the extra hours but I have a responsibility to RightSmart as me employer,” said Iain blandly.

    “Um, yes, good,” agreed Jase limply.

    “I have had to use the phrase before, actually,” said Iain very drily indeed. “That the best of a bad lot, is it?”

    “Yes, it is, really, unless you want to be a banana in pyjamas.”

    “Or a clown—mm. I’ll take it.”

    “Christie might’ve put someone else forward, I’ll just check.” He rang Christie. Ian listened sardonically to his end of the subsequent exchange. “Helena who? –Oh, right. She did okay on that job for Trubshaw Spence O’Dell, though, didn’t she? ...Well, yes, they are pretty pressurized. –I wouldn't say that! ...Bruce Bainbridge? I thought he seemed okay, Christie. ...Too slow for them? Aw. ...No, you wouldn’t wanna offer them a lady sea-changer, they don’t know what hard work is. ..So what was wrong with her? –All right, what was wrong with them? ...I geddit. ...Yeah, they are, but— No, but their clients have to come first, Christie, who does the woman think she is? ...Um, a bit on the nose, I suppose, but that’s what these small IT firms are like, it wouldn’t be any different anywhere else. ...Who? Aw, new. ...But they’re not all men! That’s why Gail likes them! Um, don’t mean that, exactly, but they certainly don’t hire on a sexist basis, do they? ...Well, all I can say is she sounds like a hen and it’s just as well you didn’t put her forward! So is that It, then? –Right, well, in that case I’m gonna put forward Iain Ross. –Of course he can use a computer, look at his file, he’s used all these databases I’ve never heard of—that I bet they’ve never heard of, either! Tactical databases! –Eh? Yeah, it’s still your job, Christie, you put him forward if you wannoo. Okay.”

    He hung up and said unguardedly to Iain: “Sometimes that girl stands on her rights until you feel like strangling her!”

    “Mm. The consultants aren’t paid on a job by job basis, or a percentage based on the number of jobs they handle, or such-like, though, are they?”

    “No, it’s a straight salary.” Jase looked wry. “Paid monthly, so’s Gail gets the interest for a whole four weeks before she has to put her hand in her pocket, so if you were thinking of joining us, be warned.”

    “Er—thanks. Um, still mulling it over, weighing up pros and cons. Haven’t really had a chance to talk it over with Veronica, either.”

    “It’s a big commitment, you do need to discuss it,” he returned seriously.

    “Mm.”

    “Well, experience with Total Database Solutions’ll stand you in good stead, in any case. –It’s Total IT Solutions Pty Ltd, actually, but some brilliant brain finally worked out that that makes ‘TIT Solutions,’ so they hadda register the alternative trading name, cost them a bomb, silly clots,” he said, grinning. “They’ll probably ask you if you can ride a bike, so be warned. Christie’ll give you the details.”

    “Right. Thanks very much, Jase.”

    “That’s okay. Don’t know any blokes with a burning desire to be a banana in pyjamas, do you?”

    “No, ’fraid not!” said Iain with a laugh, going.

    Jase drooped over his desk. “Uni students,” he said to himself finally. “What is the date? Aw—blow.”

    Automatic sliding doors, not a revolving door: right! Iain rode his bike across Martin Place and straight through the doorway, fell off it in the middle of the lobby, and crammed Total Database Solutions’ tender in the box, panting.

    “Fordy-eight seconds to go,” noted the black-business-suited young lady standing by the box with her wrist held up in a pointed manner.

    “Yes! Made it!” he panted.

    “You’re not the only one,” she noted drily as a sweating, tousle-haired young woman in black tights, sneakers, and a very grubby jersey rushed in, gasped: “Am I in time?” and crammed a tender into the box.

    “Only just,” she said severely to her.

    The sweaty, tousle-haired one just panted.

    “Last time—las’ month, wasn’ it, Bern?” she said to the young gentleman who was standing at her side, staring blankly out across the square, chewing, “we had a lady in actual pyjamas.”

    “Yeah, took a taxi. Missed it by nine’y seconds, though,” he confirmed laconically through the gum. “That’s five o’clock now,” he noted as a clock was heard to chime in the distance.

    “Hang on. Five, four, three, two, one,” she counted. “That’s it. Unlock it, wouldja?”

    Iain watched numbly as the padlock was unlocked, the contents were removed—yikes, and then the padlock was removed and the notice on the front of the box was removed! And the two public servants disappeared into a lift with the pile of tenders.

    “Just made it,” said the dishevelled young woman, grinning.

    “Uh-huh. Me, too.”

    “So who you with?”

    Was one supposed to give out that sort of information to a rival tenderer? Well, could hardly do any harm at this juncture, could it? “Total Database Solutions,” he admitted.

    “Aw, right, Bill Hardacre’s Tit Solutions, eh?” she said, grinning. “I’m with Mack-Emory Consulting. We won’t get it, either: too small; they’ll go with one of the big firms, and good luck to ’em, mate, that’ll fuck up their bloody asset records good an’ proper, ’cos they’ll hand ’em the usual package, regardless!”

    “Um, yes, that’s pretty much what Bill said, but he claims it’ll help to get their name known.”

    “Something like that, yeah. –Jill Emory,” she said, grinning,

    “One of the partners? Good to meet you, Jill. I’m Iain Ross, just a humble Person Friday.”

    “Bill lost another office girl, has ’e?”

    “Mm, so I gather.”

    “Giving you enough to do, are they?”

    “Hah, hah,” replied Iain weakly. “Uh—’scuse me,” he said as his mobile rang. “Iain R— Oh, hullo, Bill. Yes, got it in on time—just. You must know weeks ahead—”

    “Months,” put in Jill, grinning.

    “—months ahead when these things are due, surely it’s possibly to prioritize your jobs a bit better than—”

    “No,” put in Jill, grinning. “Doing ’is nut is, ’e?” she added as Iain held the phone away from his ear, wincing.

    “Yes. Evidently it’s the name of the game,” he admitted as he was finally able to ring off.

    “Right. Bill interested in that new warehouse tender?’ she asked in a very, very casual voice.

    “No idea,” replied Iain very, very blandly, looking her in the eye.

    Jill just grinned, said: “No harm in asking! Dare say I’ll see you five minutes before the next one’s due in, then. So long!” And slung her hook.

    “Five seconds, more like,” Iain reported to Gail some forty-five minutes later. –In the Sydney rush hour traffic it would have taken him nearer to two hours to get out to RightSmart from Martin Place by car or taxi: the pushbike was a Helluva lot faster.

    “Yeah.” Rapidly Gail entered the times from his timesheet into her computer.

    “Does it tally?” he asked.

    “Yours always do.”

    “What do you do if they don’t?”

    “Send the client our standard form letter, advise the contractor by phone and then by form letter. The clients will always have signed off on the total, but they never kick up, they know they’re at fault. It’s always an honest mistake. Well, since we got rid of Mr Troy Viner,” she noted grimly.

    “Tried to rip ’em off, did he?”

    “Yes. Didn’t realise it was two strikes and Kathleen or Marlene or whoever’s entering up the timesheets has to report it to me.

    “I see. So Marlene helps with that, does she?”

    “Yes; she’s got good keyboard skills and we’re not prepared to employ anybody in that position who just wants to sit at the reception desk twiddling their thumbs in between visitors.”

    “I see. But she does the phones as well, doesn’t she?”

    “Yes, but the calls really slacken off in the arvo, you see,” replied the CEO of RightSmart calmly.

    “Got it,” agreed Iain.

    “So have you thought any more about joining us?” said Gail to the sub-text. Or what she bloody well hoped was the sub-text.

    “Mm. I’m thinking about it seriously, Gail. Don’t know that I’ve got the right skills for you, though.”

    “We can teach you the office routines.”

    “You’d have to. Um, I am picking up quite a lot at Total Database Solutions,” he admitted. “Not from Bill, he’s too busy to show anybody anything, added to which I’ve discovered he’s the type that can’t teach at all—too bloody bright himself, can’t grasp that other people’s minds might not work that fast—but their trainer’s a nice young woman, she’s quite willing to show me—mind you, she’s the sort that assumes that her pupils are as bright as she is, too! And the older consultant, Sue, is a very pleasant woman who’s only too pleased to have someone take an interest in her work. –Bill’s the type that leaves them to it, then suddenly wades in boots and all if there’s a glitch and sorts it out without asking or telling. Resulting in extreme embarrassment for the luckless consultant and a confused and annoyed client, usually.”

    “How not to do it, eh?”

    “You said it! Harry, the younger consultant, is an IT whizz-kid, doesn’t converse in anything but geek-speak. I won’t say I can’t get on with him, but I will say he isn’t interested in a single syllable that comes out of my non-IT mouth.”

    “That industry’s full of them, Iain.”

    “So I’ve gathered. They’ve got a nice pub on the corner, thought it looked like a goer for happy hour, but when I tried it I realised that the neighbourhood’s full of IT firms: the pointy-headed geeks have completely taken it over! Pointy and shaven,” he ended drily.

    “Yes, there’s a few round this way, too,” replied Gail, unmoved. “So what do you and Harry talk about?”

    Iain blinked. “Well, usually just let him rattle on about his electronic gear, really, Gail. Nobody else to listen to him, you see. Sue knows as much as he does while not shoving it down your throat, and he doesn’t like that, and Bill’s too busy to listen, and Tina, the trainer, is far, far brighter than he is and he’s terrified of her, poor little worm!” he ended with a laugh.

    Gail eyes twinkled but she replied stolidly enough: “Uh-huh. And the receptionist?”

    “A female Shane. Did you realise— Okay, you did,” he recognised as she merely nodded calmly. “She’s a lovely, straightforward Aussie girl with a penchant for netball and a mum who bakes trays of brownies for us, and far, far beneath Harry’s lordly notice, I’m afraid.”

    “Silly little tit. Probably make him much happier than any of the ultra-slim refined young ladies in the discreet business suits that the geeks usually pick.”

    “I think she’d probably make any chap much, much happier than one of those, Gail!” replied Iain in horror.

    “There you are, then. Si jeunesse savait, eh?”

    “You said it, not me! Fancy a jar, talking of happy hours?”

    “Thought you might like to look at the designs of some of our forms, first.”

    “Ooh, yes! Um, sorted?”

    “The output forms are, yeah. Not the input-edit forms, of course. Why?”

    “Only just read through the bits on sorted forms in the manual,” he admitted. “Had a look at a few of Bill’s and concluded the manual doesn’t tell you the half of it.”

    Gail smiled. “No—tip of the iceberg, kind of thing. No, well, what about the wages form, then? Uh—no, hang on, we use footers to sort— But we could look at the way the form adds the wages from a couple of different jobs, if you like.”

    “That’d be good, ta. –Only two?” he ventured.

    “No, as many as you like. There are a few contractors like Daph Harris who do a lot of different private cleaning jobs: that can add up to about seven clients a week.”

    “Right.” He watched eagerly...

    “Crumbs,” he concluded feebly. “Well, I can see how it adds them up, yes, and then working out the tax and the superannuation’s relatively simple, isn't it? But these totals at the bottom of the form are beyond me, I’m afraid, Gail.”

    “The footers—yes. That’s pretty advanced, but it’s logical. Took me a lot of trial and error to work it out, I must admit. Well, bloody Bill could have done it for us, no sweat, but he'd have charged us an arm and a leg. –We used to just print out a wages slip for each job, and if they'd done more than one Kathleen’d work out the total tax and super and type up a slip for them. She didn’t mind doing it, but it was extra work and we were starting to take on more and more jobs: it wasn't fair on her. Want me to print out the structure of this form for you?”

    “Yes, thanks, Gail, I’ll sweat over it with the manual. Um, and if it isn't breaking confidentiality could you possibly print out an actual example of the finished form?”

    “I think you’d better ask Daph if you can look at one of hers.”

    “Okay, good idea. What about invoicing the clients? If you’ve got several people placed with a client, does it all go on the one invoice?”

    “No. We could do it, but we’ve discovered that that they prefer to be invoiced for each person.”

    “That’d be easy, then.”

    “Yes, it’s a much simpler form, though there is a sort on it, it enables us to print them out alphabetically: helps Kathleen with filing the copies. Hang on...”

    “I see: so you pick that up from the wages database as well?” said Iain somewhat dazedly.

    “Of course. The wages database tells us what hours the contractor’s done for the week, and it links to the jobs database to pick up the rate to the client.”

    “Ri-ight… So what’s actually in the jobs database?” he groped.

    Gail’s mouth twitched. “Only the jobs. Hang on, I’ll just open it.”

    She opened it. “See?” she said, flicking through the jobs and finally pausing at his current one.

    “Can I see the input-edit screen? –Oh, crumbs,” said Iain weakly as it came up.

    “See? This and this and this,” said Gail, pointing. “Those other fields that have come up in purple contain linked data from the client database. Otherwise,” she noted drily, “we’d be typing in Emco’s bloody contact details every time they ask Jase for another barcoder, wouldn’t we?”

    “Yes, of course.... Gosh. But the software isn’t strictly speaking relational, is it?”

    “No. It does have a few drawbacks, but it works bloody well for our purposes, and it’s worked out very cost-effective. We can build as many databases as we like with it, because it’s database design software, not a ruddy turnkey system. And its form designer functions are terrifically flexible: we’ve got all sorts of letters and contracts that we print out from it. Client contracts, personnel contracts, personnel introductory letters—!”

    “But that letter you sent me the first time was personalised,” said Iain groggily.

    “No, it wasn’t, you only thought it was.”

    “But—well, I assume it picked up my start time from the database, but... And shit, when I did the green frogging there was a paragraph about not getting overheated in the suit: you’re not telling me that’s standard!”

    “Prompted text,” said Gail, looking terrifically smug.

    “All right, show me!”

    She got up his contract for the green frogging stint at Greenacres Ponds & Garden Accessories and said: “Okay, now I’ll choose the form to print to—see?”

    “Mm.” He waited.

    “See?”

    “Um, yes: it’s waiting for you to add something?”

    “Uh-huh.”

    “But what if there’s nothing to add?”

    “Just hit enter.” She suited the action to the word.

    “Is it printing?” he asked eagerly.

    “Yep; go and grab it, if you like.”

    Iain rushed off eagerly to the shared printer. Gail just sit back and waited.

    “That is a fantastic function!” he concluded, beaming, and waving the print-out at her.

    “Yes.”

    “They’ve never even mentioned it,” he said dazedly.

    “What, Bill Hardacre and Co.? No, they wouldn’t have: don’t live in the real world, they’re IT bods,” she said kindly. “Fortunately the original designer wasn’t. The parent firm in the U.S. is under new management, now: think the originators retired, the software’s been around since the DOS days, you know. Bill keeps trying to push the new products at us, but we’re not interested.”

    “I should think not! –Help, they are still supporting it, are they?”

    “Yes, got a very strong client base, they do keep putting out enhancements and updated versions. A lot of the clients are using the Internet software that goes with it, but we don’t need that, of course: our databases are confidential. Bill’s done a fair bit of Internet work with real estate firms, though: it’s ideal for them, manages graphics like nobody’s biz. If he was really up with the play he’d have taken over the entire Australian Internet real estate picture—the software had the capability miles before the little website geeks started doing it by hand—but he’s not entrepreneurial enough. Loves puddling around designing stuff.” She shrugged. “The firm’s got to the point where a lot of small businesses fall apart.”

    Iain looked at her weakly. “I’d have said they were doing really well.”

    “They are, that’s the problem. Too well to stay as small as they are, they need to take on more consultants, but Bill can’t delegate and isn’t a manager at heart.”

    “Mm... Poor Sue was ropeable when she had to do a demo for a new client and found he’d been fiddling with the sample databases on their Internet site behind her back.”

    “Exactly. Younger consultants won’t stick that, he’s already lost half a dozen over the last few years. This Whatsisface—Harry, is it? He’ll be the next to go, mark my words.”

    Iain winced. “Mm. Him or Tina, I’m afraid. Bill was at some conference a couple of weeks back and she had to install a database suite for a client—that was no problem, she can do it on her head—but when she started the training she found that he hadn’t bothered to update the client file properly and they had an abbreviated version of the suite, and she’d brought along the documentation—training manuals and so forth—for the full suite.”

    “There you are, then. How not to run a small business,” said Gail very drily indeed.

    “Er—yeah. Did you send me there on purpose?”

    Gail’s lips twitched. “Not exactly. But the job came up and I said to Jase if he could put you forward it'd be the ideal opportunity for you to get a look at the software plus and get a look at a typical small business at a very typical stage in its development. He didn’t ask what I meant: he’s deliberately closed his mind to anything that sounds like management.”

    Iain bit his lip. “He’s decided to put his family first, Gail: I think he’s an admirable chap.”

    “Limited,” said Gail firmly. “Uh—oh. Bugger. All right, Iain, I'll understand if you want to put starting a family first, but just bear in mind that you’re a very different personality from Jase. He's happy to sit back and be an employee and only occasionally put forward a suggestion for improving the way we do things. He’s very good with the clients, mind you, and he’s brought us in quite a lot of new business. But he’s happy to stay at that level. You’re the type that can’t stand to see a thing being done inefficiently, aren’t you?”

    “I—well, yes.”

    “Yes. If you’re at his level all you can do is point out very tactfully to the bosses that there might be a better way of doing it. If you’re one of the bosses you can go ahead and fix it.”

    “Yes, I can see that,” Iain admitted, frowning over it.

    “What is it? Think we couldn’t work together?”

    “I think there might be one or two tussles, but you’re the expert, I don’t think I'd have any trouble deferring to your expertise.”

    “Unless you were sure I was wrong.”

    “Yes,” said Iain flatly.

    “That’d be a relief,” replied Gail smoothly.

    He gave a startled laugh. “Well—good! Um, would you expect me to drum up new business?”

    “Not just at first, but eventually. We can’t expand with only me in charge. I’d be looking for you to act as an Executive Director, Iain.”

    “Uh—shares in the company?” he said faintly.

    “If it works out and you want to buy in, yes. Not immediately, but further down the track.”

    “It’d be a long track, I haven't got that sort of dough. I can’t even afford a house. And don’t suggest I ask my mother, ta.”

    Unmoved, Gail replied: “I’d say that once she’s settled and sees you’re putting your back into a job she’ll be only too pleased to help you out. Now tell me she’s the sort that sits on the dough until their kids are sixty and past needing help!”

    “Uh—no, I won’t tell you that. –Hell, do they? What do they have kids for, then?”

    “Often wondered that,” replied Gail at her driest.

    Iain swallowed. ”Yeah. Well, Mummy definitely isn’t that sort, though she’s never really had any money of her own before.”

    “No well, just bear the possibility in mind. –That’ll be Fee,” she said as her mobile rang. …“Yes,” she reported, ringing off and smiling at him. “Propping up the bar wondering where we are. Coming?”

    “Yes,” said Iain very weakly indeed. The suggestion that he pop in to drop his timesheet off after the tender had not, then, been a casual one. In fact, in spite of her manner there was, he had now begun to realise, very little that was casual about Gail Vickers. Well, so much the better, if he did end up working for RightSmart. The best sort of colonel, in fact! ...The only problem was, would she really be able to hack little Iain on a daily basis?

    “It sounds like a good opportunity, Iain,” said Veronica, looking at him with those big, serious dark eyes.

    Iain’s senses duly swam. “Yes,” he said in a vague voice.

    “Um, aren't you keen?” she asked timidly.

    “Eh? Well, yes, but it’d be bloody time-consuming—demanding. Gail hasn't got any kids, she hasn’t got a clue what demands family life can make. Now, take Jase—” He reported at length.

    “I see. He sounds very nice, Iain.”

    “Yes, he is. Not the sort to resent yours truly being put in over his head, either.”

    “No, that’s good,” she agreed. “But, um, he doesn’t sound as if he’s got very much drive.”

    “Uh—no. Well, different priorities, you see. New Age, I suppose.”

    “Yes. I can see it suits him just to be a placement consultant, and I should think he must be a lovely father,” she said thoughtfully. “But I don’t think it’d suit you, Iain.”

    “No? Think I’ve got drive, do you?”

    “Yes.”

    Iain blinked. “Dunno that my former commanders would agree.”

    “Pooh! Who was the one that went out and got things done and got to the right place when that silly man had given you the wrong map?” she said fiercely,

    “Uh—mentioned that, did I? Um, wrong coordinates, darling. Uh—well, yes, but then I got it in the neck.”

    “Not from Gil Sotherland!” she said strongly.

    Gil had of course torn off an almighty strip. But she wasn’t wrong in essence. “No: fairest man I’ve ever met,” admitted Iain with a sigh. “All them other times, though.”

    “You were working for stupid people, though. Gail isn't stupid,” she said firmly.

    So much for the British Army! Iain swallowed a laugh. “No, she certainly isn’t. No kids, though.”

    “No. I think you might need to set up guidelines and stick to them. It might not be easy: when an urgent job came up and she expected you to work late you'd just have to say no, if you wanted to have dinner with the kids and help put them to bed.”

    “Tea, you're Downunder now!” said Iain with a laugh. “Yeah. That wouldn’t appeal to her, she’s often in at the office all hours.”

    “Yes, exactly.”

    His eyes twinkled. “Don’t you think I could lay down the guidelines and stick to them, then?”

    Veronica frowned over it. “I suppose I’ve got to know you a bit better over this year. I think you could, but I think you might get so interested in what you were doing that you’d forget about the time. Or at least,” she added before he could protest, “that you’d pretend to yourself you weren’t aware of the time.”

    Iain’s jaw sagged. “Eh?”

    “Yes. They say the onlooker sees most of the game, don’t they?” said Veronica calmly. “I've concluded that that’s how those silly men do it.”

    “Thank you very much! I am not a silly man!”

    “It’s the accepted male behaviour pattern. Anyone could fall into it. It’s easy, too: it satisfies your boss’s expectations.”

    “I don’t think I’m given to taking the easy way out!”

    “I haven’t seen you do it so far, but just imagine working at RightSmart every day of your life.”

    Ian scowled over it. “Very well, pitfall number 1. Any more like that?”

    “That’s the main one, really.”

    “Mm. Well, um, would you want me to take the job?”

    “Only if you really want to. I think you could do it well. There’d be variety, because you’d be seeing new people every day. But it wouldn't be very active.”

    “Uh—no. Well, ride the old pushbike to work?”

    “I think you’d need to get some exercise, but the roads are very polluted, aren’t they?”

    “That’s a point. Well, uh, settle in a suburb somewhere up the train line, get off a couple of stops early, jog home every day?”

    “Yes, the suburbs are much fresher,” said Veronica in relief.

    “Uh-huh. So in principle you’re not opposed to me working for RightSmart?”

    “I said: not if it’s what you want.”

    He stared at her, baffled. “But what do you want, Veronica?”

    “Um, I just want you to be happy in what you’re doing. And—and settled,” said Veronica in a voice that shook a little.

    Oh, boy. Settled. Little Iain had never in his life been settled, of course. “Yes,” he said, swallowing hard. “Um, Veronica, I think I’d better say this now, to get it clear, even if it may seem rushing things a bit. I don’t think I can hack a settled life without you. I mean I—I’d need you, to give me some stability and—and to give me a reason to, um, well, settle down. So, um, will you?”

    “Um, well, how do you mean?” said Veronica awkwardly, turning a fiery scarlet.

    “Just what I said,” said Iain limply. “Settle down in a wee suburban nest with me. Bring up kids. Try not to let the job take me over. Be ordinary, in short.”

    “Is that what you want?” she said in a trembling voice.

    Iain thrust his hand through his curls. “Yes! Would I be saying it otherwise? I’m not a complete moron! Yes!”

    “Um, yes, okay, then,” said Veronica in a tiny voice. “That’d be nice, Iain.”

    Iain found he couldn’t utter: he just pulled her to him and hugged her very, very tight for a long, long rime. Finally admitting; “You’re right about the drive.”

    “Mm,” said Veronica into his chest. “You’re that sort of man. You can’t just sit back.”

    “Not that drive, this yere drive!” he said with laugh.

    “Both,” said Veronica, looking up at him seriously with those great dark eyes.

    This time when Iain’s senses swam he just gave in and let ’em take over. Them and the drive—yep. Well, could it be bad? Him, Veronica and the drive in a wee suburban nest?

    “Who?” he said groggily into the phone, far too early in the morning of a fine October day. “Oh—Fee! Sorry, not awake. Anything up? Is Gail all right?’

    Gail’s partner replied grimly that Gail had broken her leg last night on the bloody back path dashing out to make sure the bloody nectarine tree was okay in the storm—Iain looked dazedly at the sun streaming through the crooked grey metal Venetians of his pea-green bedroom—but apart from the leg, a lot of bruises and a sore head, she was okay, but Jase had just rung to say that Annette’s mother had had a stroke and one of the kids had had an asthma attack and he wouldn’t be on deck until further notice.

    “Hell, that's bad,” said Iain sympathetically. “Little Caitlin, was it? I thought they’d sorted that, with the new flooring and the organically dyed wool rug.”

    “Uh—think he said Caitlin, yes.”

    “Poor little thing. And it’s really bad news about Annette’s mother: just when they'd moved to their new retirement unit in Queensland, too.”

    “If you say so,” said Fee on a weak note.

    “Well, anything I can do, of course, Fee. What hospital is Gail—“

    “Not that. I mean, she’s in the Prince Alfred, if you want to look in on her. No, it’s this week that bloody Drew’s taking his holiday in Noumea at flaming Club Med!”

    “Gosh, already? Time flies, doesn’t i— Oh. Oh, lawks, so that leaves Christie and Marlene for the punters, with Kathleen in the back office, does it?”

    “Ya think? That’d be bad enough, but no, that cow Kathleen announced two days ago that she’s just got engaged—we’d been under the impression for the last six months that it was all off—and they’ve taken off for his parents’ place in Darwin for a week before he has to rejoin his ship! But you can drop any idea she’ll be back, the parents run a bloody motel and this time last year all she could talk about was helping to run it!”

    “Oh, crumbs. Um, she strikes one as a responsible sort of girl, though: I should think she’ll be back, if only to give her month’s notice. Though it certainly leaves Christie and Marlene without any back-up, doesn’t it? Ugh, there’ll be all the inputting of the timesheets at the end of the week for them to absorb, too. Well, better close the office, then? Just have Marlene on the phones telling everyone it’s unavoidable personal matters and to ring back next week?”

    “I did think of that, but in this business you can’t close down, they go elsewhere and you never get them back. Clients and contractors,” she elaborated bitterly.

    Oh, boy. Iain took a deep breath. “Well, my contract with Total Database Solutions is almost over. Bill Hardacre did ask me to make it permanent with a view to learning the business, but as he didn’t suggest paying me any more, I wasn’t tempted. Want me to come in to RightSmart instead?”

    “Yes, could you, Iain? Thanks a million!” said Fee in tremendous relief.

    “Er, Fee, never done placement work, you know.”

    “No, but Christie’ll help you with the routines, and you know the software. I think I'd better speak to Bill Hardacre myself. They’re a small firm, too, he’ll understand. Look, can you possibly meet me in at the office at—uh, shit. Well, in forty minutes? I’d make it later but I've got an absolutely crucial meeting at the bank at nine o’clock to discuss the implications of the global monetary crisis.”

    “Yikes! Yeah, sure, I can make it in forty minutes, no problem.”

    “Great. Thanks again, Iain. See ya!”

    “See ya,” he agreed.

    He only had a five-minute wait at RightSmart’s building’s closed front door before Fee’s Porsche rolled up and as there was, oddly enough, very little parked in the street at this hour, parked just outside the door.

    “Marlene’ll be in about eight but Christie can’t make it earlier than eight-thirty,” she reported.

    “I know: carpooling as far as the station with the neighbour and her brother-in-law,” he agreed.

    “Uh—yeah. That is the story, apparently, yeah. How the Hell do you retain all this trivia about people you scarcely know?” she said limply, unlocking the main door.

    “Dunno. Comes naturally, I think. –That door on a time switch, is it?”

    “Not in a building of this vintage. No, Perkins Philpott McIlvaney on the ground floor are in charge of seeing it’s unlocked at eight-thirty and locked at five thirty, though any officious person who happens to be around can lock it. And believe you me, there’s plenty of them in a block this size. You’d better have this set of keys, while I think of it: that’s the front door, that’s RightSmart’s door, that’s Gail’s desk drawer, and that’s the office safe. There’s no money in it except a bit of petty cash, but there are a few documents.”

    “Right,” said Iain weakly, accepting the keys to the kingdom.

    “Oh—and the girls’ll probably stress the importance of putting the petty cash in the safe at the end of the day, but if you forget don’t break your heart over it. It’s milk money, mainly. And stamps if they run out, but there’s a franking machine for the business envelopes.”

    “Er—yes. Right you are.” Crumbs, was it all going to be minutiae of this sort?

    ... Pretty much, yes.

    “Yes, of course, Mrs Humboldt, we have a number of competent jobbing gardeners on our books. ...No, they are all our own employees, not franchisees. ...Yes, naturally we guarantee the work, but I think you’ll find our chaps do a thorough job. ...Er, yes, I am English, ’smatter of fact.” (Very weakly). “Oh, did you really? Yes, October can be lovely: very crisp.”

    And: “Six chaps for barcoding, Mr O’Rourke? Yes, quite a few on our books who are familiar with the work. Can I ask if there’d be any lifting involved? ...I see. Barcoders with forklift licences, then.”

    And: “Help in the garden, Mrs Hathaway? Yes, we have quite a number of competent gardeners on our books.” (Omitting the word “jobbing”, since it seemed to frighten the last one.) …“No, of course it’s understood that if you have a preferred design they follow your instructions.” (Very weakly). “Um, may I just ask if there would be any heavy lifting involved? ...Big rocks, I see. ...Er, no, none of our gardeners have weak backs, Mrs Hathaway,” (very weakly) “but one or two are older men—retired, you know. ...Not students, no. ... Did they really? That’s no good! ...No, you’re right, young people these days don’t have any grasp of the work ethic, do they?”

    And: “Right; got it, Mr White. Six chaps with forklift licences for a week’s warehouse work. …Yes, that’s clear, thanks. ...Jase? Taking a bit of leave for personal matters. ...Um, yes,” (very weakly) “as matter of fact his little Caitlin has had a bad asthma attack. ...Thanks, I’ll pass it on, that’s very kind of you, Mr Whi— Baz, then.”

    And: “A per-gol-a? Oh—yes, of course, Mrs Franks. ...Yes: he would be our employee, you see, and we’d just bill you. ...Mm, just pay the bill. ...No, we take care of that, we’re fully insured. ...And his superannuation, yes. ...The materials? Well, naturally he could source them for you if you wanted to pay for his time— I see. No, of course you don't want to cope with loads of timber by yourself if your husband’s oversea— A big contract in Indonesia? That sounds interesting! …No, absolutely, terribly humid in those parts! ...Er, yes, I am English, ’smatter of fact.” (Very weakly). “No, don’t worry, Mrs Franks, I’ll come and have a look at it myself, if that’s how you’d like us to do it. ...We usually put forward at least two candidates for you. That gives both parties a chance to see if they like each other and discuss what the job entails, you see. ...Daffodils and jonquils? Yes,” (very weakly) “that sounds lovely.”

    At about ten-thirty he was finally able to pick up the phone and groan into it: “Marlene, please, please don’t put anyone through to me for at least ten minutes, I’ve simply got to be stayed with gallons of brown dust, it’s exhausting! They keep telling me all these completely irrelevant personal details, like planning to plant marigolds and hayseeds round the gazebo, and just what the hubby’s doing overseas at the precise moment they’ve decided to rip up the entire garden with a ’uge ingin, and all about their lovely trip to England in the crisp October weather, ten years back!”

    To which Marlene responded with a smug giggle and the information that lots of them were like that and don’t worry, she wouldn’t put anyone through, he could have his coffee break.

    “Ta awfully. Can I bring you a coffee?”

    “I’m not supposed to drink it on the front desk,” replied Marlene.

    It was so neutral that he couldn’t for the life of him tell— “Uh, want me to sit out there for ten minutes?”

    “I don’t think that’d be fair on you on your first day, the phones are quite tricky, you know.”

    “Then as it’s an emergency I think we can relax the rule, and there’ll be a bikkie with it, if I have to hogtie Christie to keep her off the last one!”

    Another smug giggle and Marlene agreed that just for once couldn’t hurt and it was an emergency, after all.

    Iain tottered off to the rudimentary tea place. Blast! No bikkies at all!

    “There might be some in Gail’s desk drawer,” said a sepulchral voice from behind him.

    “Jesus!” he gasped.

    Christie looked superior. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump. Gail hides a packet of biscuits in her bottom desk drawer, usually. Only we aren’t meant to know about it. And it might be locked.”

    Iain felt for his bunch of keys. “You never breathed a word of it to me, and you never saw me with these, okay?”

    Snickering, she agreed: “You’re on!” And Iain staggered off to rob the boss’s bottom drawer. ...Ooh, goody! Arnott’s Scotch Fingers!

    “These aren’t the Shortbread Biscuits,” she noted.

    “I know, but they’re still nice.”

    “Ye’, nobbad,” she agreed through one. “Dry, though.”

    “Dryish,” said Iain, dunking one.

    “Watch out, they—”

    The biscuit collapsed.

    “—fall apart,” finished Christie, trying not to laugh.

    “Go on, laugh. I’m a broken man already, what with the rockeries and the gaze-bos and all the hubbies overseas on business while they’re having ’em built,” he sighed. “Not to mention the spotting of my English accent! Why do they care?”

    “Dunno,” she said cheerfully, munching.

    “No,” sighed Iain. “No...”

    Christie siphoned up coffee. “You entered any of your jobs yet?”

    “Er—no. Seem to’ve been on the phone all morning.”

    “Thought so. You gottoo input them, see, ’cos then we all know what jobs are current. Wamme to show you how?” she said kindly.

    “Thanks awfully, Christie, that’d be lovely,” agreed Iain humbly, not breathing the words “lovely clear database menu of Gail’s.” ’Cos for one thing, it wouldn’t be tactful, and for another thing, if someone didn’t hold his wee hand for just a bit this morning, he might cry!

    “Cripes!” concluded old Bert, sniggering, that evening.

    Iain ate up the very last crispy, salty piece of chip, and sighed. “It was that, all right.”

    “What about the, um, you know, applicants?”

    “Contractors in the bizzo, Bert, contractors,” he sighed. “They were without exception, however thick-witted, convinced they were possessed of skills they manifestly weren’t, or over-optimistic in the matter of the areas where they’d prefer to work, one million times easier to handle than the clients!”

    “Yeah,” said the old man thoughtfully. “Be the name of the game, I’d say, Iain. See, they want something from you, whereas the clients, well, they might want something but you gotta sell it to them, see?”

    “Yes, that’s exactly it!” he recognised with a laugh.

    “But you liked it all right?”

    “Oh, Hell, yes, Bert! Apart from the exhaustion factor,” he added, yawning widely,

    He accepted Bert’s invitation to stay the night: Mummy was spending half her time at Jacqueline’s these days instead of keeping him company, poor old chap. After a token hour in front of the telly he gave in, admitted that Bert was right and he was bushed, and crawled off to bed. Boy, being a placement consultant sure took it out of you!

Next chapter:

https://temps-anovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/sorted-and-settled.html