The Human Resource

Don McIntyre took to his new job uneasily. His workmates regarded him coolly. After 30 minutes he wanted to leave. After an hour he was hiding in the toilets. Only one person spoke to him the entire day, a tall, middle-aged woman with a pinched face.

‘I’ve worked here three years love and I still don’t know what they make,’ she said. ‘Some say it’s drugs, others I’ve heard say it’s bombs. My view, and keep this to yourself mind you, it’s pornographic. Mark my words, there’s locked doors down that corridor and you see some peculiar people going that way. All tarted up if you get my meaning.’

The rest of the week passed with little incident. Don completed his tasks dutifully and at the end of each day returned to his wife and baby son in the suburbs. He took his son, cuddled him and bounced him up and down on his knee, singing nursery rhymes in a tuneless voice.

‘You’ll give him colic again,’ Janet warned as she watched from the kitchen. ‘Who’s daddy’s little boy?’ Don cooed, before the child was snatched from him inserted into a highchair and fed stewed apples.

Jospeh was an unhappy child whose coming into this world had been greeted unenthusiastically by his mother. Janet had never wanted a family and thinking Don was of the same mind had entered marriage conditionally. Once this arrangement fell by the way she was consumed with resentment. So Don went to work each morning with a heavy heart, fearing the worst; he was overjoyed on returning home in the evening to find his son still alive.

The place where Don worked made neither drugs nor bombs though he could not yet answer to X-rated activities in rooms along the corridor earnestly proposed by the woman with the pinched face. It had not happened he had cause to venture that way until in his third week of employment he took a phone call from HR asking him to ‘drop by’ to sign some paperwork that had been overlooked. ‘As soon as you can please.’

He did not tell the woman with the pinched face where he was going (in any case, they had not spoken since that first day, she now regarding him warily, ignoring his greetings, avoiding him at the table where they made cups of tea at mid-morning break) and went stealthily to find the room along the corridor, the one with HR painted in white Trajan capitals against the moss green background of the door.

He knocked and waited for permission to enter. Don was not a man to enter a room uninvited, especially one occupied by a supervisor. Furthermore, at this moment he had no reason to disbelieve the possibility that, though the door might advertise HR, and indeed he had been called by a woman who claimed to work in that department, there might be some counterfuge at work, a chance, however remote, there was a darker, seamier, low-life, altogether weirder side to this organisation.

‘For what are you waiting?’ came a woman’s voice, a young voice, the same voice he had heard on the phone moments before. ‘You have to open it yourself you know. It won’t open a la sesame. So you’re Mr McIntyre,’ the voice said as he stood on the threshold. ‘Come in. I won’t bite. Sit, and please don’t fret. You’re not about to be fired if that’s what you’re thinking. I haven’t the power anyway. I’m just a simple factotum, the instrument of higher forces. Were you to be dismissed – and you may care to remember this for future reference – you would not have been summoned. Oh no. No, no, no. You’d have been escorted long before now from the premises, double quick smart. A security guard on either arm, even more if you were a strong man and, no offence Mr McIntyre, but looking at you you are not made of beefsteak, more like a whippet. Not to say that whippets are not adorable creatures and fine loyal companions. Where was I? Oh yes. Security. A most unpleasant yet necessary procedure. Some of our former employees, and again let me reassure you Mr McIntyre that you are by no means being considered in that category, have gone to extraordinary lengths to resist dismissal. One even chained herself to her desk. Where she came by the chain is anyone’s guess. Security, in this instance in the singular, had to send for a hacksaw. It was very bitter I can tell you that. This lady had the discourtesy afterwards to lay a claim for unfair dismissal on the grounds she had been wounded by the hacksaw, an injury, so her affidavit claimed, to the right wrist. Or was that right ankle? I can’t now recall. In any case it doesn’t matter. The judge threw the matter out without comment. Never came to trial. That lady, not of sound mind, took her life a few months hence. As I say, a bitter woman. Such a pity for the security officer too. He has been unable to work since, his marriage has failed and he too, so I am told, has moments of deep despair. You see, Mr McIntyre, what tragedies pass across my desk. You, though, come as a beacon of light.’

Hearing such an affirmation pleased Don. He relaxed, a smile puckered his lips and he settled on the chair indicated. Not that it was a comfortable chair (he felt after a few minutes an ache in his lower back which soon spread higher) but it did allow the opportunity to regard his interviewer who faced him across the desk, her attention now fixed on the screen of her computer. There was little to dislike: she was an attractive young woman of about twenty-five he estimated, dark hair to her shoulders, chestnut he thought, eyes of crystalline brown.

He trembled as a thought grew in his mind of future intimacy, one stolen kiss, hand lightly touching shoulder, arm around slim waist. He hoped this fancy did not manifest itself outwardly yet he could not be certain as in an instant another thought reminded him of how little intimacy there remained in his nights with Janet. He steadied himself and felt very fortunate, at the same time deciding it prudent to alter some of the details when he later came to describe his day.

‘I see from your letter of application,’ the woman began turning her attention once more to Don, ‘that you have experience.’

‘Yes.’

He was thirty-two. He had had many experiences both as a child and adult but these he had not thought to disclose on his resume.

‘I wonder if you might elaborate on just one for me.’

There was a triangular section of dark wood about 30cm long in front of her on the desk. He had not noticed it before, it was the same shade as the furniture. The signwriting was faint but he made out a name. Russell Crowne.

‘My predecessor,’ the woman informed. ‘We were to be married,’ she confessed. ‘I do not know where he is now. I dumped him,’ she elaborated. ‘He sends a card every birthday, April 19, but I tear it in half, shove the pieces to the bottom of the garbage.’

‘Yet you still have his name plate,’ said Don growing more confident. ‘Aside from anything it is rather confusing. I might think you are Ms Crowne.’

‘It reminds me of the innocent person I then was, a younger woman, barely a woman, led, wanting to be led by a man who, as it happens, was your age when we met. I was 19, a virgin, (I hope this does not embarrass you – I feel you are trustworthy), dazzled by what I thought his exceptional intellect, his easy charm, his striking charisma, his maleness. Do I make sense? He spared nothing, guiding me along the path of...’

She paused. Don had filled in the space already but his premonition was awry. It was not love that filled the blank; rather its cousin lust.

‘I abandoned myself,’ she continued, expressing herself as if to an intimate. 'He was not unlike you in many ways. He had a slight build but of very athletic properties. He never tired of sex. And neither did I. You must forgive me, Mr McIntyre. It is like you are the key that’s unlocked the passageway to these secrets. When I saw you at the interview (no, you did not see me Mr McIntyre for I was seated behind a two-way mirror. You had no idea? You surprise and delight me!), when I saw you there I recognised immediately the connection. I waited as long as I could before speaking. Now I have, I await your reaction.’

There were many things Don could have said and many more passed fleetingly through his mind. It was difficult to concentrate, to hold just one, latch on to something, anything that might anchor him that moment. He returned her gaze of inquiry, of anticipation, as he struggled to articulate what he felt or, rather, what he felt he could say. The inappropriateness of some of his thoughts made him flush.

‘I have put you on the spot haven’t I? Why don’t we leave it there for today. Take the afternoon off – I’ll do the paperwork – reflect on what I have said. There is a lot to reflect on! I too need time to appraise what has taken place. We are not machines Mr McIntyre. We do not process stuff like a computer fed with data.’ She pretended to jab randomingly at the keyboard in graphic representation. ‘We both have hearts that beat to a quieter tune.’

It was two weeks before they spoke again. The triangular block of wood had been replaced by a perspex sign etched with the words – Human Resources Manager.

‘I’ve had a promotion. It seems the powers that be believe I’m doing a good job. Which is no more than I think myself! You look amused Mr McIntyre, as if my immodesty provokes...well, what does it provoke? I am an ambitious woman. There is no point hiding my light under a bushel.’ She laughed, a pert little laugh that made Don think of a child. ‘Have you spoken with your wife?’

Don spoke with Janet about many things, though mostly connected with baby Joseph in some way or another. Whether he was carrying a temperature; how much weight he was gaining each week (diligently plotted by Don against the average of a child his age, gender and birth weight); when his next check-up was due and who would take him; and a variety of other matters that dominate the lives of parents of a first-born. Don, however, took particular interest for he was conscious of his wife’s arbitrariness towards his son, her lack of judgement in relation to care (he had returned home one afternoon, earlier than usual, to find her asleep with Joseph bawling for want of a feed), her slide into a self-regarding, morose mood.

He had suggested she might like to make an appointment with the GP, many women, he understood, suffered the blues after childbirth. Janet had sneered.

‘It’s alright for you, Mr Go to Work,’ she’d said. ‘You’ve your job. What do I have? Mess and more mess and screaming and screaming. Did I want a baby? You knew I never. You tricked me into it.’

Don was conciliatory, took the punches as thrown, absorbed the tirade. Later he worried gravely over Janet’s health. Perhaps a GP wasn’t enough. Perhaps it was a psychiatrist she needed. He had always been fastidious with birth control, investigating at length the scientific literature on the numerous brands of prophylactic available, and suspected the fault lay with her.

‘Have you?’ the question was repeated.

‘There’s a lot going on at home presently,’ he answered.

Ms Crowne left it there. She could sense nothing would be gained by pursuing this enquiry.

‘I am sensitive to others,’ she said lightly. ‘Of that you can have no doubt Mr McIntyre. Which reminds me. Do you write poetry?’

This was uncanny he thought. He had written nothing since he was 17, romantic trifles inspired by his burgeoning love for Janet who, if she read them, displayed no joy at the affection so demonstrated in his Shakespearian styled sonnets. The impulse had then lain dormant these 15 years until last month when he’d begun again. His pen had barely ceased. Much of what he’d written was rubbish, he was highly self-critical, but there were a few lines of which he remained proud. He had energy and inspiration and was enjoying the new fountain pen he’d purchased which glided effortlessly across the unruled page. The physical act of writing was a delight, watching as letters then words revealed themselves. It was beautiful, as beautiful as observing his son growing before his eyes.

‘Recite Mr McIntyre. Recite.’

What could he recite? he stammered. There was nothing complete, nothing committed to memory as being worthy.

‘Make something up. Enthral me with your emotion, seduce me with your stanzas, wax lyrical.’

‘I can’t.’

‘You can’t? Do not disappoint me Mr McIntyre. I expect so much of you now. I am the Human Resources Manager. I have access to all the files. I know everything about you.’

It was made as a threat but Don did not flinch. He knew there could be little in his file from such brief employment, a fact that dawned on Ms Crowne too. She reconsidered and, after a suitable interval, said: ‘I give you this option. Go home and write me a poem. It doesn’t have to be long but it must be passionate. Can you do that for me?’

He wrote when Janet was asleep. Joseph was teething and he gently pushed his rocker back and forth on the floor hoping the rhythm would act as a spur to inspiration. But tonight the words would not flow. Maybe it was pressure of having to produce to a deadline. As soon as he had written something he tore the page from the pad, screwed it into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder. He closed his eyes. When he opened them Janet was standing there, looking angry, holding a sheet of paper.

‘Did you write this?’ she demanded.

‘Was I asleep?'

‘Did you write this?’

‘Don’t shout. You’ll wake Joseph’

‘Did you write: “My loins press hard against your flesh as we engage in rapture my dear heart...”?’

It was excruciating to hear it repeated. It really was terrible and it needed punctuation.

‘You’re writing poetry again,’ Janet continued. ‘Who is she? Who is this “dearest”?’

‘It might be you,’ he attempted weakly.

‘Don’t give me that. You only ever wrote me poems when you were trying to impress me, which they didn’t. If you’re having an affair at least be a man about it – don’t play the bleeding heart. You’re no romantic Don McIntyre but if you’re looking for a divorce keep writing this drivel.’

The following morning at work he waited like a fourth grader to be called before the headmistress, his stomach churning with anxiety. Finally, at 11.29am, the summons came. He noticed the woman with the pinched face stare as he made his way to the corridor. But it wasn’t only her: the eyes of everyone were upon him: so like a prisoner called to execution he couldn’t help thinking.

‘Well then, Mr McIntyre,’ Ms Crowne began once he was settled in the seat that made his back ache. ‘What have you brought me?’

‘I have nothing.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Nothing. Nought. Zero. A complete blank.’

‘That is not good enough Mr McIntyre.’

‘It is the truth.’

‘It may be the truth but it is unacceptable. I gave you an instruction, an order. I was expecting a poem and now you sit there and tell me you have brought nothing, that you are barren?’

He nodded.

‘Tut, tut. This will not do.’

‘My wife says she wants a divorce,’ he confessed.

‘And what has that to do with anything?’

‘It is the reason I was unable to write.’

‘That is your explanation?’

'Will it not do?’

‘You had better flesh it out a little bit more, after all you may have been having difficulties long before this request was made. It sounds, may I say, as if you are trying to press the blame for this split on to the innocent commission of a poem.’

‘Not at all.’

‘Please elaborate before you exhaust my patience Mr McIntyre. I have a very busy schedule and this is likely to push it quite out of joint.’

‘I was trying, trying my hardest, believe me, to write something, something suitable, when I fell asleep. Our baby, Joseph, was...right, I won’t take up your time with that. Anyway, when I came too there she was holding up one of the discarded verses and threatening divorce.’

‘She was jealous?’

There was a note of satisfaction in Ms Crowne’s voice.

‘I don’t know. I couldn’t say. I was...’

‘She was jealous. This is excellent. You’ve done well, much better than I could have hoped. This is so much better than any poem you might have completed.’

‘You think?’

‘Undoubtedly. If only you had told me this at the start. It would have saved so much time.’

Don was relieved. He allowed a smile to take shape. He breathed deeply, let the weight fall from his shoulders and relaxed, as much as it was possible to relax in that chair.

Ms Crowne lent forward inviting confidentiality. She had put up her hair which he thought most elegant, drawing attention to the fine structure of her neck, the delightful arc of her shoulders. He liked her very much, though whether love could come forth was, as yet, uncertain. That he was prepared to take that route was beyond doubt even if he knew how dirty the consequences. Don was (this you are quite likely to have deduced) naïve though Janet was wrong when she’d said he was ‘no romantic,’ an error compounded by years of neglectful disinterest. He was every inch a romantic, its energy dormant in a relationship doused down by platitude and circumspection.

‘Please follow me.’

She opened a side-door that divided her office from a room adjacent but barred entry with her body.

‘You are not to speak of this to anyone, you understand?’

Once she had received his assent, given by the almost imperceptible roll of his head, she led the way, switching on a light which illuminated a windowless space occupied by a bed, single, made up and covered in a light blue coverlet; a full length mirror in which he could see himself plainly; a pile of magazines, glossy, piled neatly near the mirror, together with an unopened box of tissues, man-size; a washbasin plumbed in one corner. She squatted by the side of the bed, feeling underneath for something, finally pulling out a plastic container with a yellow screw lid. She held it out like it was a trophy she was presenting to an athlete who had no idea he was to be so honoured.

‘Do you know why I have chosen you, Mr McIntyre?’ she asked, withdrawing the container to her chest where it snuggled between her breasts.

‘I am an ambitious woman,’ she elaborated. 'You will remember my having said that before. My ambitions know no bounds. No bounds. I am, at the moment, the human resources manager and I will, not before long, be the senior human resources manager. In due course it is certain I will be invited on to the board of management, but with cunning and a small modicum of luck I will make it to the very top as Chief Operating Officer. Do you know how much a COO can take home Mr McIntyre? It will leave you speechless. The annual figure is more than you could hope to gross in 15 years of hard graft, and that is before the addition of bonuses and share options. The world is very much your oyster once you have been appointed COO. There is the expectation, for instance, of being headhunted by another organisation (I am but young), maybe even a publicly-listed organisation, or even a multinational. Oh, can you imagine what that would mean? International air travel, first class, the very best hotels, chauffeur driven limousines (though that I will insist on as COO) and entre to the very finest restaurants, even when full. That is strictly reserved for A-list executives. Honours flow; doors open; invitations from the famous pour in. Ah! How I would love to adorn the cover of Time magazine one day, Mr McIntyre. And I will. Of that I have not the smallest doubt. However. However, I am a woman and I must fulfil another duty. That is why I have selected you. I need someone I can trust, someone with intelligence and discretion, someone unburdened by family.’

Don interrupted. He reminded her of his wife and son.

‘But not for long. There is no point beating about the bush. She has said she wants a divorce and when she gets it she will also get the child. That is how it works. I have sympathy for the man in such cases – many would make excellent carers – but the courts are not so minded. The man is at fault even if he isn’t. Are you with me?’

Ms Crowne spoke quickly, without hesitation and in a manner that did not invite argument. Even had Don been tempted to disagree, dare pose she was quite wrong in her statement, at fault in her suggestion that because Janet had hinted at divorce then divorce was inevitable, she would have closed him down the way a teacher does a pupil: a finger to lips, a shake of the head, even a ‘now you know better than to contradict’. Ms Crowne was in full flight, there was no margin for distraction and she was not about to be torpedoed by queries as to facts.

‘So, what an ambitious woman needs is fulfilment,’ she continued. ‘There must be pleasure in her life too, something or someone who draws her back for a reality check, pulls the curtain across the dizzying world she occupies in her frantic daily round of business. This is most important. I am an avid reader of biographies, Mr McIntyre. I know this to be true.’

He was beginning to sense where this might be leading. A divorce. Unencumbered by family. Need for someone at home. Why, she was offering a proposal. She liked him after all. Liked him enough to want him as a partner, to fulfil those needs she spoke of? He became a little light-headed. He needed to sit. She sat close to him on the bed. Was he capable, she was asking? Would he mind demonstrating? She produced the little plastic bottle with the yellow screw top again. He was confused. He thought they...thought they might...

Ms Crowne jumped to her feet.

‘Whatever are you thinking Mr McIntyre? No, don’t tell me what you are thinking. I know what you are thinking. I am still the human resources manager. You are thinking that I wish to have intercourse with you. I’m sorry to shatter that illusion but that is not what I have been leading up to, though this is not the first time such a mistake has arisen in this room. I took you for a more refined man, not one with vulgar intentions.’

Don apologised. ‘Accepted. Now let me jump straight to the chase as time is getting away and I have much to do. It is not you I need so much as what you can provide. I am after a baby, Mr McIntyre. That is what I am after. A husband, a partner, what you will, I most definitely do not need. There is no place in my journey for three. Two, yes.’

Don struggled to hide his disappointment. What was left? A loveless marriage, that had been made clear to him; not just that but a marriage surely to be soon dissolved (like bone in acid he thought); separation from his son; lodging in a cheap boarding house, his clothes bundled into suitcases and black plastic bags split down the seam; years ahead of isolation and torment.

‘If I do this for you?’ he asked.

Ms Crowne, who was looking at herself in the mirror, half-turned but continued her self-regard as she replied: ‘I will see you are accounted for, though you will be redeployed to ensure no embarrassment.’

He wanted to think about it, have time to digest the implications of what he had been told; but this was denied. She needed his compliance without delay.

‘I hope childbirth does not have a dismal impact on my figure,’ she noted, her hands gently sliding most provocatively along and down her hips. ‘You men are so fortunate. But I suppose you have heard that many times from your wife. Why don’t I give you ten minutes alone.’

He picked up the plastic container with the yellow twist top. It would be easy to do what she asked yet he was uncertain she was someone he could trust, for if he did this thing how was he to know she wouldn’t turn upon him, deny his story? She was an ambitious woman. She had said that herself. Twice. What was he but a provider? She might have been asking him for a loaf of bread.

‘I haven’t,’ he said when she returned, exactly ten minutes later. She said she was disappointed. She asked him to leave. There would be security waiting to escort him from the building. As he left he spotted the woman with the pinched face watching.

She seemed to be smiling.