I Move into Management

Norbert

Chapter 40

I Move into Management

The following week GT gets some more bad news.

‘This has just appeared on the noticeboard,’ says Dora Mae Doll, slapping a sheet of paper on the authorization bench in front of him.

‘Not already, surely.’

It is a poster advertising the annual soccer match between the Haematology department and Biochemistry.

‘Sounds like fun,’ I say.

‘It used to be,’ says Ruben, ‘many years ago.’

‘We’ve lost the last six,’ says the Chief, poking his head out of his office.

‘It’s totally dick-tickled,’ says Rube. ‘Before that we were evenly matched. They’d win it one year, us the next, but then more women came into the job.’ He glares angrily at GT and looks like he wants to spit.

‘There are no longer enough drones of the right age and fitness in Haematology, which is entirely down to moi,’ he explains.

I look across. ‘I never thought I would hear you admit to making a mistake.’

‘Since I started, ninety-nine percent of applications for jobs in Haematology have come from young ladies desperate for a piece of moi. I attract them like flies to poo. Drones know they can’t compete, so they don’t bother applying.’

‘Now we can barely raise a butt-tickling team,’ says Rube. ‘We dropped the number of players from eleven to nine a side, then last year down to seven. This year we’ve only got five, including Coagulation and Blood Bank. It’ll be another gullet-tickling massacre.’

‘I’m the architect of my own downfall, but what can I do? When you’ve got it in spades, you’re stuck with it. I’m a babe magnet.’

‘More like a council bin lorry what picks trash up off the street,’ says Isabel, glaring at every other female in the room.

‘You’ve got Isabel’s new lover, Norbie, now,’ says Dora Mae Blimp, slapping me across the back of the head.

Everyone laughs and I blush.

‘They’d break the little weasel in half and stamp him into the dirt,’ GT says on his way out of the lab, the poster scrunched in his fist.

Warnetires-Skidmore asks if I play football.

‘I’m into the more rugged sports, like needlework. Of course I don’t play football. And I definitely don’t play cricket, either,’ I add, hastily.

‘Oh well, that’ll be seven on the trot.’

‘Can dogs play in the team?’ I ask, thinking about Weggie and his new-found skills.

‘Nob-gobbling women are not allowed,’ says Rube.

Dora Mae Doll shoots him the finger. ‘You’ll be sorely missed, you wrinkle-faced bulldog.’

‘Who’s in charge of the team?’ I ask.

‘GT is manager and captain,’ says Warnetires-Skidmore, ‘though he resigns after every defeat. No one else will do it. There’s an awful lot of pride at stake.’

I look at him. ‘How important would it be to you and the department for us to win this match?’

‘Are you offering to take over?’

‘Could I have a word in private?’ I follow him into his office. ‘Would it further my cause if we did win?’

He sniffs. ‘Winning an inter-departmental football match isn’t something you can put on your CV, but it would certainly elevate your status in the eyes of your peers and superiors. Something you badly need to do, Norbert. You have to earn their respect if you hope to progress.’

‘I’m trying, sir.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, you’ve done an excellent job bringing yourself up to speed. You work hard, you have all the right credentials, but there’s a lot more to it than that. You have to be liked and trusted, at least to begin with. After a few years, everyone will think you’re an incompetent buffoon and wonder how the hell you got the job. It goes with the territory.’

‘Nobody has a bad word to say about you, sir.’

He smiles. ‘Diplomacy is another essential ingredient for advancement. Well said.’

‘I know I’m not popular. I know I need to win them over. I’ve got nothing to lose, have I? I’ll take the job.’

*

During my afternoon tea break, I climb a couple of floors and ask to see the Chief Technician.

‘You’re the manager of the all-conquering Biochemistry football team, I believe?’

‘For my sins.’

I offer my hand. ‘Norbert Winstanley Rockhampton-Smythe, your opposite number.’

He ignores it. ‘Have you come for a long stand?’

I sit down without being invited. ‘We’ve only got five players.’

‘Forget it. We are not reducing the competition to a five-a-side kickabout. Withdraw, we’ll keep the trophy and find other opposition. The porters, for instance.’

‘We wouldn’t dream of withdrawing from such a well-loved tradition. I’m just asking for a change to the rules. I want to bolster our team with two women players.’

Kit Cattermole-O’Hare bursts out laughing. ‘You want to play females?’

‘Why not?’

‘Even cricket doesn’t allow women players.’ But then he shrugs. ‘Okay, I accept. You can have as many as you want. It’ll be a massacre. We won fifteen – nil last year. With women in your team we’ll double that.’

‘Because of fitness issues, I also want to reduce the match to an hour.’

‘Thirty minutes each half is fine with me. We’ll still score thirty goals.’

‘And no substitutes allowed.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. That’s a basic FA ruling.’

‘It’s just a friendly inter-departmental game. It could just as easily be tiddlywinks.’

He shakes his head and smiles. ‘You poor, naive fool.’ He leans back and crosses his legs on top of his desk. ‘Let me spell it out for you. This friendly inter-departmental football match is a veneer, masking the bitter rivalry between two constantly feuding departments within a cash-strapped laboratory. In the boardroom we fight over staffing levels, equipment, floor space, every damn thing. Cunning, strength of will, statistics, performance figures and ultimately logic decides who gets what. Only if bribery, threats and underhand tactics fail to reverse a decision does it go ahead. That’s the reality, but it’s all done with a smile and a handshake.’ He removes his legs and leans towards me. ‘But once a year, out there on the field of dreams (he points out the window) we get to release all that pent-up anger and frustration in a “friendly game of football”.’ He does the twiggly thing with his fingers to indicate the quote. ‘In other words, to kick the living crap out of you grannyticklers and rub your stupid faces in the mud to emphasize our superiority as a department. That’s what it means.’

‘It’s a good job we’re not sore losers.’

‘But you are. Ask GT. Ask Warnetires-Skidmore. Ask anyone. Underneath, the resentment is so deeply ingrained it hurts. We know it and so do you. It’s almost telepathic. Every decision at board level that goes our way is accompanied by a handshake and a look that says: “And we beat you at football”. On the rare occasions when Warnetires-Skidmore gets the better of me, I grip the limp-wristed oaf’s sweaty palm and transmit: “You might have won this one, but we still beat you at football.”’

‘I know it’s compulsory to sniff, but I never realised you had to be psychic to become a Chief Technician.’

‘There’s a lot you need to learn if you want to progress in this job.’

‘I’m beginning to realise that.’

‘You’re wasting your time. GT is a prick aiming to step into the shoes of an even bigger prick. Taking over from him and losing won’t do you any favours. Rube’s bitter and twisted, just like his nose. The job’s eaten him up. You only have to look at him. He’ll be dead within six months of retiring. Mark my words. I’ve seen it before. Take my advice. Forget ambition. Stay as a basic grade. Do the on-call. Live within your means and coast to retirement. It’s the only way someone like you can survive. You’re not cut out for advancement. You’ll never make it.’

‘You have a very cynical view on life, if you don’t my saying. I’m sure it doesn’t have to be that way.’

‘The whole of the Health Service is dog eat dog.’

‘You can’t compare the NHS to a flyball team.’

‘What?’

‘It’s … erm … an analogy,’ I stammer.

‘A bloody stupid one.’

‘If the system doesn’t work because it’s too competitive, it needs changing.’

‘Can’t and won’t happen in the current political and economic climate.’

I am now way out of my depth. I know nothing at all about extremes of weather. I steer the conversation back to the match.

‘We haven’t got enough players to field substitutes.’

It takes Cattermole-O’Hare a moment to readjust. ‘Even if we did lose a couple of players to freak injuries it wouldn’t alter the outcome.’ He stretches out a hand at last. ‘It’s a deal.’

I take it. ‘See you on match day.’