Step Forward, Harry Salt - Part III

Sorry for not sharing anything lately: been snowed under with work and baby prep!
Here's the last part of Harry Salt I'll be sharing for a while...

3. Biscuits
The working day at Chegwin and Blunt was over. Workers scurried from the functional concrete edifice into the late-afternoon gloom to pick up kids, traipse through supermarkets, or hit the off-licences or pubs within the town. Harry was joined by Alan. He’d hoped to sneak into the careers fair on his own, unseen by colleagues and – most especially – Alice, but after following Harry out and accompanying him for a few yards, it soon became apparent that Alan was headed for the same event as him.

“Hadn’t realised you were after a new job, Alan,” remarked Harry.

“Just curious, Harry. Just curious. Keeping my options open, you know? Besides, it’s always good for you to have a wingman, right?” Alan responded.

Harry frowned. “I’m not on the pull, Alan.”

“No, no, course not, course not. Although a lad like you should be sowing your oats by now. Getting some action. Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Getting any? Action, like?” Alan’s ginger toupee appeared to twitch in anticipation of Harry’s answer, but it was most likely the breeze.

“None of your business!” spluttered Harry, a little more affronted than he’d intended to let on, before adding, “and, no, as it happens, I’m not. Not for want of trying, obviously, but no. Thanks for your… concern.”

Not that Harry had actually been trying. At all. Although he was tired and frustrated in all kinds of ways lately, sorting a new career out was, he hoped, going to be the first piece in a happier, more focused and more prosperous jigsaw, going forwards. But Alan wasn’t likely to take that for an answer right now.

“It’ll only be a matter of time, you’ll see. Be patient. A nice lad like you. Clever. Kind. A lot to offer to a nice girl. You’re not a silly bastard like some of the drongos out there.” Alan paused, thoughtfully. “You’ll have all the fanny after you, you will.”

Harry had been absentmindedly sucking on a sherbet lemon until this point, and this particular revelation caused him to nearly choke on it before sending it flying out of his mouth and spinning into the gutter.

“Oh now, that’s a waste,” opined Alan.

For a brief second, Harry feared his companion was going to go and rescue the sweet and have it for himself.

They were standing still now at a pelican crossing, with the crossing man opposite illuminated in red and partially covered by a blue sticker that carried the words “Bollocks to The Change!”

The crossing light changed from red to green, and they started to make their way over the black and white-painted stripes on the tarmac. The angry bark of a dog came from a nearby street, causing Harry to jump. Alan looked about, as if checking for something, and then they crossed.

***

A short while later, they turned left along the main road for Tavener College, one of the more modern buildings in the locality. It was half-term, so any ‘snowflake students’ (as Alan referred to them) were safely shielded from his unfathomable ire. Once through the rotating glass doors of the reception, they padded across a large rug bearing the inscription “Welcome to Tavener College” to where a very bored receptionist sat playing a game on her mobile phone. Her focus upon the game was such that she appeared to be unaware of them.

Alan moved forwards to speak. “Excuse me, miss?”

The receptionist raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t move away from the game. Alan noticed that she was also chewing gum. He rotated his head slightly to the right, straining his neck and causing it to crack loudly before grimacing.

The receptionist looked up disinterestedly into his steely gaze. “Careers fair? Upstairs. Room UC106.” And with that, she returned to the game.

Alan drew a long breath. “There. That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” he said with a degree of satisfaction in his voice before turning to Harry. “I swear,” he commented under his breath, “customer service in this country is on the skids.”

They worked their way upstairs, and as their footsteps echoed, they both became acutely aware of the emptiness of the building. The only other person they encountered was a cleaner on the stairs, who appeared to be taking a rest midway through cleaning a step, leaning on his mop, asleep.

“Sleeping on the job?” enquired Alan sniffily as he navigated his way around the prone body.

Harry stopped and stared at the cleaner for a moment, puzzled. “Hello? Hello? Are you okay?”

The cleaner didn’t answer, or move, for that matter. Harry was about to say something else, but Alan had bounded round a corner at the top of the stairs and so, reluctantly, Harry nipped up the remaining steps to catch him up.

“He was a bit odd, wasn’t he?” asked Harry as he fell back into step with Alan.

“The cleaner?” replied Alan dismissively, “Just overworked and underpaid, I imagine. Shagged out and grabbing a moment’s kip. For the pittance he’s probably earning, we can leave him to it. Mind you, if he’s not started again by the time we head back downstairs, I’ll clip his bloody ear, the lazy tosser. Anyway…” He pointed ahead of them at a pair of double doors on the left. “I reckon this might be it.”

Jogging in an ungainly manner ahead of Harry, he pushed the doors open and entered before sticking his head back out and nodding in a conspiratorial manner towards Harry. Puzzled, Harry followed Alan into the room. As the doors shut behind him, Harry stopped to see Alan was now standing transfixed, looking towards the end of the long hall in which they now found themselves.

Following Alan’s gaze, he turned to see a pretty and immaculately presented lady sitting behind a desk right at the far end of the room. A colourful display board stood by the desk, and an equally immaculate and identically dressed woman was standing by it. Both of the ladies smiled back at the boys. There was something unsettling about the smiles. They were just that little bit too perfect.

The lady behind the desk spoke first in a very cheery, singsong voice. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Yes, good evening gentlemen,” added the woman to her side.

There was absolute silence: no sense of traffic outside anymore, no footsteps within the building, no hum of air conditioning, nothing. Alan and Harry stared forwards. The two matching ladies in their matching business outfits smiled back.

“Good evening to you, miss. And to you too… miss,” ventured Alan.

“Hello… is this the careers fair?” asked Harry.

“Oh, it most certainly is,” replied the lady behind the desk through her glossy smile.

“Do come and sit, and we’ll find the right job just for you,” added her companion.

“You can even have a free pen,” chirruped the lady behind the desk.

“A free pen. We have plenty,” the second confirmed.

Harry and Alan continued to stare. Whenever one of the ladies spoke, the other followed immediately with immaculate timing. It had a somewhat disturbing effect – yet they both smiled on fixedly at the two men.

“Come and sit. We won’t bite!” pointed out the seated woman.

Right on cue, her partner laughed, “Ha ha ha! No. We won’t.”

Neither of the boys looked convinced. Harry turned briefly to look at Alan, who was open-mouthed. The verbal-relay game continued.

“Perhaps you would care for a biscuit?”

“Or two biscuits?”

“There are plenty of biscuits.”

At this, Alan sparkled back into life. “Ah, now you come to mention it, I was feeling a little peckish. Ex-army, see. I’ve got a big appetite.” He strode towards the desk, and Harry, not wanting to be left behind, followed cautiously and at a safe distance.

“Oh, Forces? How marvellous!” declared the seated lady.

“Oh, plenty of opportunities for ex-Forces, yes,” appended her echo.

“I was hoping so,” said Alan, taking a fruit shortcake from the plate of biscuits on the table, “That’s why I came. I also brought my colleague with me: Harry.”

Harry glowered at Alan momentarily, but found his attention back on the ladies immediately.

At the mention of Harry’s name, the two careers advisors had swivelled their heads with disturbing synchronicity to face him. A shiver ran up his spine. Alan munched on his biscuit, nonplussed, crumbs amassing on his chin.

“Harry, have a pen,” offered the lady behind the desk, indicating a mug filled with biros.

“We have plenty of pens. And a seat,” added her companion, who nodded at the two plastic seats opposite them.

“A pen and a seat, Harry.”

“And fill in this form.”

“With that pen.”

“In that seat.”

“And tell us both plenty about yourself, Harry.”

“Yes, plenty. If you would.”

During the verbal bombardment, Harry had slowly edged himself into one of the chairs to sit facing the advisors, although he was starting to feel less like he was being advised and more that he was being dictated to. It wasn’t entirely pleasant, and he noticed he was starting to feel a little sweaty, which wasn’t especially ideal either.

The lady behind the desk spoke again, this time to Alan, despite her gaze remaining fixedly on Harry. “And you sir, take a seat Mr…”

“Higgins,” finished Alan. “May I have one more biscuit, please?” he asked hopefully as he sat next to Harry, who was now armed with a biro and a form.

The ladies did not respond. Instead, they looked on intently at Harry who stared back edgily. Alan shrugged and took two biscuits from the plate.

As was apparently the norm, the lady behind the desk spoke first. “So…”

“So, Harry,” echoed her colleague. “What is it that you want to do?”

Harry, for the first time faced with having a choice in the direction of where the conversation was headed, found himself at a loss for words. “Er, well… I want to…”

“Yes?” The lady behind the desk craned forwards eagerly.

“Erm…” fumbled Harry.

The second lady, equally keen, bent towards him. “Yes?”

Harry took a breath, looked to the ceiling for inspiration, saw a tired wasp staggering around the edge of a light fitting and fumbled on. “I want to creatively shape my er…”

The lady behind the desk beamed at him. “Do go on.”

“Shape my, er… my future and take control fully of… er…”

The lady standing by the desk, who had been nodding in encouragement at virtually every syllable that Harry was managing, clasped her hands together rapturously. “This is very good!”

“Well, I want a new career,” said Harry nervously, encouraged by the affirmation and now finding his stride. “Something rewarding; something demanding. Something that’s going to push me and maybe take me a little outside my… er, comfort zone? I’m very good with people, and I would want to do something that can help others. I like to make things better for people, for the way they live. I want to work hard, to be challenged and to learn. I think I have a lot to offer… other people. I think.”

“Yes, you do,” concurred the lady behind the desk.

“A lot to offer… er…” Harry sighed and stopped, fishing for words. “Look, I… I’m sorry. I should have prepared better. I haven’t been sleeping well lately, and, well, I wasn’t expecting so many questions so quickly. Sorry.”

As Harry had been talking, one of the ladies had glided towards him. Now she looked down upon him almost in a forgiving manner. “Oh, come now, Harry – you needn’t worry. Have another biscuit. We have—”

“Plenty? Thank you,” he interrupted and gratefully took one from the plate before nervously shoving the whole thing into his mouth.

“Besides which, we think we have just the job for you, Mr Salt,” concluded the seated lady with a smile.

At this, Harry coughed on his biscuit, sending crumbs in all directions. One landed upon the lapel of her blouse. Her smile intact, and without taking her eyes from Harry’s, she delicately and efficiently curled her hand towards her neck before flicking the crumb deftly away using the long and manicured nail of her middle finger.

Alan was incensed. “Harry, that’s not how you eat biscuits. You eat them like this.”

Alan reached forwards for another biscuit from the plate, but Harry cut in. “I didn’t tell you my surname.”

Alan froze in mid-reach, and looked directly at the seated advisor. His eyes narrowed accusingly. “Are you some kind of dirty, filthy spies? What’s in these biscuits? What’s going on here? I demand answers!”

“Oh, we’re not spies, Mr Higgins,” came the immediate and somewhat haughty reply.

“No, nothing of the sort,” corroborated her companion. “And currants. Plenty of currants.”

“Well, what are you then? And how did you know my surname?” asked Harry, equally as perturbed.

The two ladies settled back into their original positions and paused for a brief moment.

“We’re from the MOP Careers Advisory Centre. We’re careers advisors. We advise on careers. That is what we do; that is what we do well, with vast experience and with clinical efficiency. And our advice to you, Harry Salt, is that a career with us could provide you with all those things you seek and a great deal more besides. We think – in fact, we know – that you could be very happy with us, and that a job at the MOP could be the first jigsaw piece of prosperity in a better life for you, moving forwards. Furthermore, your name is on your badge.”

Harry looked down to see he was still wearing his Chegwin and Blunt identity pass, went to speak, froze midway through opening his mouth and then took a deep breath. “You think a job with you could be a what?”

“A jigsaw piece. In your life. The first piece. In a better life. Your future. A happier, more focussed one. That is what you want, right? Along with a decent wage, excellent canteen facilities and opportunities to make a difference to the world in which we all live? Moving forwards?”

Harry frowned. “Well, yes… that is what I want – exactly that, in fact – but… I’m sorry, have we met before?”

“I can 100% guarantee we most definitely have not, Mr Salt,” declared the careers advisor, preening back at him sunnily.

Alan eyed them both suspiciously, before leaning to whisper behind a cupped hand into Harry’s ear, “If you want my advice then remember this, Harry: never trust anyone. Anyone. About anything. Ever. That shit is fatal. Look at what happened to Neville Chamberlain after Hitler waved his little Austrian sausage in his face.”

Harry turned to whisper back, “Cheers for being protective and everything, but they’re just careers advisors, Alan.”

“Yeah, but there’s some weird shit going on at the moment, Harry. Weird as. People acting up. Everywhere. It’s in the papers. On the internet. Theories. Strange buggers like these two. I swear I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”

“Yeah, well, I’d like to see what these two have to say. Maybe there’s an open day at this MOP or something?”

“There’s no open day as such, Mr Salt,” said the first careers advisor, startling them both back into facing the desk, “but we can make you an appointment to see Mr Newman. He’s the CEO of the MOP and will explain everything to you. I assume you know the cement works in the Hope Valley?”

Harry flashed them a puzzled look, something that was now a regular feature of the conversation. The cement works was a local landmark that dominated the otherwise beautiful valley near to where Harry lived and had grown up. Hated by some and loved by others, the works had been constructed over ninety years ago on the valley floor, and on misty mornings the towering chimney would rise majestically above the golden mist to greet the sun and create, along with the awe-inspiring backdrop of some of Derbyshire’s more dramatic hilltops, the dream shot for any landscape photographer. Despite the industrial incongruence of the building among the dales and leas of the historic Peak District, it remained an eye-catching example of man’s dependence upon the secrets held below the earth’s surface, and indeed local legend held it that the works had been built on something of a sacred site, and that it wasn’t necessarily a wise thing that they had.

“The cement works? Yes, I know them. Why?” enquired Harry.

“We’ve made an appointment for you to see Mr Newman there, next Monday morning at 9am. Please report to reception and do not be late.” With those last words, she fixed Harry with a steely stare and reached over the desk to press a business card into his hand.

“But I don’t know anything about cement…?”

At this, the two careers advisors froze before erupting into a fit of high-pitched laughter, which then halted as soon as it had begun. “That is not going to be a problem, Mr Salt. Not a problem whatsoever. Monday morning at 9am. Mr Newman will see you then. Thank you!”

Alan and Harry looked at one another in bafflement, before the former stood, pointed accusingly, said, “I’m on to you. I know your game,” grabbed a handful of the remaining biscuits, and made a swift exit through the double doors.

Harry, nodding politely to the still-grinning careers advisors, pocketed the business card and followed him as fast as he could.

Part I is here
Part II is here