THE GIFT

Another - but longer short story - grateful for your views please.  Thx.

 

OK. I heard the joke.  The tedious preamble; the generalisation; the mawkish pun.  I found it amusing, but oh so contrived. I remained contemptuous; faced the glaring computer screen, my mouth a taut line.  I’d thought about laughing, but the instant uproarious response sufficed.  Janice’s ample bosom heaved with breathless hysteria, and Gary’s guffaw was punctuated by porcine grunts.  Pauline, story teller and line manager, glowed in triumph. Had her wit not been appropriately appreciated? Had her ascendancy not been reaffirmed; the fawning laughter, bestowed by flunkeys squawking for promotion?  Replete with public toadying, Pauline grinned, like a smug boa constrictor.  Me? I smirked inside.  My appreciation was never sought, but my exclusion was gratefully received. 

 

 

 

I concentrated on the spreadsheet.  I moved columns into new worksheets, before organising numbers into more columns and rows.  Two small amendments later, all was correct.

 

 

 

“Jan”. I ignored Pauline’s nasal whine.

 

“Janet!”  

 

I forced a “Yes!?”

 

“Gary’s spreadsheets, are they finished yet?  He’s waiting”.

 

 A futile lie.

 

“In his In-box. I sent them five minutes ago”. 

 

In her attempt to regain some managerial status Pauline retorted,

 

“Yes, but have you….?” I didn’t let her finish. 

 

“I copied it to you as well”.

 

I sneaked a smile at the screen – she hadn’t even checked her email.

 

 

 

The clock ticked.   At 4.30 Gary left, and twenty minutes later Janice made an exit.  She was meeting her fiancé for “a spot of house hunting”.  Neither wished me goodnight.  Pauline remained, as her seniority demanded; but the frantic movement of the mouse interspersed with long stares at  her screen indicated she was on the Internet, probably shopping, and probably buying even more clothes. Where did she put them all….?

 

She left at 5.35. At 6.30 I packed up, ensured all papers were locked in my pedestal, and made my way home.

 

 

 

My journey required both tube and bus, but tonight I resolved to take just the bus. A longer route, but one more interesting in the distractions it provided. It offered the perfect opportunity to hypothesise about the lives of others; their interiors a stage where uncertain dramas played.  It was now past seven o’clock so fewer passengers provided fewer such diversions.  A wizened old man missed his stop and shook his stick in angry accusation. A young couple sat adjacent, engrossed in separate text messaging. I watched the world pass in hate and ambivalence.

 

 

 

I got off at the stop by the supermarket. A bustling hub buying last minute provisions for husbands, children, lovers.  I clicked open my bag and tore the list I’d prepared from my note book.  Coffee-tick, boil-in-the-bag cod-tick, margarine-not tick. OK. Where was it then? It should be here…?

 

 Was I in the right aisle? Dairy – yes this was the dairy section. Margarine should be with the dairy. Here’s the butter, here’s the lard, here’s the cream….so where… I struggled with my instinct to shout, “Where have you put the effing margarine today then?” 

 

At home, I sat at my small table, ate boiled fish with bone cutlery, and drank a small glass of red wine; savouring flavours with deliberation.  I watched a documentary about the behaviour of red ant colonies in tropical New Guinea. Later I pressed a white blouse, and sharpened pleats into my black skirt.  I finally got to bed with my book “The Remains of the Day”. I’d read it before, but I was looking forward to the re-read of this tale of unrequited love.

 

 I was at the bus stop three minutes early. Nothing came. I checked my watch. I checked the bus schedule.  Still nothing came. I was going to be late!  

 

“Why have a schedule if it doesn’t apply?” I muttered. 

 

“How long have you been waiting?” I barked, digging my finger into the woman’s back in front of me. 

 

“Not much longer than you really.”  Her placatory whisper and lack of eye contact made her seem alarmed. 

 

I arrived at work 46 minutes later than usual. Damn. Gary, Janice and Pauline were already at their workstations. Nothing was said, but I was aware of their mute surprise.  Hanging my jacket on the remaining coat-hook, I heard a loud cough from Gary’s direction, which I was meant to acknowledge.

 

 Pauline, suppressing a giggle said:  “Er Jan…. There’s a delivery for you. On your desk, see.”

 

I turned and looked.  Bathing the desk in a swathe of scarlet, was a huge bunch of red roses.

 

 “When did these arrive?” My voice shook.

 

 “About ten minutes ago.  Special delivery.”  Pauline’s pursed lips expressed bitter envy.   

 

 I leant over and inhaled a sweet, red blooming budding fragrance, its richness giddying. I embraced the soft velvet petals between my thumb and forefinger. The white corners of a little envelope provocatively peeped through the brilliant petals. I unfolded the note inside.

 

“Jan, I love you.”

 

“Go on. Who sent them then?” Janice asked excitedly.

 

“An admirer.”   I replied.