‘5.50pm. Check dining room is prepared. Check seating plan is clearly displayed. Check that meal is on schedule.’ Kim didn’t know why she was reading the list again when just minutes before she’d gone and followed these last instructions to the letter. The seating plan was so clearly displayed it deserved the Nobel Prize for clarity and the disinterested kitchen staff had, for the fifth time that day, been nagged to do their job by someone who knew nothing about catering and probably never would. Such was the way with Connections regulations – lots of teaching grandmothers to suck eggs and assorted cooking ingredients. Kim looked at her young person’s big-faced digital watch. It was six o’clock – well, a huge 5.59pm –and here she was prepped and ready in the right place to execute the next item on the never-ending itinerary. ‘6pm’, it said, ‘Greet participants in the bar.’ If they’re on time, she thought to herself, but they never are. Kim looked around the deserted watering hole. Strange how it was always bustling when participants were meant to be in the meeting rooms instead, getting on with their role plays, exercises and conscious-raising brain-storming sessions. The bar had regulation old-hotel patterned carpet and uncomfortable little stools that some people would insist on calling buffets (with a hard ‘t’). Humorous but tatty Guinness beer mats lay stuck to the little round tables that could barely hold an ashtray never mind a round of assorted drinks and a couple of bright yellow folders. I6t may have been the weekend’s objective to get ‘Talkin’ about a Regeneration’ (Connections never shied from a cringe-making play on words), but Kim felt it was the venue, most of all, that could do with a new outlook on life. There were no staff in evidence but as it didn’t say anything in her notes to the effect of ‘check bar staff are ready to serve drinks’ she decided to do nothing about the abandoned posts. Instead she sat completely functionless for a minute and attempted to let her busy mind catch up with itself. She tried not to think about being hot and sweaty in her stiff business suit and long-sleeved shirt whilst everyone else was upstairs changing for dinner. She didn’t have time to change because the last session had over-run and there had been a problem with the showers in three of the participants’ bedrooms. Her black dress would be hanging up in her room, wondering what on earth she had brought it for. Being slimy and uncomfortable was bad enough but Kim was more concerned with how hungry she was. Lunch seemed a long time ago and dinner hours into the future. She hadn’t managed to grab a biscuit at the tea break and was now regretting not fighting the man from the Sports and Recreation for that last Rich Tea finger. The evening meal was due to start at 6.45pm but that would only be the starter (summer vegetable soup – big deal, cheapskates) and the main course would be ages again after that. What were they having? Chicken, of course, or salmon or, for vegetarians like herself, something created hurriedly with spinach and filo pastry (how original). She didn’t like eating in public at the best of times – pointless, difficult-to-cut filo pastry only made the challenge greater. Kim calculated whether she could stuff some crisps into her empty system before anyone else arrived. She looked over at the bar. Still no sign of anyone who might be permitted to provide her with said crisps. “Kim, here you are. Shower problems sorted?” “Yes, all done. Something to do with hair apparently.” “Oh.” The small, thin, tidy woman looked slightly nauseous. “Well. As long as it was seen to.” Mel was the next in command at Connections’ northern office. She was always relieved when Kim managed to deal with a potentially dirty or unsightly problem because, as a manager, Mel felt she had far more important things to worry about. She had real issues on her mind - complicated matters about public policy. She really didn’t want to be messing about with blocked drains and dietary requirements and missing clues for the treasure hunt. Mel made sure she always changed for dinner. Appearance was important for someone in her position - this was undisputable. She felt herself to be central to the whole operation and so expected herself to look important, be charming and talk knowledgeably at all times. She bought everything at Next because she liked the way Yasmin Le Bon looked in the catalogue (‘it’s a directory actually, Kim and don’t you think her colouring is just like mine?’). This evening Mel had gone for a pale green shift dress with a matching jacket whilst she had speedily plaited her brown shoulder length hair and tied it with a jade-coloured silk ribbon. “You look nice.” Kim wanted to change the subject away from drains and any of her other employee responsibilities. Given the chance, Mel usually liked talking about herself and her small family so Kim knew that anything to do with ‘you’ was a good avenue to head on down. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure about the colour. I’ll probably spill soup down myself or something.” She ran her petite hands down the soft clean material. “It makes such a change to dress up in the evening instead of down. If I ever wore this at home Josh would have it covered in yoghurt fingerprints quicker than you can say ‘Tinky Winky, Dipsy, La La and Po’.” Here we go, thought Kim, she’s onto little Joshykins and we’re barely ten seconds into the non-work conversation. This should keep us going for a while. Sure enough Mel (who hated working with someone called Kim and all the bad ‘80s music jokes this encouraged) talked solidly about her two year old son Josh for the next few minutes without so much as taking a pause for fuel. Kim didn’t bother to follow the line of attack – she had met Josh and he was a lovely little soul but she really didn’t need to know the details of his every waking moment. She didn’t need regular satellite link newsflashes on his astounding development. What was Mel on about now? “So he can draw shapes really well already. Stuart thinks he might be an architect when he grows up.” Kim looked at Mel’s earnest, lined face. Was she taking the piss? She often found it hard to read Mel and found her a weird concoction of enthusiasm, energy and complete and utter gibberish. No, this time she was sure, Melanie Anne Hawkins was completely serious. She really did think little Josh was a genius. Kim hoped he would be – for his sake. Suddenly there was an influx of noise as a group of the programme’s participants finally entered the bar. Kim looked up and noted that as usual the livelier members of the group had made their way to the alcohol first. They were all clean, keen and ready for an evening of talk, fun and games with new friends. Leading the pack of four was Tony Bridges, a boisterous senior policeman in his late forties with obligatory huge moustache. He was closely followed by Mark Denton (also in his forties, red-cheeked and something significant at the local water company), Julian Southgate (early thirties and ageing, constantly smoking young entrepreneur) and JJ Miller (mid thirties, accountant for a big wealthy firm). JJ was a woman who liked to hang out with men and boys. She was a tough talking, hard living character who smoked like a chimney and, no doubt, drank like a school of fish. They would soon see. “Ladies, ladies,” boomed Bridges to the seated Mel and Kim, “looking very respectable…” he guffawed, “res-pec-tab-le,” he sang to no one in particular. “Bet you hear that all the time!” Mel struggled not to purse her lips at the important and influential personage in his off-duty jeans and checked short-sleeved shirt. She didn’t have a natural sense of humour at the best of times – Mel & Kim jokes tested her to the limits of her tolerance for previously endured comedy. “Oh, we get used to it,” she said with affected sweetness and a commendable attempt at a smile. “Either that or one of us had better get on and change her name.” Mel wasn’t being entirely flippant. She had tried to get colleagues and customers to call her Melanie after Kim had been recruited for their office but everyone had studiously ignored her efforts. After that she had tried to persuade Kim to go by her middle name (‘Frances? No way, I just won’t, you can’t make me’) so in the end Mel had given up and decided to get Kim replaced as soon as reasonably possible. She reckoned another six months should do it - Kim didn’t fit in in their office anyway. She had seemed great at the interview but it had since become apparent that she wasn’t really interested in business and community development at all. She wanted to be a sculptor (or something weird like that) and even worse she couldn’t drive a car so what the hell use was she? They couldn’t fire her for that alone but Mel had faith that plump little Kimmy would make other mistakes soon enough and then they could get someone more suitable with a more convenient name. Mel wasn’t a malicious person but she liked things in their place. She liked everyone to pull their required weight. She liked team players and positive thinkers and people who saved a lot of money in rainy day accounts. Kim didn’t mind the musical jokes at all. She had quite liked Mel & Kim and their amusing line in big brimmed hats. One of them had died of cancer too which must have been very sad for the sister. She felt that Mel (her Mel) had no interest in anyone beyond her own small family and that was why she didn’t like being associated with something as cheap and cheerful as a pop band. Kim was sure Mel should stop taking herself and her precious job so seriously. She wasn’t a total bitch but she was a strange and cold character and Kim had given up trying to make friends with her. “We could always just get practising the karaoke,” laughed Kim with a naughty grin. Maybe Mel would laugh this time – if not to please her but just for the rest of the collected audience. “Karaoke,” Bridges boomed again, “my favourite pub pastime. Is that what we’re doing tonight? I do a surprisingly good Bronski Beat.” Kim laughed and felt a huge relief. She liked the noisy policeman with the unpredictable sense of humour who was now doing a ridiculous falsetto version of ‘It ain’t necessarily so’. Ever since the group had first arrived at the hotel this morning Bridges had been friendly and helpful and full of the joys of the summer day. He was loud and over-bearing but most endearing in his way. Mel was looking pale at the thought of a vulgar evening of out-of-tune singing. She liked being the centre of attention in her well-dressed business capacity but any other kind of public performance made her quite literally sick with nerves. “No, this evening’s entertainment will be more brain-taxing than that,” she said trying to sound pleasant and not up her own posterior. She had devised the games herself the week before -regional-feature charades and a locally themed version of ‘University Challenge’ complete with Jeremy Paxman wig and nose for the chosen quizmaster. Kim had been sent to find the desired disguise and it had ended up taking a whole day, four bus trips and a lot of convincing Mel that the dodgy, almost Afro wig was close enough to the real thing. “Oh goody, I love a quiz. I’m great at quizzes.” Mark Denton was not kidding. He drank real ale and competed in a fierce pub quiz in his local every Wednesday night. It was one of his main non-work, non-family-related pleasures and he loved collecting information and storing it in his ample brain. He knew all sorts of things about all sorts of subjects but aviation, Roman plumbing and rugby league were his three favourites. He planned, in his retirement, to win ‘Mastermind’ and reign supreme over ‘Fifteen to One’. “I bloody don’t. Interfere with your drinking – all that trying to remember the names of the frigging Osmond Brothers.” JJ Miller looked over at the bar. “Speaking of which – what’s happened to the bar staff? Someone’s idea of a joke?” “Kim will go and see what’s wrong.” Mel narrowed her unquestionably pretty eyes in her junior’s direction. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.” Kim stood up automatically. She had two bosses (Mel and her next in line Sue Swinton) and whenever either of them whistled she was expected to jump. Fair enough, she had said to herself after her first week in the position, let it wash over you – it’s just a job. The amount of money that appeared in her bank account every month made it acceptable for now. It was her first regular salary in over five years and she wouldn’t do this type of thing forever. Just until she’d paid some debts and got herself healthier, calmer and less afraid of the world at large. Then she would do something she wanted – find a bit of cheap studio space, do some experimenting, use her confused experiences to date to some creative end. Maybe. Kim approached the bar and called out gingerly “Hello, anyone there?” No answer. Kim didn’t want to look back at the others for fear of Mel’s well-practised impatient expression and the possible appearance of scary Sue. “Hello”, she called again, thinking that if there was no reply this time she’d head off to reception and tactfully interrogate its sleepy staff. Luckily a voice replied. It was a husky woman’s voice and it came from behind the stacked up boxes of crisps and snacks. They had mini Cheddars, how lovely, Kim noticed. She could eat a couple of packs of those, no problem. “Just a minute,” it said with a total lack of urgency. “Just finishing something off.” Kim waited a few more seconds and then a woman of about forty with permed blond hair and bright red lipstick came into view. “Sorry, love,” she said, her face showing none of the standard characteristics of an apology, “is it that time already? I’d best stick the music on.” The woman leaned down to a black box behind the bar and pressed a couple of buttons. Kim wondered if her tight skirt could be any tighter or her frilly blouse any frillier. Still, even if she had gone to the Coronation Street School of barmaid’s dress sense, in some ways it was oddly comforting to see a woman not wearing a suit or smart-casual executive evening wear. As Kim lived in old jeans and scuffed trainers at home, it was an undeniable relief to see another female human who, like her, looked so completely, so positively unlike Yasmin Le Bon. Music suddenly blared out of the various sets of little speakers hung up around the room. It was something loud and vigorous with guitars and wailing men. Was that Oasis? Was that really the atmosphere Connections preferred for its chat-lightly-before-dinner session? “Could you, maybe, turn it down a little?” Kim had to speak loudly and make ‘volume down’ hand gestures to support her argument. “Sure, love, whatever you want. We had a party in here last night. A guy in the village turned twenty one.” That explained why the hotel staff had been so uncommunicative all day. Most of them were local and had no doubt been drinking and cavorting into the early hours. “Was it good?” Kim felt slightly envious. Despite the bar, the three course meal and the planned entertainments, tonight was work, not carefree pleasure. Kim hadn’t had a wild night out – a really wild night – for over a year. Maybe longer than that. She’d had to take time out and give up some well-formed bad habits before she’d drowned in Budweiser and or been buried in heaps of assorted chemical powders. “What I can remember of it.” The barmaid straightened the towels on the bar and looked straight at Kim with her heavily-armoured dark brown eyes. “Now, what can I get you?” “Oh, I don’t want anything. I just came to see…” Kim paused. What could she say? I came to see where the hell you were because my boss sent me? She decided against that. “I came to see if you were open yet. The participants are…thirsty.” “Well, best send them over then.” “Yes.” Kim felt about twelve. She gave a nervous nod and turned back to her table. Sue Swinton had indeed arrived and along with her another group of participants. Kim walked towards them carefully and made an awkward gesture barwards with her right arm. “Open for business,” she directed at JJ who zoomed straight off across the room like an ambitious greyhound. The rest of her group followed and took some of the newcomers with them. There was Jo Lewis (a pleasant college principal), Dennis Law (a cute, dreadlocked community worker) and Denise Jewitt (an inoffensive human resources manager for a big insurance company). They were all nice enough people and Dennis was really quite appealing. If it had not been for loyal, lovely John at home Kim might have been interested in talking more to Dennis Law. As it was she had better do some talking to snotty Sue, boss on a broomstick. Mel was mysterious but Sue was more your regulation cow of a boss. Kim sometimes wondered if Sue really was a miserable bitch deep down or if she just pretended to be one to keep her employees in their place. “Sorted Kim?” Sue’s heavily painted face was pained and impatient. It said ‘shouldn’t you have got this sorted out earlier?’ “Everything OK?” “Yes, fine,” Kim mumbled, “I think she was there all the time waiting for a shout.” “Mmmm,” Sue started on the critical note she kept especially for junior staff but then realised there were still two paying customers in close proximity. “Must have lost her watch then,” she said laughing and twinkling her blue eyes at the two people to her right who were Mohammed Nawaz (Council Education department) and Marta Llewellyn (Youth Services). “Perhaps while you’re up, “she added to Kim, “you could fetch some drinks for those of us who don’t fancy fighting at the bar.” “Of course,” Kim had no desire to sit and make small talk with either of her uptight bosses. “What can I get everybody?” “No, I’ll go,” Mel got to her smart size four feet, “I need to see what kind of tonic water they’ve got anyway. Usual for you Sue?” Mel liked Kim to do most of the weekend’s errands but she didn’t like her having use of the company bar tab or appearing generous to the guests. “Please, with lots of ice. Mohammed, Marta? What can we get you?” “Just orange juice,” Mohammed Nawaz hated bars and had only forced himself to enter the room in an effort to be friendly. “Me, too.” Marta Llewellyn was thirsty and didn’t want to get drunk before dinner. “Well, I think I can remember that,” Mel trilled and sprung off towards the bar. She always moved quickly – there was a lot of harnessed power in her little body. “What about Kim?” Marta spoke to the table rather than any individual. “You didn’t want anything, did you Kim?” Sue also liked to appear generous and prided herself on her attention to detail. “She probably had a drink while she was waiting for us all.” “But the bar has just opened.” Bloody youth workers, Sue hated being corrected, can’t they think about anything else besides drink? “Oh, of course. Kim, dear, run along and get yourself something.” “No, I’m fine. I’ll wait till dinner.” “There we are then. That’s that settled.” Sue shifted in her chair and turned to the man she had once privately described as ‘only in his position because he’s, well, you know’. Connections was very big on community relations with every colour, race and creed – as long as the community in question did as they were bid and fitted nicely into the itinerary and general plan for a better future. “So Mohammed, how did you enjoy today’s challenges?” Mohammed Nawaz sighed gently. He felt a total lack of warmth both from and towards Sue Swinton, no matter how much others in the Council offices sang her praises and believed her company’s pronouncements. She was always polite and correct in her conversations with him but Mohammed couldn’t help the feeling that she was one of those English people who hated all Moslems and thought them an inferior species. She might love Hindus, Buddhists and Sikhs (so spiritual, such pretty statues) but she couldn’t help herself from looking down on Moslems as gullible, in-bred and just too fussy and difficult. Look at her now – she sounded like she was interested in his opinion but he knew she wasn’t. She probably thought he beat his wife and sold his daughters into slavery. She thought if his wife had a double gin and tonic it would open her eyes to the joys of atheism and Anne Summers catalogues. “It has been an interesting day,” he started diplomatically, “though I must admit I couldn’t quite understand the point of the first exercise.” Sue got ready to defend her fantastic organisation and every decision it had ever made. There were always a few killjoys who didn’t appreciate the bonding sessions and ice-breakers. She might have known Mohammed Nawaz would be one of those. No sense of humour, no surprise there, she decided giving a positive appraisal to her own previous character summary. He wanted to spoil the great show she was putting on – well, let him try, she’d outshone the likes of him before. She could do it again. She feared no one. “It’s to get people relaxed, in a good mood – give them some exercise before the hard talking begins.” “I see.” Mohammed did not find this answer satisfactory but had no interest in the conversation it might precede. In general he found talking to Sue Swinton an unnecessary and tiring experience because she always followed her party line so determinedly and produced the right, acceptable phrases without fail. Also he suspected that in her heart of hearts she believed none of it and wanted to be somewhere else doing something completely different. He was sure, despite fierce appearances, that lack of bravery was the fundamental issue that ruled her life. Sue would have been horrified to hear Mohammed’s character summary for her. In truth she had never expected to end up a word-perfect business woman with a company car and younger, prettier staff. She had trained as an artist (painting in oils, how old-fashioned that seemed now) but she had never had the courage or financial backing to risk that career in the big wide world. Instead she had taken a series of office jobs and eventually one of these had drawn her in to the world of local authorities and development. Since the late 1980s she had worked mainly for private companies - chasing public money for complicated educational programmes, community projects and multi-agency modern-art monuments. She had been with Connections now for four years and she found the work there varied and demanding enough to keep her occupied and almost fulfilled. It was a huge task they faced as they set up training weekends all over the country for local Council and associated employees - weekends aiming to bring unity, harmony and intelligence to bureaucracies (with four coffee breaks, two buffet lunches, one full breakfast and a sit-down dinner all included in the price). Sue sometimes looked at her life and saw a fifty one year-old maid with a bearable pension ahead and a disappointing lack of achievements behind. What had happened to her hopes of running Amnesty International or painting a ‘Guernica’ for the victims of Thatcher’s Britain? Sue was very conscious that she was not the woman she had ever expected to be. She was alone, without mate or offspring, though she had some great friends. She hated the stereotype of a sexless spinster who drinks too much and lusts after the young characters in Sunday evening BBC dramas but that’s who she was. It hurt to know that quite so loud and clearly. Whatever Mohammed felt about Sue Swinton he somehow instinctively liked, on the other hand, the quiet young Englishwoman whose job seemed to be to fetching and carrying all day and all night. Everyone at the event wore badges (compulsory – ‘it helps make connections’) and hers said ‘Kim Taylor, Administrator’. She seemed sad and a little restless but he detected a decent mind of her own and honest facial expressions. Mohammed carried on talking but turned to Kim, not her superior. “Have you been in this job long?” he asked, wanting to converse about general principles rather than the minutiae of the day’s events. “A couple of months,” Kim instinctively liked the serious Director of Educational Resources too. He was calm, steady and seemed not to care what others thought of him. A slight, bearded family man in his late forties, Mohammed blatantly did not feel the need to represent ‘his community’ in a positive light or any other light in particular. He joined in with an exercise if he was interested in the task – not just for the obligatory joy of team-building or the desire to look like a fun kind of guy. “And is it…rewarding?” Kim was very aware of Sue’s perpetually reddened eyes boring holes into her vulnerable skull. Kim hoped this colouration was related to wine, smoke and inaccurate eye-liner but suspected it was more likely the sign of a long-held pact with Lucifer. “There’s certainly a sense of satisfaction in making sure everything runs smoothly,” she said steadily. That sounded OK – not too truthful, not too specific. Marta Llewellyn was enjoying watching the dynamics of the employer/employee relationship but felt the time had come to intervene and halt Mohammed’s well-intentioned but dangerous line of questioning. He was a deeply committed, lovely man but he never understood how little truth and honesty had to do with office politics. “Here you are Mohammed,” Mel and Tony Bridges were back with the drinks before Marta got a chance to join the conversation. Mel made sure to serve people in order of skin tone (darkest first), perish the thought anyone think her a racist. “And Marta. And Sue here’s your constitutional – no diet tonic though. They could do with some serious stock replenishment over there.” Marta was pleased to see that the relationship between Mel and Sue had its own minefield too. Mel had managed to imply in so few words that Sue drank a lot (how bitchy and probably true) and in the same breath she had insinuated that her boss needed diet drinks whilst she, Mel, so obviously did not. What next – some sly comment about ‘One Foot in the Grave’ and imminent bus passes? Tony Bridges looked down at the table from his great height and spotted the obvious missing piece in the puzzle. He wasn’t a senior figure in the government’s crime strategy for nothing. “Young Kim, you haven’t got a drink,” he announced as though resolving a long and convoluted Agatha Christie in repertory theatre. “Let me solve this matter at once.” “No really, I’m O.” Kim just wanted to be ignored. She looked at the wallpaper and considered whether she could merge with it and achieve real backdrop status. The walls were dark red with white stripes that were rapidly approaching brown so in her navy suit and white shirt she wasn’t exactly wearing the right colours to blend in. She remembered again how she hated the ill-fitting suit that trapped her upper arms and squashed her belly. She may have been a size 12 once when she went out clubbing more regularly and had bought this suit for a funeral. These days she was rounder, softer, hungrier. Both Mel and Sue wanted to see Kim ignored too. So she didn’t have a drink? Big deal. She wasn’t getting paid to sit around on her backside socialising all day. There were details to be checked, flipcharts to be straightened, coloured pens to be monitored so nobody took them home ‘by mistake’. Mel decided to move the conversation on from this minor matter of Kim and her lack of lemonade (strange girl, never drank, God knows what her problem was). “So Tony,” she cooed, sitting down and patting a stool for him to join her, “tell us about the biggest problems you’re facing as a regional divisional head of operations?” “Well,” Tony loved a long title and it was just as well because he had several of them, “we’re finding that major crime is moving into areas that have never seen its like before.” “What do you mean? How is that happening?” Mel knew that senior men liked to share their knowledge, impart their opinions and generally go on and on about pretty much anything. The rest of the table might not be interested in Tony Bridges’ views on life and the universe but Mel didn’t care – there was only that scruffy woman from Youth Services and that boring little man from Education anyway. Let them move if they didn’t like it. Let them take their stupid non-alcoholic drinks and go and play scrabble in the smoke-free lounge. There was important connection making to be done in here before dinner. “Well, you see,” Tony Bridges got ready for a lecture, “take, for example Bradley down the road. There is now, can you believe, a serious prostitution problem in that sleepy little town. There are so many young women going into the...oldest profession that there isn’t enough work for them in the usual places. Hence why they’ve moved on to Bradley and are making life miserable for many of the locals. We now have increased crime there across the board – we have females of all ages afraid to leave their homes, we have kerb crawlers, more drugs…everything you’d expect.” At this point Mr Bridges realised he had touched upon a favourite hobby horse. “But of course,” he added with a flourish, “local women should not feel any more afraid to venture out than normal. They are far more at risk in their homes - from abuse in the home or at the workplace, you know.” Tony Bridges was very pleased with this argument and strangely unaware that most people had heard it before via the news or some of the many documentaries, postcards, t-shirts, posters and great banners on the sides of buses that were all busy advising the public of these important statistics. Bridges looked around expecting admiration, comments or questions and was stumped as to why the assembled company were all doing their best to avoid his eye. In truth Mohammed Nawaz was thinking what a strange, tireless, talkative man this officer was, Marta Llewellyn had heard the speech before at a local conference and the other three women around the table didn’t need to hear it because, from their own personal experience, they knew more than they could ever want to know about the subject in question. Sue Swinton (now 51) had been attacked by one of her male bosses in her very first job after college. She had been 22 and pretty young thing in a mini skirt (everybody was wearing them at the time). She had been pinned down in a stockroom during an office party and shown the true ways of the world by a thirty-five year-old man with a drink problem and a women problem. If it had not been rape it had been everything but and soon afterwards Sue had left the job and many of her ambitions behind with it. She didn’t tell anyone about the incident at the time (especially her forever disapproving family) but she had told many counsellors and close friends since. She had made as much peace with herself as she ever hoped to. It was a long time ago. Much had happened since then. An array of cheer-yourself, well-worn clichés kept her sane, to a point. Mel Hawkins (now 31) had been abused by her mother’s brother for the first time when she was eleven and, for the last, when she was sixteen years of age. The uncle had liked to surprise her – never repeated a pattern or established regular behaviour – and he had been clever and devious and manipulative and successful. Mel never dared tell her mother that the man who was meant to be ‘like a father to her’ was in fact more like a husband. Mel’s real Dad had left when she was five, moved to somewhere in London and rarely been seen again. Mel had no counselling, no help of any kind and had stopped telling friends because she found their reactions impossible. She didn’t want the sympathy, the disgust or the floods of tears. She had Stuart now (who knew an outline if not many details). He was a good man and once they had Josh there was much less time to think about things past. Though she hated her labour and was ready to give up and die twenty hours in, Mel had been pleased when her child was born and he was a bouncing, beautiful baby boy. A boy would be safe. A boy would stand up for himself. Mel told herself this regularly and it gave her strength and optimism for the future. Josh and this job, she would chant to herself as she tried to sleep every night, I’m really so lucky, I’ve got so much, I’ve come so far. Kim Taylor (also 31 but years behind career-wise) had been raped on a date. Well, it was not a date, as such, but she was 25, young, free and single and she had met a guy in a club and got more than a bit merry and more than a little off her head. They had gone back to her room in a shared house which was usually safe but that night empty – the other girls away on a weekend break to Amsterdam. The guy, who presumably gave a false name, was not local and she had never seen him again. She had not dared go to the police because of the drugs that were in her bloodstream as well as hidden all over the house in knicker drawers and handbags and pockets of old coats. She had never told her forever concerned mother because the first thing Mum would have said was ‘why haven’t you been to the police – this man must be stopped?’ The other girls had got back and been enraged to find Kim inert and violated in their own home. They had cared for her, watched over her and eventually she had moved on to a house where her humiliation and unhappiness was a more secret affair. She did tell people about it – if she got close to them and if the situation seemed right. Her current boyfriend, who she hoped to love forever, had been more understanding than many. He knew just when to be there for her and when to leave her be. Tony Bridges, unaware of any personal relevance for any of his audience, got bored of waiting for contributions and so continued with his theme, warming to it as he barged on. He had been on a course about domestic violence as a younger officer and had earned a commendation for his empathetic understanding of the subject. “Yes, there should be classes in infant school for young girls, I believe,” he said firmly, “assertiveness, self-defence, how to report a crime. For these are crimes, no question about it. Crimes of the very worst sort.” The three Connections staff did not disagree. They did not object to Tony Bridges or anything he had said so far. He meant well, he was a decent man, he thought he had seen the worst that life had to offer in his years in the force. Sue, Mel and Kim would have been amazed to know they had so much in common – each thought herself so different to the others – but each of them now wanted the subject changed again and quickly. There were things in the past that were not up for public debate. They were too difficult to deal with. It was best not to try. Sue had more experience of dealing with this situation and the feelings it ignited. For years she had been dodging this issue at work and over dinner tables so she forced the lower half of her face into a cheery mask and got ready to throw out a comment that could turn the tide a different way. Instead the moment was altered by another arrival. The rest of the participants turned up in the form of a large ambling group of men and women, led by a local vicar of some influence. They brought with them noise, laughter and a bin bag full of something that those at the table could not quite make out. They were glad to see the new arrivals though. They all knew that this was just what was needed to save the cocktail hour from drowning. “Hello there,” called the reverend Peter Digsby in his cheeriest evening-out-with-executives tones. “How the devil are we all? Ha ha ha. Devil! Ha!” Kim laughed again. The reverend was almost as comical as the policeman. What was it about these traditional professions that sent their men so completely into the clutches of bad jokes? Was it the hours? The salary and conditions? Were they all secretly longing to be loud and leery sales managers on the open road instead of tied, as they were, to commitments, duties and socially responsible behaviour? “Reverend,” Sue greeted him with a show of teeth that should be a smile, “we were waiting for you to turn some water into wine.” “Ha ha ha. Great stuff. Yes, wish I knew how!” The reverend did not seem to mind Sue’s blasphemous reference. He would have said the line himself if she hadn’t got there first (it always got a laugh and God knows the reverend liked to laugh). Mohammed Nawaz had to restrain himself from tutting – he found this Christian minister possibly the most ridiculous he had ever encountered (and there had been some eccentrics over the years). However he too was glad, though for different reasons, that the subject of domestic violence had been left behind for now. Marta Llewellyn took this opportunity to turn towards Kim and engage her in separate conversation. Let the others exchange puns and innuendoes with the vicar and the merry band of arts workers and Health Authority Heads of Department that were flooding through the door. Marta preferred to talk one on one, preferably without the non-stop hilarity. She was Chilean, though married to a man from Bristol, and she was still left cold at times by the famous British sense of humour. “So Kim,” she began in the softest of voices, “do you have children?” “No. Not yet.” Kim was surprised by this personal question - obviously no one had told Marta that they were meant to chat about abstract light-hearted matters in the evening. Kim was sure family planning was not included in the unwritten list headed ‘abstract’. “But you plan to?” “Perhaps. In a year or two, I’m not sure. I haven’t been doing this job very long.” Connections did have a good maternity package but Kim wasn’t sure she was (a) eligible yet or (b) daring enough to risk Sue’s wrath by going on extended leave so soon. Besides that she wasn’t ready for motherhood. She was still such a child herself, so dependent on others. She couldn’t even drive. “Children are such a joy.” Kim loved the sound of Marta’s latino version of plain old English. Her accent was still strong enough to be powerfully evocative and put Anglo-Saxon listeners in mind of warm sunshine, passionate music and the odd doomed struggle against tyranny. Marta had no idea she had this effect on anyone. She would have laughed for a week if anyone had ever tried to explain it to her. “So you have some?” “Oh, yes. Two boys and a girl. Quite grown-up now, the boys anyway. My daughter is ten – still a baby to me.” “And you work with kids. You must be worn out.” “Well, I’m mostly in offices and meeting these days. Not so very hands-on as I used to be.” Kim looked at Marta’s hands as she said the familiar word in a less familiar way. She wore several rings, one obviously her wedding band. Her nails were clipped, her skin olive. “Offices and meetings…” murmured Kim looking up to make sure they were not being too closely observed by any Connections thought police. In fact the outlook was better – Sue and Mel were rising and moving off to court some of the substantial money in the room. Poor chiefs of industry and call centre-based services, Kim thought, they didn’t know what they were in for. The bin bag contained fancy dress costumes, Kim could see that now, the vicar was trying on a pair of bunny girl ears whilst a man from Primary Care Services fiddled with a Phantom of the Opera mask. As the playful crowd moved off towards the bar, Tony Bridges drifted in the same direction, largely because he found safety in numbers. Mohammed Nawaz used this exodus to make his excuses and retire to the library for a quiet moment or two. He felt he’d made the effort and shown his face – now he would rather have a little peace before the never-ending chatter of dinner and parlour games. They’d all think he’d gone off to pray in the allotted spare guest room with the smelly carpet. Let them think that if they wanted. He couldn’t care less. “I won’t be a minute,” he whispered loudly to Marta, “just need to check something.” “Poor man,” Marta confided to Kim, “he always gets invited to things like this and doesn’t like to decline. He’d much rather be at home with his family and I can’t say I blame with him.” Marta hesitated as she remembered that Kim was a Connections foot soldier and might not approve. Marta did not despise the Connections way of doing things but she didn’t think it was all it was cracked up to be either. She had not meant to be so blunt so soon in the conversation. “No. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea.” Kim was cautious – not sure how far to go. “How many of these have you done?” “This is my fourth weekend away this year. It can be hard not to get all the names mixed up sometimes. Good job we’ve got the badges.” Marta looked at Kim’s shiny, end-of-day face and thought the eyes looked too wise, the mouth too resigned. She couldn’t be much over thirty but she looked over-worn, too aware for her years. Marta often thought how odd it was that this country had not experienced the famous brutality of her own (in recent times at least) and yet the people here, especially the young, often bore such obvious scars. Sadness, hopelessness – it was all there by the bucketload. “Yes, so many people to meet and greet – so many smiles to deliver.” Kim had no idea where this conversation was going. She liked Marta and found her interesting but she knew she was not allowed to make friends at work. ‘Connections staff must spread themselves evenly and not show favouritism.’ Kim was a little afraid of having an honest-type conversation when she was this tired and this hungry. She knew she might say something she couldn’t take back. To avoid such a disaster Kim tried to get on a jokier, easier level. “Yes, sometimes I need matchsticks to prop my smile up!” she said but she’d said it she wasn’t sure that it had done the job right. Matchsticks were for eyes, not lips, weren’t they? What on earth was she bloody wittering on about? “My own career involves more the serious expression than the smile,” Marta explained, her English more awkward than usual. “So often I have to look understanding and concerned and that can be hard work too - especially if I am in a good mood!” The two women laughed at the idea of having to stifle happiness and the laughter felt good – a little human contact in a strangely inhuman environment. “I can imagine,” Kim said naughtily, “you don’t want to be grinning about drug overdoses and teenage pregnancies now do you?” “No.” Marta stopped laughing, as gradually as she could. Now she was confused. Was this the famous national sense of humour again? She never could work out when the British, and most especially the English, were being funny or just plain perverse. Kim realised she had chosen, once again, a strange selection from her native language. She’d only meant…well, she wasn’t sure what she’d meant at all. She felt she needed to let Marta know why she could joke about such serious subjects. It suddenly seemed very important what this nice woman thought of her. She mustn’t think Kim was heartless or stupid or just plain cruel. “I had quite a bad drugs problem myself,” Kim’s voice was clear and steady. She knew this was not the time or the place but she felt she had to explain herself. Also the need to talk about something other than the abstract and the light-hearted was quite overpowering. She could only take so much shallow chit chat and she was approaching saturation point. “I ended up having to go to hospital last year – I lost control really. Of everything.” There was a moment’s hesitation as Kim decided what more to share and Marta decided that maybe she had made a mistake getting into this conversation after all. Marta loved people and all their complications but sometimes she couldn’t help getting a bit tired of them too. Couldn’t there be times when she just wanted a friendly chat on a two-way street? Did she really have to spend her whole life counselling and helping people out? “Sometimes that is the best way,” Marta started firmly, “it can be better to get right up to the edge or even fall off it. Better than teetering around feeling a little bit crazy for years and years and years.” Kim considered this idea. She felt she had done both – the falling and the teetering. She was not sure they were such clear-cut alternatives. “I still feel quite crazy,” Kim looked over at the merry crowd. “There is still a lot I can’t do that all these people can. I can’t drive, I can’t drink, I can’t be in any place that’s not safe.” “And is this safe?” “Not really. I have my check-lists to keep me occupied. I just try not to think about it. I have to work to get out of the house. At home I drive myself even crazier.” “What is the ‘it’ you are trying not to think about?” “Anything.” Kim realised, a little late, that she had entered conversational territory that was extremely unsafe. She was also being self-centred, pathetic and uselessly vague. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear any of this. I don’t know why I started…” Marta placed a warm, kind hand on Kim’s shaky left knee. She knew English people found this touch unusually invasive and presumptuous but that it reassured them all the same. Let them accuse her of harassment – she had nothing to hide. “You’re tired, stressed…it’s very intensive here.” “Yes. Yes, I suppose it is. Stupid really. I’m just checking a few props are in the right place and making sure everyone has the hot drinks they like best in the morning.” “Still. There are always pressures that are not necessarily obvious. There’s so much organising here. It’s like having a party – you’re meant to enjoy yourself but you very rarely do.” Marta herself actually loved entertaining – the cooking and all the preparations – but she didn’t feel that information would be helpful to Kim at this point. The girl just needed to keep things together and get through the weekend without causing a huge fuss. She was in the wrong job – that much was clear to anyone who cared to look – but there was no point her crumbling now. She might as well make it to the end of Sunday – let there be one less thing to feel a failure about in life. “So, what should I do?” Marta kept her wry smile to herself. The sixty four thousand dollar question, she could have easily said out loud, what should I do, help me, what should I do? The weird part was that Marta did know what most people should do to sort their lives out. She could look around this room and tell what half of them needed without even talking to them (Sue, Mel, the policeman…they all had repressed emotion written all over their professional faces). She could come up with handy suggestions and diagnoses for them all, if they ever asked her, because she had a lot of experience and a very perceptive heart. She should have been a psychiatrist or a psychologist or a general practitioner at the very least and she sometimes even saw herself sat with a little notebook, doling out prescriptions for happiness and coping. Whether people would ever take her advice and follow it – that was another matter altogether. Life just wasn’t that simple, she often concluded. For now she put this to the back of her mind and looked for some words that would keep Kim on course. What should she do, not for ever, but for the next ten minutes? “Well, you should feel proud of yourself – you’ve been doing very well so far. Nobody has noticed anything – they all think you’re a nice, friendly helpful person. Also, you know, many of them are probably not so different to you as you think. They will all have their own problems, weaknesses, insecurities. At least a third of them will be taking anti-depressants… or carrying a prescription around in their wallet just in case. Even if they have never had drugs problems they will have had bereavements, divorces, miscarriages, alcohol dependencies…you name it.” Kim looked over at the interlocking groups of drinking individuals. They all looked so healthy, so full of enthusiasm for everyday occurrences. None of them were having evident hot flushes or crises of confidence. “Next you should concentrate on getting through the rest of this weekend. There is no point leaving now – it will probably cause more problems than it solves. Running away, you know, should be saved for life and death situations only.” Kim looked back at the soft, smart middle-aged woman who was dispensing all this sensible advice. Had she run from a death situation? What did she make of stupid spoiled Europeans who were so efficient at devising their own torture and misery? “Then when you get home you should get some sleep and a good meal and you should start a course of counselling. MIND are very good but if they’re full I can recommend others.” Kim’s heart sank. She had tried talking and thinking her fears through before. “Will that really help? I saw someone once but he made me feel worse.” “You just have to keep looking until you find someone who suits you – who helps you. It is hard work restarting your life but it can be done and it is worth the effort.” Marta came to the end of her tip list and realised she had probably been a little over-clinical. Maybe she should have tried to sound more sympathetic, more personal. It wasn’t like her to be so bossy and hurried. Had she lost her grass roots touch? Had she finally run out of patience? Kim, for her part, had not noticed any signs of coolness. She was far more concerned with her own weaknesses - how tiresome she had been bothering poor kind Marta with her internal affairs, how useless she was for not just getting on with this easy, relatively well-paid job. Kim looked at accomplished, sedate Marta and so longed to have friends like this woman – real grown-up people who knew things, who had interesting lives and stimulating social circles. Marta’s phone probably rang non-stop and her post box was probably full of unusual party invitations (especially at Christmas). These days Kim had very few friends and when she did meet people she liked (like now), she inevitably tried to scare them away with uninvited confessions and other conversational non-starters. There was a general hesitation as neither woman knew what to say next. Marta did not want to leave Kim alone in her current state but on the other hand she did suddenly long for a bad joke and a glass of the kind of non-descript red wine kept behind English bars, usually in glass cases on the wall for some reason. Kim just wanted to hug this lovely woman who she knew would never be a friend, probably not even an acquaintance. “Thank-you so much for listening,” Kim found her real smile and showed it in an attempt to prove her mental stability. “I’m sorry for keeping you away from the rest of the group.” Marta admired the effort. “Perhaps I should join them,” she said, her hand on her half-drunk juice and her thoughts with her own three children, especially the girl, Pía. Marta hoped with all her energies that they would escape the insecurities that so plagued this generation – the need to fill vacuums with amphetamines, ketamine and lighter fuel. “Please, do.” Kim, now more aware of individual faces on the other side of the room, caught disapproving looks aimed her way from Sue and Mel. Whatever she did those two disapproved anyway, it seemed. “I’ll go and check with the kitchen staff”, she said, getting up and collecting her file and bag together, “I’ll be back before you know it to fetch you all for dinner.” “Yes.” Marta couldn’t think of a helpful comment to add at this point. The older woman simply hoped that Kim would take a few moments for herself. She should cry or breathe deeply. She should encourage herself to keep going. There was usually something worth living for if you thought about it for long enough. “See you at dinner then.” Kim wanted to sound happier, more OK all round. She remembered a detail that might lighten the mood. “You’re sat in between the policeman and the vicar, by the way”, she said, savouring the last moments of this short and one-way friendship, “you certainly won’t get a quiet evening.” Marta looked over and saw the large figure of Bridges wearing an archbishop’s hat and entertaining a crowd. She could see Mel chatting and drinking with an important member of the business community. And there was Sue, joining in the show with a flamenco headdress and a fan in one hand, large drink in the other. Marta turned back to say something light-hearted and abstract to the most junior Connections staff member but found the confused young woman had already left the bar. Marta finished her warm juice and went off to join the crowd. It would be an odd evening, that was for sure, but she was looking forward to it all the same.
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