Confessions of a Personal Secretary

скачать книгу бесплатно


Demonstrating that refinement of feeling for which I am renowned I dress myself as well as I am able and, closing the door of the interview room quietly behind me, go downstairs to where the stretcher bearers are carrying Mr Kruger out to the ambulance.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_673647ae-31e0-5558-8b79-b1cd5022fb1c)

‘I’m annoyed with myself for not getting on to him sooner,’ says Penny.

‘I thought you got on to him pretty quickly in the circumstances,’ I say, finding it impossible to keep a note of disapproval out of my voice.

‘I didn’t mean that,’ says Penny. ‘I was talking about Kruger and his racket.’

‘Racket?’ I say. ‘You mean all that banging on the piano?’

‘That was just a front,’ says Penny. ‘The course was meant to be so impossibly difficult that no one could pass.’

I feel myself getting confused. Maybe it is the noise from the jukebox in the Flying Wad where we are having a cup of coffee – or tea – or something dark brown and tepid costing twelve pence a cup. ‘I know I’m very stupid—’ I break off and wait for Penny to disagree with me. She does not say anything so I continue —‘but I don’t see why they should want us all to fail.’

‘So everybody would jump at the chance of a job in one of those faraway places with strange sounding names,’ says Penny. ‘It was those letters that made me realize what they were up to. Do you remember how we were always typing letters home saying how lovely it was in Ismailia – and signing them?’

‘Of course I do,’ I say. ‘You think they were trying to brainwash us into thinking that these places were marvellous?’

‘More than that,’ says Penny. ‘They were actually going to send the letters back to our parents once we got there.’

‘But why wouldn’t we be writing our own letters?’ I say. ‘I may be unusual but I always try and drop Mum and Dad a postcard even if I’m only going to be away—’

‘You wouldn’t have had time to write letters home,’ interrupts Penny. ‘You’d have been serving the unspeakable needs of scores of dark-skinned gentlemen.’

‘You mean, we’d have been in the typing pool of a local government office?’ I say. ‘Oh dear, I was hoping for something a bit more elevated than that.’

‘You’d get something elevated, all right,’ says Penny, a hint of asperity creeping into her voice. ‘Don’t you see what I’m getting at? The Learnfast School of Fastwriting is a recruiting centre for a callgirl racket! This is the white slave trade nineteen seventies style.’

It takes a few minutes for the full meaning of Penny’s words to sink in and I am so thunderstruck that I take another gulp of my coffee – something that I vowed not to do after the first mouthful.

‘I could kick myself,’ says Penny. ‘If only I’d got the whole thing into perspective at an earlier date. What an opportunity wasted.’

‘To expose this vile trade in human souls?’ I say.

‘No, you fool! To clean up in a few Middle Eastern currencies.’ Penny purses her lips angrily. ‘Kruger would have been putty in my hands – in fact, he was putty in my hands when I’d finished with him – and Hassan was no problem. I should have been gentler with them. I get too carried away sometimes.’

‘Just like them,’ I say, thinking of the two pairs of twitching feet protruding from the end of the stretchers.

‘It’s too late, now, I suppose,’ says Penny, wistfully. ‘Still at least I’ve got my diploma.’ She affectionately pats a scroll of parchment protruding from her bag.

‘You got a diploma?’ I say, astonished. ‘Let me see that!’

‘Look away,’ says Penny. ‘It’s perfectly authentic. See, there’s Kruger’s signature.’ She points to a shaky zig-zag line falling off the bottom of the page.

‘Signature?’ I say. ‘It looks more like a seismograph recording of an earthquake.’

‘Well, I suppose he was a bit shaken up when he wrote it,’ says Penny. ‘I wasn’t going to leave that place empty-handed at any cost.’

‘You don’t have any scruples, do you?’ I accuse.

‘Of course not, darling,’ says Penny breezily. ‘Neither do you. Look at the position I found you in with Hassan: just about to embark on a crafty soixante-neuf. Hardly reticent, was it?’

‘I don’t like what you’re suggesting,’ I say.

‘You adore what I’m suggesting,’ says Penny. ‘The trouble is that you won’t admit to it.’

Penny is utterly wrong, of course. I have always taken the greatest care never to place myself in a position which might sully the gift of virginity which I intend to bestow on my one day Mr Right. However, as regular readers will know, I believe that virginity is very much a state of mind. As long as one was not responsible for one’s actions or undertook them for reasons unconnected with sexual gratification then one cannot be said to have ‘lost’ one’s virginity. It is as simple as that. Thankfully, for my own peace of mind, I cannot think of one occasion in which I have betrayed the trust that my future husband will surely place in me. Some people may say that I am being fussy and old-fashioned in these free and easy times but I think that if you have principles you should stick to them.

‘I don’t wish to pursue this particular line of conversation,’ I say, coldly. ‘What precisely do you intend to do with your diploma?’

‘I’m going to put it to work, of course. One might as well have a stab at the secretarial life. If I’d have thought about it I could have got you one too.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ I say. ‘Still, I don’t see what practical good it would have done me. I’m still not going to be able to take shorthand or type decently even if you give me half a dozen diplomas.’

‘No, darling,’ says Penny. ‘But at least they would get you through the door, wouldn’t they? I’m certain one would pick it up in no time under actual working conditions – jumping jehosophat! I’ve just thought of something: Uncle Jack!’

‘What’s he got to do with it?’ I ask.

‘He’s one of Daddy’s brothers who owns an advertising agency. He doesn’t have a lot to do with it now but I’m certain he could find us a job.’

‘Why didn’t you think of this before?’ I say, wearily.

‘Well, you never think of your relations, do you? – not if you can help it. Anyway, the training will have done us some good. We can’t be completely useless, can we?’

I am not so certain and it is with heavy heart that I subsequently approach the impressive building in a square off Piccadilly that houses Breach, Sully, Crush and Reckitt – or B.S.C.R. as they are more widely known in the profession. I can see lots of people hurrying about behind the huge expanses of glass and there is something terribly intimidating about the sight of so much activity. It is like looking inside an ants’ nest. I wish Penny was with me but she is attending a wedding in Norfolk – as maid of honour. Really, I am not one to point the finger but it does seem a little like Jack the Ripper introducing the Magic Roundabout.