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A Piece of the Sky is Missing
David Nobbs
David Nobbs’ classic is now available as an ebook .Why should up-and-coming, thirty-two-year-old executive Robert Bellamy get himself the sack? What made him draw a caricature of the Exports Manager on the wall of the non-executive gents? Why is he his own worst enemy?Is it because he nearly ran away from boarding school on his third day or because, when he was fourteen, his mother developed a fatal friendship for a man who looked like Hitler? Does his sense of inadequacy stem from his once being mistaken for a draft of 350 men? Or from his failure long ago to do justice to the facilities at Mme Antoinette's Maison d'Amitié (Paris branch)? Has he been too slow with Sonia, too fast with Frances?Whatever the reason, one act of brinkmanship seems to lead to another. Robert finds himself involved in a series of embarrassing farewells and confusing interviews and open and shut court case as he drifts towards the prospect of a stiflingly happy Christmas and an intolerably cheerful New Year.
David Nobbs
A Piece of the Sky is Missing
Contents
1 A Joke Misfires
2 A London Night
3 Early Days
4 War
5 Above the Sex Emporium
6 Joys
7 Sorrows
8 Hopes
9 Fears
10 Just Good Friends
11 Dr Schmuck
12 Trouble at the Mill
13 In Darkest Putney
14 Mixed Company
15 Light Blue Interlude
16 Excellent Opportunities for the Right Man
17 A European Trip
18 Mr Mendel’s Pride and Joy
19 The Shy but Passionate Frances Lanyard
20 The Farewell Party
21 Sonia
22 Kentish Town Miniatures
23 An Important Session with Dr Schmuck
24 The Pre-Christmas Booze-up
25 A Brush with the Law
26 A Dip into the Mail Bag
27 A Traditional Christmas
28 More Interviews
29 A Happy New Year
30 Consequences
31 New Year Resolution
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by David Nobbs
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
A Joke Misfires
The caricature began to take shape. He drew with confident if unprofessional strokes. The forehead, redolent of drab efficiency and solemnity. The long nose, absurdly elongated. The concavity of the chin, grotesquely exaggerated. The humourless weakness of the mouth, cruelly exposed. The hint of underlying effeminacy, broadened into a positively offensive suggestion. Here was an executive with a role to play in an expanding Britain. Here was a bachelor over-fond of his mother. Here, on the rough gravelly wall, was Tadman-Evans.
Robert was pleased with his work. He added Tadman-Evans’s telephone number, pulled the chain, and left the non-executive gents.
On his way out into the corridor he met Martin Edwards, a non-executive. Martin Edwards smiled at him and said: ‘Been demoted, have you?’
‘Ours are full,’ said Robert.
Later that Friday morning he met Tadman-Evans in the executive gents and found that the caricature had drained him of dislike. The man’s combination of efficiency and effeminacy no longer got him on the raw. Tadman-Evans smiled, not yet having heard about the caricature. Robert felt ashamed.
The executive gents, like the non-executive gents, had a blue ceiling and blue doors. But here there were individual bars of soap, not a swivelling bulbous container jammed solid with yellow goo. And here the wall was smooth, and somehow less inviting to caricature.
In both the executive and the non-executive ladies the ceilings and doors were pink. Robert knew this, having been in them several times, by mistake and out of bravado. Once, for a bet, he had used the ladies for a week. That hadn’t gone down too well at Cadman and Bentwhistle Ltd. Nor would his caricature.
He thought: ‘I’ll wash it off.’ But Herr Muller was waiting, to eat lunch and talk pumping equipment, and he didn’t wash it off.
As he passed the end of the typing pool that evening Rosie giggled. It’s got around, he thought.
On Monday morning up-and-coming £2,500-a-year thirty-two-year-old executive Robert Bellamy arrived at Cadman and Bentwhistle Ltd. Promptly at nine o’clock. Five foot eleven, beginning to look prosperous and well-fed, handsome, with red hair, blue eyes, a straight slender nose, delicate well-shaped lips, light skin, freckled in summer. An unusual combination of masculinity and softness in his face. Popular with the girls of the typing pool. But nervous now. Caught in the same lift as Tadman-Evans. Avoiding his eye.
The lift smelt of damp coats this wet November morning. They were crowded into it, fifteen of them, the maximum permitted by Messrs Melrose and Oxley of Middlesbrough. He must show that he wasn’t cowed by the situation.
‘Second floor. Accounts, vouchers, canteen and lingerie,’ he said. Rosie giggled. No-one else smiled. Couldn’t expect them to. It wasn’t worth it.
He left the lift at the third floor. As he walked past the end of the typing pool he said: ‘’Morning, girls.’
‘’Morning, Mr Bellamy’, in tones that intimated: ‘Oh, you are a one’. Robert felt himself to be on their side in an endless, unacknowledged battle. He spoke clearly into the dictaphone, didn’t demand the impossible, bought them chocolates after he had lost his temper, and always kissed them at the Christmas party, not lecherously, like Wallis, or jocularly, like Perrin, or officially, like Tadman-Evans, but affectionately, because he liked them and wished life held more for them.
At the last Christmas party he had given Wallis a black eye. Things had been rather fraught in ‘Europe’ after that.
He entered ‘Europe’. In the outer office sat Julie.
‘’Morning, Julie,’ he said.
‘’Morning, Mr Bellamy,’ said Julie.
Every day he worked on her, so that by five-thirty she was calling him Robert. But every morning she called him Mr Bellamy again.
‘Sir John wants to see you at ten,’ said Julie.
Damn. No chance of pretending it wasn’t his work. His style was well-known, his doodles notorious. Sir John himself had never quite forgiven a portrait that had appeared five years ago on an official report about circular saws.
Robert gazed out over the friendly inelegant skyline. He could just see St Paul’s among the office blocks. It was still almost dark, as if the weekend was reluctant to let go. The next reorganization was just beginning. Soon he’d get a new office, his sixth in eight years. The moment one reorganization ended, the next began. There were people whose only job it was to plan them. Soon all the internal walls would be knocked down, new internal walls would be knocked up, and everything would go on exactly as before. And once again the typing pool wouldn’t get a room. They’d get the bit in the middle that was left over when all the rooms had been planned. And there they would sit, like a cargo of rotting bananas in the stuffy, airless hold.
Tadman-Evans didn’t call them reorganizations. He called them rationalizations.
Punctually at ten Senior European Sales Officer Robert Bellamy, thirty-two, presented himself at Sir John’s office. With each reorganization his title changed. He had been European Sales Liaison Officer, European Area Demonstration Consultant, European Technical Sales Adviser. The job always remained the same. He sent technical information to European agents and firms. He made visits to demonstrate and sell their machines. His judgement might be instrumental in fixing a new price for a machine, or in deciding how many of a certain line they should make. It was a responsible job. He did it, he thought, quite well.
‘Sit down, Robert,’ said Sir John Barker.
He sat down.
‘Well, how’s tricks?’ said Sir John genially.
‘Not bad, thank you.’
Sir John’s cordiality alarmed him.
‘Still not – you know – thought of taking the plunge?’ said Sir John.
Impertinent bastard. Absolute knighthood corrupts absolutely.
‘No.’
‘Nice girl, Stella.’
Sir John had met Sonia twice, once by chance in a pub near the Hog’s Back and once at a party given to drink away the profits of Europe’s bumper sales year in 1962. Suddenly it came to Robert that he ought to marry Sonia. Desire for her flooded over him, taking him by surprise. Help. Press the legs inward. Ouch. Hope he hasn’t noticed. Pretty hard to fool Sir John, from all accounts, where genitalia are concerned.
‘I believe you’re having a course of – er – er —’
‘Analysis. Yes, sir.’
Sir John wanted to say ‘Why?’ but was too much of a gentleman to do so. He tried so hard to be ruthless, but his manners were too good for him. He’d been to Winchester.
‘I hope nothing’s – er – er —’ said Sir John.
‘Wrong. No, nothing’s wrong. In fact, I’m intending to give it up,’ said Robert.
‘Good. Glad to hear it. As you know, Robert, I’ve always been a bit worried about your – shall we say your – er —’
‘Quick temper.’
‘Exactly. You’re high spirited. Emotional. Say what you think. Good thing, too. Far too little straightforwardness around, I often think.’ Sir John leant forward very seriously. ‘You’ve done some excellent work for us, Robert. Excellent. And that’s a quality we value very highly at C and B. But, Robert. But …’ and Sir John paused.
‘Well, thank you,’ said Robert.
‘I’d be the first to admit that you have great charm. Great charm, Robert. First to admit it. I like you very much as a … a chap. Which, heaven knows, you are. And a jolly good one. But in a big, highly competitive organization like ours there have to be certain ways of doing things, certain ways in which certain things for certain reasons always have been done and always will be done and always should be done. You do at times tend to be slightly – shall we say – er —’
‘Unconventional.’
‘Exactly. A fine quality, mind you. A fine quality. And you get on jolly well with those Europeans. I appreciate that. Some of our chaps are so insular, so narrow. They haven’t your culture, your flair, your vision. They’re at a premium, Robert, qualities like that. At a premium. And you have them.’
It was going to be the sack. Robert knew it.
‘God dammit, I don’t want everybody to be conformists. Far too many conformists about. But the fact remains, Robert. The fact remains.’ Sir John let out a deep sigh, forcing himself to be more ruthless still. ‘You may not see a good reason why there should be a distinction between the executive and non-executive – er – er —’
‘Loo.’
‘Exactly. Washroom. Nevertheless, that is the C and B system. Everyone’s happier that way. And we’re a team here, Robert. We must all pull together.’
‘And I pulled the wrong chain.’
‘Exactly. You pulled … oh, I see.’
‘I suppose the executives might get V.D. if they used the non-executive bogs.’
‘Really, Robert, there’s no need to be so – er —’
‘Vulgar.’
‘Exactly. You do have a way of picking the – er —’
‘Mot juste.’
