THE FIRST JOB INTERVIEW…

Only after he had left the train and was standing at the bus stop outside Victoria Station did Ian begin to fret. Even though the school secretary had written out the directions for his trip to London, and he had read and re-read these until he knew them by heart, he was nervous that this wasn’t a number seventy three, as he was swept on board the bus by other waiting passengers. He sat down on the bench adjacent to the open platform as the conductress, standing in front of him, with her bosom in his face, pulled the overhead bell cord and the bus moved off.

“Where to, luv?”

“Park Lane, and can you tell me when to get off please?”

“That’ll be a tanner. Whereabouts are you wanting?” She spun the handle of the aluminium ticket machine hung from around her neck, and it spat out the thin paper ticket which she handed to him.

“Berkeley Square.”

Nervously Ian twisted the ticket between his sweating fingers. What was he doing amongst this crowd of jostling strangers? Less than a month ago, he was among boys he knew, learning and preparing to go up to university. Now he was on his way to see a complete stranger to get a job in property surveying, whatever that might be. Why the mad rush to earn a living?

“Park Lane, for Berkeley Square!” he heard the sing-song voice of the conductress and the bell before the bus slowed down.

He stepped down on the pavement and crossed over Park Lane and headed down Mount Street. He was fascinated by the specialist shops, with their nineteenth-century South American bank notes or rows of un-plucked pheasants, until he came to Berkeley Square, and saw number twenty-three.

The gold lettering of ‘Woods & Parker, Established 1763’ stood proudly above the building’s stone entrance. Ian’s heart was pounding as he climbed the impressive semi-circular flight of steps that led up to a glass revolving door set between a pair of bow windows with odd panes of bottle glass that gave the effect of age.

He pushed at the door. Nothing happened, so he exerted more pressure, but it still didn’t move. A large red-cheeked man standing inside looked at him for a moment then stepped forward and mouthed something. Ian didn’t understand and was on the point of giving up when the man stepped forward and gave the doors a shove.

“The other way, stupid boy!” The doors revolved rapidly and Ian, facing the wrong way, was swept inwards and landed in a heap at the man’s feet.

“Silly bugger.” The man laughed and strolled away into the depths of the building.

“That was a dramatic entry, young sir,” a different voice commented. “I see you’ve met the senior partner’s son. Don’t mind Master Paul, hasn’t been quite right since he was shot out of a tank on D Day.”

Embarrassed, Ian picked himself off the floor and looked up at the large, heavily whiskered Commissionaire in the immaculate black uniform with brass epaulettes and three golden stripes on each sleeve.

“And who might you be?” the voice added.

“Morris, sir.” He wondered why the middle aged man, who had walked away into the building, should be referred to as ‘Master’.

“Not sir, Mr Morris, but Sergeant, Sergeant Baldwin.” He looked down at an open diary on the pedestal desk in front of him

“Ah yeas. You’ve got an interview with Brigadier Sale. I believe he’s running about half an hour late but you can wait in the small client waiting room. Follow me.”

 

An extract from chapter forty one of – ‘ Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles