Derek Eretz

‘Come in!’ said a voice. ‘Yes … er … You’ve come about the position, er, Mr … Eretz?’

‘Yes, that’s right. E, R, E, T, Z. Eretz: Sir Edmund Hillary, dining on carrots, minus the crunch. It is, as they say, ein Vergnügen to be here. Ein absolute Vergnügen,’ said Eretz, with an ostentatious bow. ‘And your name is?’

‘Mr Glubnaw.’

‘Ah! I used to know a Glubnaw. Archibald Frockcoat — fine specimen. Drinker!’ 

‘Glubnaw?’ 

‘Ah, yes. A.F. Glubnaw. Do you hail? Cheshire lad if I remember rightly. Or Chesterfield … Certainly a “Ch”. Cheadle Hulme? Charterhouse? Chelmsford? Cheshunt? Chatteris? Karachi ...?’

Mr Glubnaw was lost for a moment in silent reverie, for he knew all too well this Archibald Glubnaw — or ‘Archie’, as he was known within the family.

‘... Chipping Sodbury? Church Stretton? Chest—’

‘Never heard of him,’ Glubnaw said definitively. ‘Are you quite finished?’

‘Awfully sorry, Mr Glubnaw, sir. As—’

‘Mr Eretz!’ Glubnaw interrupted. ‘You are here to interview for the advertised position, not to witter on like some damned mooncalf.’

Silence.

<Tick Tick Tick>

‘Beg pardon. Really. M-m-may we start again?’

‘If we must. You have until a quarter to.’

~

Every day at 11 a.m., Charles Glubnaw rolled up his shirtsleeves to the elbow, stowed his tie between buttons two and three, and set to work. 

Doris knew not to book any mid-morning meetings, and the gentle schluck of the button-lock door had become, in time, her Pavlovian prompt to turn on the radio and stare resolutely into the middle distance. 

<Click>

‘Only when I'm dancing can I feel this free

At night I lock the doors, where no one else can see

I'm tired of dancing here all by myself

Tonight I want to dance with someone else …’

At 11.15 a.m. a cherry-cheeked Glubnaw usually breezed through the door in a miasma of pipe-smoke. Today, though, Charles had been knocked off his stroke, and as twenty-five past came and went, Doris and her colleagues began to exchange furtive glances over the desk dividers.

Behind the frosted glass, Glubnaw was sat with his head in his hands, thinking of his brother Archie, and cursing that hamflap, Eretz. He’d not even thought of Archie for months, but now there he was, right between the eyes, stiff-necked and lumpen. 

Chuck! Ye grubby bassoon: mid-morning tug, was it? Contemptible! Always warned Pappy, I did: he’ll wank at work, I used to say; habitual, it’ll be. But no, not our Charlie, they’d rejoin: he’s a grafter, a real nose-to-the-grindstone nine-to-fiver. Just as well I came along when I did, isn’t it Chuck … that I didn’t catch you, hot-knitting yourself a milk-glove? I always told Pappy, I did. And Mammy. Ohhhh yes—

<Schluck>

<Click>

‘Any messages?’

‘No, Mr Glubnaw. No messages.’

‘Very good. Cancel my eleven-thirty. Personal matters.’

~

Eretz was discombobulated: his interview had been suboptimal, and his apple was soapy. 

‘Eurgh!’ 

He gazed up at the office block from the other side of the street. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. He could see Mr Glubnaw’s window, although he couldn’t make out whether the office was occupied. 

‘What a life,’ Eretz said aloud to himself, unfolding the ad clipped from last week’s Echo.

SALESPERSON WANTED
Must be friendly, well-spoken and persuasive
Clean driving licence a necessity
On-the-job training provided
Competitive package

Call 765-661-672

He’d felt he was a shoo-in for this one, and the last one, and the one before that. But this one especially: he was friendly to a fault, never dropped an aitch nor missed a tee, and had once persuaded a banana clean from its skin. He’d even drawn up some business cards in expectation of success (‘Think positively!’), but it just wasn’t to be. 

‘Eretz!’ 

Eretz looked up to see Glubnaw blustering across the road towards him. 

‘ERETZ!’ 

Eretz straightened his tie and stood up, hand outstretched, best business smile. 

‘Why, Mr Glubnaw, what an unexpected hon—’

Suddenly, Eretz was amongst magnolias. There was a smell of soil and dog piss; then Glubnaw’s face loomed into view. 

‘Eretz, you trumpet!’ 

He pulled himself free of the bedding-plants and cowered before Glubnaw’s paunch.

‘S-s-ss-sir,’ said Eretz weakly. ‘M-may I ask wh-wh-at I’ve done?’ 

Tears were in his voice if not his eyes, and in truth, the question was a stumper for Glubnaw, who couldn’t very well tell the truth. What on earth was he doing?

‘Er, yes … You see, Mr Eretz … I’m having a ... bad day — stressful, pent up. I’m itchy — no. Missing. Errrr—’, Glubnaw made the sound of a tired horse, and then paused. 

Deep breath.

‘You see, Mr Eretz, it’s the following,’ said Glubnaw, measuring his words. ‘When you came into my office this morning, I thought to myself: here’s a chap and a half—possibly more. Packed to the gunwales, I thought, yet with the austere tranquility of a ... Shinto Shrine. Ferny. The whiff o’ woodsmoke during an mid-autumn yawn. A heavily sedated cat waiting to be spayed. You were, well, no, you are, a host of images, Mr Eretz—a veritable smorgasbord. And … and …’ 

Glubnaw was unravelling under the quiet scrutiny of Eretz’s gaze. He began to sweat profusely, first around the neck, then the face, which flushed and prickled.

‘Pffff …’ Glubnaw exhaled noisily through the lips. 

‘Listen. I’d like to offer you the job.’

(January 2019)