Holding pattern
van Tate sat discontentedly staring into his dark, lukewarm coffee. He had
not slept well the night before, and he was not looking forward with any
pleasure to the trip ahead. There is a time just after the first morning
flight has left and just before the airport lounge staff finish their
tidying that the breakfast selection is severely depleted. Choice is
limited to a scrape of yoghurt, a few curling slices of bread, and a broken
croissant. The fruit is gone and the coffee pot needs replenishing. The
translucent look of the remaining milk tells you that it is the low fat
stuff not the real thing. Spoons are hard to find. Newspapers are not
folded properly and are hard to straighten.
It was at a time like this when Evan Tate sat brooding. He had little enthusiasm for the workshop he was to attend: 'Managing change and improving staff relationships' it was called. It was a bad time. Evan's own work program was ravaged by funding cuts, and the kind of change he was managing was about getting rid of staff. He did not want to have to get rid of anyone, but there was no choice. So he was irritated with himself for hoping he could eke out the budget until attrition did the job for him, and someone left of their own accord.
"How can you talk about staff relationships," he asked himself, "when your job is to tell some decent, hard-working soul 'no, there's nothing wrong with your performance, it's just that the Government doesn't give a shit about getting this job done.' We're not about delivering services any more, we're about not spending money, and bugger the poor sods who need the services." He sat, chin on chest, a stocky brown-haired man whose normally friendly face was darkened and closed off by bitterness.
"Oops. Sorry. Sorry. Oh, it's you."
Evan looked up, startled out of his thoughts, almost instantly recognising the face of the man who had tripped over his outstretched feet.
"Evan." Moss Wood said, patting him rather forcefully on the shoulder. "Sorry, old son, busy talking. You going down for this seminar too? Quite a few of us going down. Should be good. Get some strategic direction into the business. What do you think?"
Moss hardly ever,in Evan's experience, stopped to listen for answers to questions he asked. He turned back to the group of four people standing behind him, before any response was possible.
"Evan Tate, from Community Service, going down to the workshop too..."
Evan nodded, content to let the talkative Wood have the floor.
"Evan. This is Abbey Vale, Howard Park, Matilda Meadows, Margaret Rivers. Oh yes, you know Margaret, don't you? You worked together on that interdepartmental committee, didn't you? Wasn't the last meeting just before you went away Margaret? She's just back from Oslo-you know that fellowship she was on. We shared a taxi on the way here. Abbey and Howard work with me. Matilda's from Human Resources."
Evan and the entourage had time for quick mutual acknowledgment, nods and sketched smiles, before Moss Wood's cheerful deluge came again.
"Is anyone else from your lot going down? What flight are you on? Same as ours? The 7.40? Lucky devil. We're all on the shuttle. We'll be up there ten minutes before you and down five minutes after. Look, people, the plane's on time. Just time to grab a quick coffee."
Evan smiled again after the fellow travellers, three of whom trailed away in Moss Wood's wake. He smiled more convincingly at Margaret, who smiled back.
"Good to see you again."
He meant it. Perhaps the day might have its good points.
"How was Europe? I didn't realise you'd be back already," he said, then as an afterthought, "Do you want coffee?"
"I'll manage without the coffee, I think," Margaret said. "I could do with five minutes break from Moss."
"I know what you mean. He really does talk your head off."
"Mmmm." Margaret nodded. "And we have adjoining seats on the shuttle so by the time we get in to Sydney, I'm bound to be fully briefed on the Strategic Planning Division's world view and to have a headache."
So how was Europe?" he asked again, but the reply was interrupted by the polite, amplified announcement.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the first and final call for passengers travelling to Sydney on Flight 5943. Your flight is now boarding from Gate Lounge 2."
They waited for the routine repeat of the message, but then barely had time for a quick "I'll see you in Sydney" before Margaret was swept away towards the lounge door by the irresistible force of Moss Wood. Evan sat down again as they left. He was not thinking of the workshop or of his workplace worries. He was thinking about Margaret Rivers. They were pleasant thoughts.
Evan did not catch up with Margaret and the Wood group on arrival. His aircraft was stuck in a holding pattern over Sydney for twenty minutes, so he was late into the terminal. He checked the Arrivals monitor to find that the earlier plane had missed the 'traffic jam' and landed on time. He was mildly disappointed to have missed Margaret, but as he waited in the queue for a taxi, his mind turned to back to the business of the day.
It turned out to be a heavy morning of introductory talks followed by small working group sessions. The group to which Evan was assigned was allocated what the convenor described as 'specific key issues in effective staff redeployment in response to strategic changes in policy priorities'. "In other words," thought Even, "how to get rid of excess staff with the least possible trouble and especially, expense."
The lunch break was welcome, and although he looked for Margaret Rivers he did not see her. He joined the queue for the buffet, choosing smoked salmon and caper rounds from the open sandwiches, a quiche of indeterminate pedigree, some salad and two slices of rock melon. He looked around again but did not see Margaret before he was engaged by others. He found himself instead discussing Commonwealth-State relations, and thoughts of Margaret faded in the course of the heated debate that ensued among the dozen people at the table.
As the afternoon wore on, Evan found it more and more difficult to concentrate. The lunch, including his second foray to the buffet, had been substantial and two cups of coffee did not offset the post-prandial vagueness that now assailed him. It did not help his concentration that shorter skirts were fashionable again. The occasional swish of hose-clad thigh on thigh enlivened an increasingly heavy afternoon. In that strange male way Evan was able to separate in his mind his purely voyeuristic, de-personalised interest in legs from respect for the well-regarded colleagues who just happened to be female. He spied, not far away, a particularly gorgeous pair of legs.
"Not bad," he thought. "Not bad at all."
He sat up, annoyed with himself and worked on listening to what was being said. "Come on Evan," he said to himself, "you're not fifteen. Try to behave like an adult."
The speaker was coming to the end of his remarks. "...so one of the remaining tasks for us today is to give some thought to priority-setting in the human resources context and to develop strategic options for managing shrinking financial resources. It is important to keep in mind that the Government has no bottomless pit of funding-"
"No. More like a shallow puddle on a hot day," thought Evan. "Why am I listening to this crap?"
As the speaker droned on, Evan's mind wandered away to the little outcrops of knees scattered among the grey- and blue-trousered background. His eyes drifted back to the legs he had noticed earlier. They were now crossed the other way, and there was more on display. He confirmed to himself that they were, indeed, gorgeous.
Something caused him to lift his gaze. He encountered the hazel eyes of Margaret Rivers. She was looking directly at him. She was not smiling. Evan dropped his eyes and quickly turned back to the speaker. Blood surged in his ears, and he did not hear a word spoken. He felt himself blushing! His mind was a turmoil of legs, eyes and self-immolation. His own awareness of his red, perspiring face made him feel as if everyone was looking at him. He had not felt like this for many, many years. He had forgotten the distress of complete embarrassment. He sat miserably, eyes fixed to the front, waiting for the tea break, enduring until the adrenalin effect diminished.
The session ended. The audience moved away towards the tea and coffee in the ante-room. Evan was among the first to the coffee, pouring himself a cup, adding milk, and quickly retreating to a far corner. He stood pretending to read an irrelevant notice pinned to the wall over and over. A voice behind him said, "That doesn't seem to be the sort of thing to interest you."
He had nearly finished his coffee, so did not spill it when he turned, his reddening face the worse for knowing he could not stop it.
"And that is quite a nice shade of pink," Margaret Rivers continued. "It quite suits you." Then she laughed. "You should be embarrassed," she said.
Evan Tate, senior executive, aged 41 years, stood tongue-tied, almost shifting from foot to foot in his discomfort. His slim tormentor's dark blonde wavy hair fell to the shoulders of the plain, beautifully-cut black dress that buttoned down the front. Although the hem was only a few inches above her knees, the last button was several inches above that. It caused her to reveal a good deal of leg when she was seated. The recollection added an extra layer of pink and perspiration to Evan's face.
I didn't realise it was you," he said.
Margaret stared into his face, eyebrows raised. "What on earth makes you think that makes it better?" she demanded. "Why would you think anyone enjoys being treated like a lump of meat?"
"I don't know what to say," Evan said helplessly. "It wasn't like that."
"That's the point. It is like that. Such a chauvinist thing to do." In a quieter tone she went on, "You made me really angry. I don't want to be treated like an object by anyone, least of all you."
Although his pulse and colour were subsiding to manageable levels, Evan was still too caught up in his own confusion to pick up on the nuance of 'least of all you'.
"I can see what you mean," Evan said slowly, "when you put it like that. What can I say, except that I'm really sorry I've offended you. That's not what I want to do at all."
At least she was talking to him, he thought, so it seemed there was a chance that the damage could be repaired.
"Do you understand, Evan? I am human, you know, and I like to be attractive. But I insist on being an attractive person, not just something to perve on."
Evan paused, uncertain, not wanting to make things worse.
"I'm ashamed Margaret. It's true, I was looking at the legs and not thinking about the person. What really worries me is that I don't want you to see that as who I am. I don't want you to go away with such a poor opinion of me. I can't tell you how sorry I am. I can only apologise again."
Margaret was looking at him intently, then she smiled faintly and said, "I suppose I can only accept your apology."
Evan felt that perhaps the distance he had created between them was lessening. Anxious not to lose his chance, he hesitated, but ever the risk-taker, he took the extra step.
"How about I promise never to do it again?"
Margaret looked away. "I don't think that is enough by any means."
Evan was momentarily set back by the asperity of the reply, but when Margaret turned back to him she was smiling.
"I think the least you can do is dinner," she said. "Let's see if you can relate to me face-to-face as well as you seem to relate to my body."
"I think I'd really like to do that," said Evan, smiling back.
A voice was calling everyone back to the conference hall. Margaret and Evan walked over to the table and put down their unfinished coffees, then turned and walked together back into the meeting.
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