The Earlier Trials of Alan Mewling , livre ebook

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260 pages

English

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A new government has been elected and, as usual, savings must be made in the public service. Some individuals in the Department of Multifarious, Extraneous and Artistic Affairs will go to any lengths to be made redundant and to leave with lucre, but Alan Mewling is not one of them; he is unashamedly desperate to avoid bureaucratic irrelevance. At the very time, though, when he needs to demonstrate his indispensability to senior management, his domestic life descends into chaos, his work colleagues behave in increasingly strange ways and he is the target of bizarre romantic overtures. He finds himself tasked with solving impossible problems and with serving each of the warring parties in an industrial dispute made intractable by that most feared of clerical crises: the stationery freeze. Will he be able to save his job, his identity and his sense of purpose, or will he - after years of selfless service - be obliged to hang up his cardigan? If anyone can prevail with dignity in such testing circumstances, it is surely A. A. C. Mewling.

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Humorous

Fiction

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Publié par	Tablo Pty Ltd
Date de parution	11 juin 2019
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781925939958
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0250€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Also by A C Bland
The Final Trials of Alan Mewling (Book 1, a 'stand alone' work in the Alan Mewling Series)
What readers had to say about the “Final Trials of Alan Mewling”:
“Very disturbing and very, very funny.” “A hugely guilty pleasure.” “Exquisitely pompous and weirdly addictive.” “A deeply incorrect cross between ‘The Office’ and ‘The Hollow Men’. “For public servants, it will prove to be more therapeutic than therapy, drugs or vengeance (combined).” “Appalling and hilarious. No one – and I really do mean no one – escapes censure.” “A worrying insight into the operations of the bureaucracy, Australian style’.
For L.H. (the Koondrook Kid) and in memory of Bob Carroll (inspiration for “the Voice”)
Chapter 1
Alan Mewling did not believe that bad things necessarily happened in threes. Yet, in the space of a week his dachshund had tunnelled to freedom, his wife had eloped with the driver of a mobile lending library, and his underpants, apart from the pair he was wearing, were stolen (on an otherwise sunny afternoon) from the Hills hoist in his own backyard.
The first of these occurrences – involving the dog – was a blow; the third – pertaining to the pilfered smalls – was cause for disquiet, while all three events, considered together, were reason enough for him to admit, at least to himself, that he was transiting through a less than equable patch.
However, the most disturbing aspect of these unfortunate phenomena was the fact that none of them was in the least anticipated. The miniature excavator (known as the “the Monst”, because of his frightening visage when roused) had left no piles of soil in the backyard prior to his daring escape; Eleanor Mewling had not signalled with a cheerier-than-normal disposition that she had, at last, found true love; and Alan’s Y-fronts had not at any earlier time been prized in smaller sizes or lesser quantities by opportunistic pranksters, perverts or paupers.
Adjusting to these changed circumstances – no dog, no spouse and, at least for a short while, no undies (on alternate days) – might have diminished the capacity of a lesser man to deal with further misfortune, but Alan was, it must be conceded, made of sterner stuff.
So, it was that, on the second Monday morning after the brazen theft of his drawers, and a fortnight before Christmas, he was little more than inconvenienced when an emergency meeting was called of all staff in the Publicity and Advisory Branch of the Department of Multifarious, Extraneous and Artistic Affairs.
The invitation arrived by email, the organisation’s newest communication medium. Elsewhere on the 7th floor of the Dulcie Gullet Building, surrounded by tinsel and baubles and supplementary Yuletide trappings, others received the news with less composure, for the new ministry had only been in office a few days and an announcement of Service-wide cutbacks was expected at any moment … pursuant to the usual discovery that the economy was in very much worse shape than previously thought.
In those parts of the branch staffed by refugees from tabloid turpitude and private sector spin doctoring, the response to the urgent meeting notice was the customary journalistic one to all bad news not requiring reportage: a desire for strong drink in large quantities, regardless of the hour.
In the Committee Support bay – so heavily encumbered with Christmas decorations that the original décor was unable to be discerned – Alan’s long-time colleague, Stephen Morton, in a beautifully tailored blue suit, was the first to comment on the portents.
“Half of us will be looking for employment in the new year,” he said, from between a pair of inflated reindeer and a pillow-stuffed Santa, “while the rest of us will be working ourselves to death.”
Alan abhorred hyperbole almost as much as he disliked the life-sized, fibreglass polar bear sitting on the floor next to him; experience told him that, although staffing cuts were likely, it was most unlikely that anyone remaining in the workplace would be required to apply themselves with fatal dedication. He nonetheless sensed an enervating gloom encroaching on his normal state of cautious optimism.
“Romans 12, Verse 12,” said Bruce Trevithick in short-sleeves, shorts and long socks, from the cubicle next to Alan’s. “Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be content in prayer.”
Alan’s agnosticism didn’t usually prevent him from finding comfort in the scriptures, but on this occasion his apprehensions weren’t to be easily allayed.
“Thank you for that,” said Morton to Trevithick, “but let’s see how patient and content you are when the tribulation ramps up and your own employment is on the line. And in the mean time I wouldn’t recommend too much in the way of rejoicing when your jobless colleagues are being escorted from the premises – not if you want to escape a lynching.”
“The Lord is my shepherd,” Trevithick replied with determination, as Ernest Hemingway, the oldest member of the section, entered the bay, leaving a pungent trail of floral notes in his wake. Alan and Trevithick sneezed repeatedly in a kind of belated nasal fanfare as the fat man’s fragrance wafted across their work stations.
“Good morning, my dears,” said Hemingway, mopping sweat from his brow in a dabbing motion designed to not upset the precarious positioning of his ‘comb over’. “Did I, perchance, hear mention of the love that dare not bleat its name?”
“There is nothing shameful about being a shepherd,” Trevithick said.
“Then why do sheep live in fear?” replied the new arrival.
Alan moved the conversation into safer territory. “You’re in time for an emergency branch meeting,” he said to Hemingway.
“And you don’t need to be terribly clever,” said Morton, “to deduce what it will be about, bearing in mind the timing.”
“So, the wait is over,” Hemingway remarked, adjusting the drooping cluster of mistletoe above his chair. “We’re finally to be told how much austerity we’ll be getting.”
“Think ‘lots of’” said Morton, “rather than ‘tragic shortage’.’’
“Then, thank God for ladies’ clothing,” said Hemingway. He’d once been a milliner and was disposed to reminding others, whenever cutbacks were rumoured, that he had an alternative means of earning a living. He turned his computer on.
“It’ll be a case of ‘last one out, turn off the lights’,” said Morton.
“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” said Alan, “even if some downsizing is in store.”
“Don’t talk to me about downsizing,” said Hemingway, half covering his mouth with his fingertips, while staring fixedly at Alan’s crotch. “Most of us of us can ill afford less than we’ve already got.”
Morton sniggered, Trevithick murmured ‘disgusting’ and Alan turned a deep shade of crimson while perspiring profusely. If Hemingway was suggesting that his (Alan’s) essential organ was of deficient dimensions – a contention supported, perhaps, by Eleanor Mewling’s decision to run off with the lady driver of a library van – he was appalled. If on the other hand, Hemingway was advancing the opposite argument vis-à-vis the proportions of his procreative protuberance – one that might, again, have been given credibility by Eleanor’s flight – he wasn’t any less embarrassed.
“Code of conduct, Hemingway,” warned a new voice from the corridor end of the bay.
The ex-milliner paled and turned hurriedly to his screen at the same time as his colleagues swivelled respectfully to face the new arrival.
Damian O’Kane, dressed in T-shirt and shorts, and sweating freely, was their alpha male: fit, fearless and ready for any bureaucratic ordeal. He strode to his window-adjacent cubicle and wriggled out of his backpack, which crashed to the floor.
“Twenty kilometres,” he announced, “with eight house bricks in the knapsack.”
He prised off his running shoes.
“Magnificent” said Morton.
“And two hundred push ups at the halfway point, with the bricks in place.”
“You’re just in time for an emergency meeting,” said Alan, “in the tea room.”
“Bring it on,” O’Kane exclaimed, as though a crisis at the beginning of the working week was a thing to be relished.
“I’m just glad the wait is over,” said Morton, “And that we’ll finally know where we stand.”
“Eyes on your screen, Hemingway” said the athlete, removing his T-shirt. “Don’t let me see you ogling my magnificent physique.”
Everybody, including the ex-milliner, looked away as O’Kane changed into a fresh shirt and trousers.
Alan continued his trawl through the emails sent to him overnight.
“I’m done,” O’Kane announced, when his tie was knotted.
All five men rose and glanced at the closed office door of their director, on the other side of the corridor.
“She really ought to attend, if it’s bad news,” said Trevithick, voicing the widely held view that managers were rarely improved by averted adversity.
Director Committee Support, Lorrae Spaul, had not been sighted since early September and hadn’t spoken to any of her staff for a month before that. She was, however, thought to be in attendance.
“And these are somewhat extraordinary circumstances,” said Morton.
“I suppose I could find out if she’s willing to engage,” said Alan, pessimistically.
“Then we’ll see you there,” announced O’Kane, leading the little company out of the bay.
Chapter 2
Alan picked up a pen and paper, and positioned himself at Lorrae’s office door, marshalling the courage to knock.
He pretended to himself that it was inconsiderate of the others – and of Morton, in particular – to place the burden of communication on him. However, the truth of the matter was that he was the only member of the section with whom Lorrae would still interact.
That she was mentally unwell was beyond doubt but Alan had worked with more deluded persons, and weren’t there officers far above her in the departmental hierarchy who’d displayed more challenging behaviours? And, thinking objectively about things, madness was hardly reason to disengage ─ not when experts were of the view that a sizeable proportion of the populatio