Legwork. Someone else’s leg, someone else’s work. There’s pros to being management. I sprawled across an ornate curly sofa at the back of an office just below Mr Earle’s and waited. Occasionally people came in. The office doctor who came to check on my stitches, take my blood pressure; the office caterer who came in with cups of coffee and biscuits of such quality and expense that our taste buds, accustomed to custard creams and jammy dodgers, found them slightly unease-making. Once or twice Oda. She seemed to have something to say, and then not, and would just look at us, nod as if to say, “still here, good, don’t try leaving” and walk out again. Once - just once - Earle. He came in with a big white box, put it down on the table in front of me. “Open it,” he said. I did carefully, expecting snakes. It was a big black coat. I said, “Umm . . .?” “It’s for you.” “Uh . . .” “An Alderman’s coat. The symbol of our office.” “But I’m not an Alderman.”
