UNDERGRADUATE PAGE

The Interview

By DAVID STONE (Queens' College, Cambridge)

IPAID off the taxi at the corner of the street, and walked about two hundred yards to the offices of The Organisa- tion. A progressive management had had the number chipped on the facade in a chancery script, so I had no difficulty in finding the right place. An ex-sergeant of the Corps of Commissionaires stared at me as I pushed open the plate-glass doors, but as I was wearing my bowler-hat he probably thought that I was all right. The vestibule was a happy mixture of Augustan and Second Empire styles, with fluorescent strip- lighting and white telephones to add a modern touch. I walked across the imitation Aubusson to a small desk in the corner at which an extremely pretty girl was using a noiseless grey typewriter. She smiled up at me in the manner of a Vogue advertisement, and said, " Can I help you ? " I explained that I had an appointment with the Selection Board of The Organisa- tion ..at 11.15. She opened a red leather pad and noted this down; then picked up one of the white telephones and dialled a three-figure number.

" 465 ? Good morning. Miss Henry ? Reception here. There's a Mr. Stone for the Board. Yes. Right. 'Bye." She put the receiver down and wrote something more on her pad. You're to go up. It's room 232A on the eighth floor. You can take the lift." I thanked her and walked across to a door that she indicated. A button was set discreetly in the wall, and I pressed it. After a minute the door opened, and a sour- faced man in a beautiful uniform of dove-grey, with the words The Organisation embroidered in dark green on his left breast- pocket, looked out at me. ' Eighth floor," I said, and went inside. It smelt a little of dog.

Room 232A was along a deep-carpeted corridor, lit by indirect pink lighting. I knocked and a voice said, 7 Come in."

The room contained a red carpet, a large wooden desk, three telephones and a framed photograph of The Organisation's Banff factory on the wall. Another pretty girl, in a green jersey dress, was smiling at me.

" Mr. Stone ? Good morning. I'm Mr. Hudson's secretary. We won't keep you a minute. Let me take your hat and coat. It's a lovely morning, isn't it ? There. Do sit down. Here's something to read." She pushed me into a very comfortable chair made of walnut piping and foam rubber, and handed me a copy of Forward, the house-magazine of The Organisation. I had just become interested in the account of the Export Division's Christmas party, at which Miss Tiller (Perishable Goods) had distinguished herself, when- " Mr. Stone—we're ready now," and I was announced into a large adjoining office. It was about the size of the booking hall at Liverpool Street, the walls of pitch pine, the carpet green. At the far end was a table, behind which sat three men and one woman. One of the men spoke. His voice came from far away. " Good morning. Come and sit down." .

I walked forward, trying to keep upright, and sat in the hard chair he waved at. It was set about two feet away from the desk. A little notice said " Please Speak Up." The man who had asked me to sit down spoke to me again. He appeared to be the Head Man and I supposed he was Mr. Hudson.

" I see you were at Blank, Mr. Stone ? Was it, would you say, a good school ? I looked at his tie, a faded Uppinghamian. " Oh yes, I think so. I certainly have no regrets." Mr. Hudson smiled. While he thought about the next question, I studied the Board. There was Mr. Hudson himself, red-faced and middle-aged, with a dark blue suit, gleaming white collar and striped shirt.. He also wore a camel-hair waistcoat, but it jarred a. little, and I-didn't look at it again. He had a round genial face and a deeply-lined forehead. To his right there was a tall, lean man, with fading blond hair and a dark grey suit. ' He wore a Hawks Club tie and fiddled with a Parker 51. Beside him was a youngish lady, simply dressed in black, with a ridicu- lous white hat, and harlequin-framed spectacles. On the other side of Mr. Hudson there was a slightly Bohemian looking gentleman whom I suppose was called on to judge university candidates. He wore 'a blue blazer, Viyella shirt and Guards tie, and grinned sardonically. Mr. Hudson was speaking again. " Why do you want to join us ? " I thought of the answer I had carefully prepared with the help of the man who lives opposite me. " Well, I think that by joining The Organisation I shall be doing a good job of work, helping people to improve themselves; and also I shall be able to use my talents (I paused a little here) to the full."

Mr. Hudson looked round with a. triumphant air. The blond .man took me up, in a dry, nasal voice. " You play rugger ?"

I told him.

" You never got into good class rugger then ? " " I played for the LX Club once." His eyes lit up. He leaned forward.

" When ?"

I told him that too.

"Oh yes, you won 14-8 I think." I refused to admire his skill, and agreed, although I had forgotten. He appeared satisfied.

Mr. Hudson coughed, and rustled the sheaf of papers before him. I saw that he had a pink file with CONFIDENTIAL stamped on it.

" What do you think of the world situation ? " I thought that things were improving and that there was a lot of truth on both sides.

" The Russians aren't really such bad chaps are they ? " asked Mr. Hudson winningly. This question had obviously caught out a good many men. I was hotly indignant about them, and I saw a tick go on to a piece of paper.

"Have you read The Cruel Sea ? " asked the woman quietly. I had. " And the Sitwell Memoirs? " Yes, they were rather good, weren't they ?

Mr. Hudson stared at me without speaking. I stared back and he went slightly pink.

" Are you thinking of getting married ? "

" Oh no, sir."

" You don't like girls then ? " This in a very jolly tone.

" Oh, very much, but I've got no money." They all looked relieved, and I saw another tick put on the paper.

" Well, Mr. Stone, I think that's all. 1 shall certainly recom- mend you to the Senior Selection Board." I wondered whether the others agreed with him, but no one spoke, and I assumed they had a code. But what was this Senior Board ? I enquired. Well, with such a big firm, we like to give our candidates a thorough—haha—grilling. You'll go now, in a few days I mean, not straightaway, to Banff, and meet the Board. And if they like you, we fly you to Canada to the Final Board. And if you get through that—and I see no reason why you shouldn't —you come back here and meet Lord Monolith, our chair- man. He has to give the final O.K."

" And then I'm in ? "

" Ha, not so fast, young man. You agree, if selected, to do a three-year preliminary probation course at our Luton factory, and then, if that's satisfactory, you're taken on the Temporary Strength as a Probable Trainee. After a father six months you reach permanent trainee status, and can consider yourself a full member of The Organisation.

As I went out the girl in the vestibule called after me, " How d'you get on ? " " All right I think." Then, on an afterthought, I came back to her desk.

" How long have you been here ? " I said.

" Nearly four years." " You're a permanent trainee then ? " I enquired. " Oh no. I'm on the lower substantive level, and have to wait until I'm thirty." I nodded as though I understood, and went out into the spring sunshine.