St Mary's Goes Corporate - a free Chronicles of St Mary's short story
by Jodi Taylor
Another all-staff briefing from Dr Bairstow – for which, fortunately, I was late. This meant I had to sneak on to the end of the back row and try to look as if I’d been there all along. Normally I have to sit at the front, along with Peterson, with the pair of us wearing expressions of zeal and near-terminal enthusiasm. Today, however, I was safely at the back.
He wasn’t alone. Dr Bairstow, I mean. Standing alongside him on the half landing was a woman I’d never seen before. She was wearing a bright blue jacket, white shirt, grey skirt and black shoes. With heels. Everything about her screamed, ‘Corporate.’
Every instinct I had screamed, ‘Tell everyone you have scrofula and leave. Immediately.’
I really have to start trusting my instincts.
I nudged Markham, sitting alongside me. ‘Who’s that?’
He leaned his head down to me and whispered, ‘Apparently her name is Polly.’
‘What does she want?’
He opened his mouth but Dr Bairstow had begun.
‘Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you for coming.’
As if we ever had any choice.
‘I would like to introduce a colleague from the University of Thirsk who has travelled here to be with us this afternoon. Please welcome Miss Fuller.’
He made his way to a seat in the front row while there was polite applause. Because we’re not complete barbarians at St Mary’s, you know.
Fixing a bright smile across her features, she began. ‘Hello everyone. It’s so lovely to be here. Please call me Polly. I’m here today to represent the University of Thirsk …’
‘Our overlords,’ whispered Markham. Sadly, all too audibly.
‘Your colleagues,’ she said, reprovingly.
Silence greeted this remark.
She resumed her bright smile. ‘Firstly, and on behalf of the university, I have to apologise. We have been guilty of neglecting St Mary’s in the most shameful manner and my delightful task today is to entice you all back into the Thirsk fold. It is unfortunate that your campus is somewhat distant …’
It takes several hours of hard driving to reach Thirsk from here. For which all of us are very thankful.
‘And the result has been that the you have not benefited from the inclusivity for which our beloved university is so famed.’
We do actually have a representative from the University of Thirsk here at St Mary’s. A liaison officer they call her. We call her Dr Black and are extremely polite to her because she’s very tall, looks like a Disney princess and drinks the blood of trainees to keep herself young. She also possesses the gift of tactical absence and was exercising it in full today. There was no sign of her anywhere. I began to have a bad feeling.
‘… Various initiatives to promote our corporate identity,’ Miss Fuller was saying, ‘beginning with standardising certain important procedures on all campuses across the entire university. For instance, there is now a formal procedure for answering the telephone to which we should adhere on every occasion. This expertly thought-out script has been designed to project the impression of accessibility, friendliness, and efficiency to our valued caller. Accessibility, friendliness and efficiency is the image the University of Thirsk strives to project at every level. Going forwards.’
She picked up the remote control and the big screens flickered into life.
Someone raised their hand. ‘Miss Fuller, why?’
‘Please call me Polly. Well, people sometimes forget you are actually part of us.’
People being St Mary’s, presumably. She meant St Mary’s forgot we were part of Thirsk. Although the feeling was that Thirsk frequently forgot they were part of St Mary’s. Probably best not to mention that.
‘As you can see …’ She pointed at the screen. Words appeared.
‘We begin, obviously, with the name of the university. She pointed with something projecting a funky laser beam, causing Markham, anxiously, to scan the room for his daughter’s kitten – Princess Kitty Glitter.
‘From there we go on to give the name of the campus.
‘Then we move on to the specific department and job title so the caller is immediately aware to whom they are speaking.
‘Then the greeting – Good day, rather than good morning or afternoon.’ Keeping it simple for the morons at St Mary’s, obviously.
‘And then, from there, we move into the purpose of the call with How may I help you’
She turned from the screen to face us. ‘Obviously, all this should be spoken with a lovely smile because research has shown that when you smile it shows in your voice, thus projecting an aura of friendly, efficient helpfulness at the caller.’
Possibly the silence that greeted this statement spoke volumes. And without a smile on its face.
She gestured at the small table alongside her on the half-landing. The one with the telephone sitting on it.
‘Now,’ she chirped. ‘I’ve had all calls put through to this phone here so we can have a few trial runs and you will be able to gauge the improvement for yourselves.’
On cue – suspiciously on cue – the phone rang.
She clapped her hands. ‘Now, who wants to have a go?’
‘Me,’ said Sykes, leaping to her feet and projecting an aura of friendly, efficient helpfulness. With a big smile on her face.
I felt my heart sink. Beside me, Markham closed his eyes.
I looked for Peterson but he’d silently vanished. That’s how you can identify a true senior manager – the ability to melt away at the first signs of trouble.
Miss Fuller gestured at the phone. ‘Here you are, dear. In your own time …’
Facing the screen, Sykes seized the phone. ‘Thank you, Miss Fuller.’
‘Please call me Polly.’
‘Sorry.’
Clearly with no idea of the danger she was in, Miss Fuller nodded encouragingly.
Sykes raised the phone to her ear, took a deep breath and began:
‘University of Thirsk.
‘Rushford Campus.
‘Department of History.
‘Chief Training Officer speaking.
‘Good day.
‘How may I help you?’
Miss Fuller was smiling and nodding. ‘Perfect,’ she cried. ‘That was absolutely marvellous, dear.’
Unfortunately, that was as good as it got because after a pause of a good five seconds, a panic-stricken voice on the other end of the line said, ‘St Mary’s? Is that St Mary’s? I wanted St Mary’s.’
A beaming Sykes informed him that he’d got them.
‘Are you sure? That is St Mary’s?’
If possible, Sykes’s grin stretched even further. ‘It is indeed.’
The caller, far from having a smile in his voice, sounded rather reproving. ‘You didn’t say so.’
Sykes was more than equal to this small hiccup. ‘We are trialling a more helpful way of answering the telephone.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we’ve been told to.’
Honesty is always the best policy. As Sykes has informed me on several occasions when I’ve been questioning her closely over various … incidents.
The telephone voice was definitely not smiling. ‘It’s not very helpful if you don’t say who you are. Have you changed your name?’
Sykes frowned, remembered that would be reflected in her voice and switched back to wide beam. ‘No. that would be foolish. We’re still St Mary’s.’
‘Well, this is Professor Strangeways.’
‘Hello, Professor, how are you?’
‘Can I speak to Miss Sykes, please?’
‘Speaking.’
‘You didn’t say so.’
‘It is considered more helpful for me to give my job title rather than my actual name.’
‘Oh. Well. Do you have that date for me?’
‘1129 AD, professor.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘You’re very welcome.’
‘Shame it took so long to get to the point.’
‘You might say so, Professor – I could not possibly comment.’
‘I mean, I seem to have been on the phone for hours and all I wanted was a simple date.’
‘Indeed, Professor.’
‘Well … thank you.’
‘Thank you for your valued custom, professor,’ she said, engaging in a little illicit ad-libbing but still beaming from ear to ear as per instructions. ‘Rushford Campus thanks you for your call.’
‘Do you mean St Mary’s?’
‘Yes, professor. Rushford Campus thanks you for your call today.’
He made an exasperated noise and the line went dead.
‘Point made, I think,’ murmured David Sands.
‘Mm,’ I said. ‘Was it my imagination had that the voice borne a massive resemblance to that of Mr Bashford?’
‘Well,’ said Miss Fuller, in no way deterred by this unfortunate introduction to the St Mary’s method of doing exactly as we’re told. ‘I think we just have time to discuss the new corporate uniforms. Now, the first and most important issue – no more jumpsuits. Rather too informal an image, don’t you think? We are aiming for a much more modern, much more professional look.’
‘They’re comfortable,’ said Evans, looking down at his green jumpsuit.
‘Warm,’ said Polly Perkins, looking down at her black one.
‘They have pockets,’ said Sykes. Blue.
‘Easily recognisable,’ said Dieter. Orange.
‘The blood washes out easily.’ Me. In blue. With dubious stains.
There was a short pause after that last one.
Apparently undeterred, Miss Fuller continued. ‘Allow me to introduce our new range of corporate clothing.’
The screen flickered with a series of images. A series of glossy – if slightly unrealistic – looking people appeared.
‘Blue jacket, grey trousers for the gentlemen and a neat skirt for the ladies. Corporate tie with the University of Thirsk crest.’
‘We have our own St Mary’s crest,’ said Sykes. ‘It’s over there. carved into the fireplace.’
Miss Fuller ignored the crest carved into the fireplace and forged bravely on.
‘Corporate scarf for the ladies.’
‘Or for scarf-wearing men,’ said Sykes brightly. ‘I feel very strongly we should be offering this opportunity to everyone, regardless of their gender. I’ve received several complaints from male colleagues who yearn to wear scarves. Mr Evans, for instance.’
To his credit, Evans took this in his stride and endeavoured to assume the expression of one who longed to avail himself of this unique opportunity to express himself in chiffon.
‘Really?’ trilled Miss Fuller. ‘Could Mr Evans stand up, please.’
Evans lumbered to his feet. All of him. The world’s most unlikely scarf-wearer cast a giant shadow across the room.
Miss Fuller faltered fractionally. Personally, I thought she was lucky not to have encountered Evans on World Naked Gardening Day when all the scarves in the world couldn’t have distracted attention from …
She forged on. ‘Black shoes. Court shoes for the ladies. And tights. American Tan. Please note that hosiery must be worn at all times.’
‘All times?’ said Rosie Lee. ‘Are we not allowed to take them off at night? That’s not very hygienic, is it?’
I raised my hand. ‘What about socks, Miss Fuller?
An important point when you have feet whose temperature rarely rises above absolute zero. It’s a fact that Leon won’t allow me to get into bed without one of us – me – wearing protective footwear.
‘Please call me Polly.’
‘Sorry. What about socks?’
‘Socks?’ She said faintly. ‘No.’ And then rallied. ‘And black handbags.’
‘Oh God, I haven’t got a handbag,’ said Roberts, panicking. ‘Should I have a handbag? Someone give me a handbag now.’
‘A briefcase for the gentlemen.’
‘I want a briefcase too,’ said Sykes
‘Handbags are more appropriate for ladies,’ she murmured.
There was yet another short pause after that remark. One brief discussion later it transpired that not one of us had a handbag. ‘Some of us have husbands to fulfil that function,’ said Lingoss helpfully.
Miss Fuller drew herself up. ‘Rather a sexist remark, don’t you think?’
‘More or less sexist than assuming men carry files for which they will need briefcases but women only carry lipsticks?’
‘That wasn’t what I meant,’
‘That’s what I understood,’ said Sykes.
‘Me too,’ said Polly Perkins.
‘And me,’ said Van Owen
‘And me,’ said Evans. ‘Why can’t I have a handbag in which to keep my lipsticks?’
‘And your scarves,’ said Sykes.
Evans nodded vigorously. ‘Indeed. It’s not fair.’
This was going well, wasn’t it?
‘Moving on,’ said Miss Fuller. Was it my imagination or was she slightly less bright than she’d been twenty minutes ago? ‘I wonder if it would be possible to take a moment to discuss hairstyles that might, possibly, be considered a teeny bit inappropriate for the workplace.’
Silence.
The sort of silence that says you’ve gone one step to far and now there’s no way back. Hair is a delicate issue at St Mary’s. Our job calls for us to fit unobtrusively into any century and in most of those centuries both men and women had long hair. Styling was almost non-existent. As were scissors. Female historians have yards of hair. It’s usually bundled up in a net or a bun or a plait and the sheer volume dictates a need for regular drain dates – which are not what you’re thinking – they’re the days Mr Strong goes round with rubber gloves and a dedicated bucket, unclogging everyone’s plugholes. Not the best job in the world. Anyone up on a disciplinary charge is usually drafted in to assist as part of their punishment.
Male historians tend to rock the shaggy haystack look. Beards are optional and tend to come and go according to the date and location of our next assignment.
Which begged the question – was this Polly Fuller aware of our true function or was this just another attempt by Thirsk to impose conformity on the persistently unconforming St Mary’s? I had no idea and our need for professional hairiness could be safely left for Dr Bairstow to explain away. Our problem was Miss Lingoss.
The enterprising teenage Lingoss had dyed her hair blue solely to make a point and this had, by devious routes, ultimately brought her to the attention of St Mary’s. She had arrived as a trainee historian and sporting a spectacular Mohican. I myself had been overcome with hair envy. Sadly, the Mohican had had to go – see my comments about fitting into any century etc. All credit to her, she’d taken it very well but her transfer to R&D had been regarded as permission to resume normal service hairwise, and it would be fair to say that the colour and style now changed even more frequently than a political party replaces its leaders.
Today’s hair was her attempt to reproduce the colour scheme from Monet’s Water Lilies and very striking it looked, too. Encountering her in the dining room, I’d congratulated her on her skill and attention to detail. Dr Bairstow, fully aware of the value of Miss Lingoss’ services had, very wisely, never raised any objections. Especially as his own haircare regime consisted entirely of simply polishing his head every morning.
Now, however, it seemed we might have a problem.
St Mary’s collectively bristled and prepared to do battle.
Matters were, however, taken out of everyone’s hands.
Lingoss got to her feet. ‘Are you talking about me?’
This direct approach appeared to fluster Miss Fuller somewhat. ‘Well … um … dear …’
‘I’ll admit it is a bit OTT,’ said Lingoss. ‘But easily fixed.’ Adding inaccurately, ‘I wouldn’t want to get St Mary’s into trouble.’
Miss Fuller beamed at this unexpected cooperation.
St Mary’s blinked at this unexpected cooperation.
Dr Bairstow – easily the most astute person in the room – frowned at this unexpected cooperation.
We should, all of us, have known better.
Lingoss whipped off her hair. I mean – literally – whipped off her hair. It was a wig. She was wearing a wig.
Jaws dropped. Not least because underneath she was as bald as a billiard ball and her head was painted an elegant shade of purple. I saw Nurse Hunter smirk.
To say Miss Fuller reeled backwards was an understatement.
‘What …?’
‘Pediculosis capitis,’ Lingoss said helpfully and sat back down again.
‘What …?’
‘Pediculosis humanus capitis,’
Helplessly, Miss Fuller turned to Dr Bairstow who had by now recovered his only very temporarily lost equanimity and rose magnificently to the occasion.
‘Miss Lingoss, if you could perhaps explain for the benefit of our visitor …’
The purple-headed Lingoss rose again. ‘Yes, sorry sir. My report is on your desk but I expect you haven’t had time to read it yet because, you know, you’ve been doing … this.’ She gestured around. ‘Which is obviously a lot more important.’
There was an infinitesimal pause and then he said, ‘Indeed.’
A helpful hint – in times of crisis you can never go wrong with indeed. I myself have used it on many occasions. Good to see he’d been paying attention.
Lingoss assumed an expression of great mavity. (IYKYK) ‘Head lice, Miss Fuller.’
For once, Miss Fuller failed to follow through with her usual Call me Polly. ‘H … head lice?’
‘Yes. A really nasty infection. We’ve had it for weeks and it’s ripped through the entire building, I’m afraid.’
Sykes began to scratch. On cue. I began to suspect a conspiracy. But how …?
Lingoss shrugged. ‘Sadly, most of the people here have been infected. Obviously, we didn’t want to upset you but nearly all of us are wearing wigs, you know. With the exception of Dr Bairstow, of course. We’ve all had to shave – and not just our heads, either. That wasn’t much fun but it’s much easier if you can get someone else to do those hard to reach areas. The good news, as I said in my report, sir, is that we think we’re on top of it now. More or less. And this purple stuff from R&D is most efficacious. We can give Miss Fuller a couple of bottles before she leaves. You just paint it on four times a day, Miss Fuller. Although if you haven’t actually touched anything here then you should be fine.’
Miss Miller squeaked and dropped the screen remote control gizmo. She stared in horror at the telephone. And no doubt Mrs Partridge had given her a cup of tea, as well. And she’d almost certainly have used the Ladies on the first floor.
Lingoss winced. ‘Oh dear. Well, never mind. And the smell does dissipate after the second day so … you know … it’ll be fine. Just don’t scratch. Whatever you do.’
Beside me, Markham began to scratch. Roberts had actually rolled up his trouser leg and was getting stuck in. He looked up at Dr Bairstow. ‘Sorry, sir. It’s all this talk of scratching.’
‘Indeed,’ said Dr Bairstow. ‘Perhaps we should postpone the remainder of this session until another time, Miss Fuller. Mrs Partridge will contact you to make an appointment.’
‘There’s no rush,’ she said frostily.
‘Can we assist you with loading your car?’
‘No,’ she said, very obviously refraining from scratching her head. ‘On reflection it would probably be easier for me to leave everything here and collect it should I … when I return. In the future.’
Again, her hand began to drift towards her hair.
‘As you wish,’ said Dr Bairstow, smoothly.
‘And my schedule is a little crowded over the next months. I have other sites to visit as you can imagine.’
‘Indeed,’ said Dr Bairstow. ‘Thank you everyone. This meeting is concluded.’
Around the room, people were having a mass scratch. Markham began to shuffle past me. I grabbed his arm.
‘How?’
He didn’t even bother to try to pretend he hadn’t a clue what I was talking about. He just grinned. ‘Kalinda Black.’
Oh – of course.
‘She gave me a heads-up. I talked to Hunter. Who talked to Sykes when she thought she’d got worms and it turned out to be dental floss. And Sykes talked to Lingoss who put all this together. Good, weren’t they?’
‘Suppose it hadn’t worked?’
‘Oh, Bashford had Angus standing by. She was to make a grand entrance and Lingoss was to reassure the HR woman that as long as the infestation didn’t enter its final, fatal stage, she’d be fine.’
‘What final, fatal stage?’
‘If you started seeing chickens then you literally had only moments to live. Fortunately, it didn’t come to that.’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Thank God I wasn’t involved in any of that. Just for once I’m completely innocent. I knew nothing about it.’
‘You know now,’ he said.
‘Yes, but …’
‘Ah, Dr Maxwell,’ said Dr Bairstow behind me. ‘I wonder if you could spare me a minute, please. At your earliest convenience, of course …’
The End
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Brilliant. St Mary's at it's best. Did they start calling Miss Fuller Miss Miller instead, to confuse her even more 🙂
Fantastic and much appreciated thanks