While I’d been off, Bob had told me to pop into the office anytime, or phone for a chat whenever I wanted. Last week, a few days before my sick note was due to expire, I was still undecided as to whether to revisit the doctor and seek an extension, or else return to work on the following Monday, so I had called him, not wanting to go into the office for fear of encountering intrusive questions from my coworkers without having prepared some appropriate responses first.
“Eleanor!” Bob had said. “Great to hear from you! How are things?”
“Thank you for the flowers,” I said. “I’m fine . . . that’s to say, I’m much better, thank you, Bob. It’s been difficult, but I’ve been making good progress.”
“Brilliant,” he said, “that’s brilliant news! So, do you know when you’re, eh, when you’re likely to be back?” I heard an intake of breath as he worried about what he’d just said. “No rush, now . . . no rush whatsoever. I’m not pressuring you—take as long as you need. Not until you’re absolutely ready.”
“Don’t you want me to come back, Bob?” I said, daring an attempt at humor.
He snorted. “Eleanor, the place has been falling apart without you! Jesus Christ, Billy hasn’t the first clue how to raise an invoice, and as for Janey . . .”
“Bob, Bob, I was joking,” I said. I smiled, and I must admit to feeling slightly gratified at how poorly my colleagues had coped in my absence.
“A joke, Eleanor! Well, that’s a great sign—you must be on the mend, then,” Bob said, sounding relieved, either because of the joke or because I was getting better—or both, I supposed.
“I’ll be back on Monday, Bob,” I said. “I’m ready.” My voice was firm, confident.
“Great! And you’re sure it’s the right time? Och, that’s grand, Eleanor,” he said. “I’ll look forward to seeing you on Monday, then.” I could tell he was being genuine because of all the warmth that was coming down the phone. Your voice changes when you’re smiling, it alters the sound somehow.
“Thank you very much for being so understanding about all of . . . about everything, Bob,” I said, a lump forming in my throat. “Thank you for your support. I’ve been meaning to say . . . I’m sorry if I haven’t always been a very . . . enthusiastic employee over the years . . .”
“Ach, away you go,” he said, and I could almost picture him shaking his head. “The place wouldn’t be the same without you, Eleanor, it really wouldn’t. You’re an institution.”
I heard his mobile phone ringing. He tutted.
“I’m so sorry, but I’ve got to get this, Eleanor—it’s a new client. Now, you take care of yourself, and we’ll see you on Monday, right?”
“Right,” I said.
I remember thinking, as I put the phone down, that I really, really hoped that Janey wouldn’t bring in one of her homemade cakes to mark my return, as she often did when people had been off. Dry doesn’t even come close to describing the arid desert texture of her coffee-and-walnut sponge cake.
When I arrived at work, the exterior of the office was as unenticing as ever, and I hesitated outside. I had been absent for almost two months, and heaven alone knew what sort of unsubstantiated rumors had abounded as to the reasons behind it. I had not given—had not been capable of giving—a thought during that time to my spreadsheets, to accounts receivable, purchase orders and VAT. Could I still do my job? I wasn’t confident that I could remember anything. My password? Of course. Three words, Ignis aurum probat. “Fire tests gold.” The rest of the phrase: “. . . and adversity tests the brave.” How true. A strong password, strong indeed, exactly as required by the computer system. Thank you, Seneca.
Ah, but I felt the beginnings of a fluttery panic in my chest. I couldn’t do it. Could I? I wasn’t ready to face it. I would go home and telephone Bob, let him know that I would be taking another week’s leave. He’d understand.
There was a shuffling sound behind me on the path, and I quickly wiped away the tears that had formed while I was staring at the squat building before me. With no warning, I was pulled 180 degrees around and crushed into an embrace. There was a lot of wool (hat, scarf, gloves) and scratchy bristles, and a smell of apples, soap and Marlboro Reds.
“Eleanor!” Raymond said. “So that’s what you meant when you said you’d see me soon.”
I let myself be held, moved closer into the embrace, in fact, because, I was forced to admit, at that particular time and in those particular circumstances, and feeling the way I did, the sensation of being held by him was nothing short of miraculous. I said nothing, and, very slowly, my arms crept up, tentative as winter sunlight, so that they were placed around his waist, the better to bury myself into the embrace. My face rested against his chest. He said nothing either, intuiting, perhaps, that what I needed most at that moment was that which he was already providing and precisely nothing more.
We stood this way for some moments, and then I stepped back and rearranged my hair, wiped my eyes. I looked at my watch. “You’re ten minutes late for work, Raymond,” I said.
He laughed. “So are you!” He stepped forward again, peered closely at me. I stared back at him, rather like the fox had done earlier.
He nodded. “Come on,” he said, holding out his arm, “we’re both late now. Let’s go in. I don’t know about you, but I could really do with a cup of tea, eh?”
I linked my arm through his and he walked me inside, all the way to the door of the accounts office. I disengaged from him there as quickly as I could, anxious that someone might see us together like this. He bent down and put his face close to mine, speaking in rather a paternal manner (at least, I assume that’s what it was—fathers are hardly my area of expertise, after all).
“Now then,” he said, “here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to walk in there, hang up your coat, put the kettle on and get started. No one’s going to make a fuss, and there won’t be any drama—it’ll be like you’ve never been away.”
He nodded once, as if to reinforce his point.
“But what if—”
He spoke over me. “Honestly, Eleanor—trust me. It’s going to be absolutely fine. You’ve been unwell, you took some time off to get better and now here you are, back in the fray. You’re great at your job, and they’ll be over the moon to have you back. End of,” he said, earnest, sincere. Kind.
I did actually feel better after he said this—quite a bit better.
“Thank you, Raymond,” I said quietly.
He punched me on the arm—gently, not a real punch—and smiled.
“We’re so late!” he said, eyes wide in faux horror. “Meet you for lunch at one?”
I nodded.
“Go on then, get in there, give ’em hell!” he said, smiling, and then he was off, lumbering upstairs like a circus elephant learning a new trick. I cleared my throat, smoothed down my skirt and opened the door.
First things first: before I went to my desk and faced everyone, I had to have the dreaded back-to-work interview. I’d never had one before, but I’d heard the others muttering about them in the past. Apparently, HR forced you to have a meeting with your boss if you’d been off for more than a couple of days, ostensibly to make sure you were fully recovered and fit for work, and to see if any adjustments needed to be made to ensure you stayed well. In reality, however, the popular view tended toward this process having been designed to intimidate, to discourage absence and to check whether you’d been—what was the word?—ah yes, skiving. Those people didn’t have Bob as a boss, however. Only the section managers reported to Bob. I was one of them now, the Praetorian Guard, the elect. Bob was an odd kind of emperor, though.