Final Assessment

It was 1959, a time of jobs galore, when the total number of the country's unemployed could meet in a double garage and the Minister of Labour was rumoured to know the names of half of them.

School graduates with University Entrance could take their pick of government departments, banks, or large employers. Brent Maxwell had chosen the Inland Revenue Department on the most arbitrary basis. He had been sent for an interview to a Civil Service Officer who was in charge of recruitment.

"And what department do want to join?" was the officer's first question.

"I dunno," Brent had responded.

"What!" the officer had replied after a moment of shock.

"I don't know. The Careers Adviser made the appointment."

"But...you mean... you've got no idea at all?"

"No."

The officer's mouth started to open and shut soundlessly. Brent thought of his goldfish at home. Then felt sorry for the man, and had an idea.

"Tell you what. Who has the most vacancies?"

"The department we're the most short staffed in?" A look of relief crossed the officer's face. "Inland Revenue. We're 22 short there. Not everyone's first choice," he added, smiling wanly.

"Okay. That'll do." Brent announced.

One year later Brent found himself on a hot, sticky Nor-west day, now a grade six assessment clerk, staring with disbelief at a letter he had been asked to action. The letter had come from a neighbour of an elderly woman on the pension. It told of the woman picking apples off her tree, covering them in toffee, and selling them for threepence each to the local schoolchildren. The informant was sure the woman was not declaring this income.

Brent sat shaking his head, then carefully ripped the letter into very small pieces and threw it into his rubbish tin. He sat back and thought about his fellow work mates, a mixture of cadets and men, the younger bent on promotion and the older ones happy to see out their days in the department. The latter made much of the security and job-for-life aspect . They thought the public service beat anything else in the clerical field.

One of these men, Ned, sat directly behind Brent. A bald and bespectacled man, a dachshund with a pen and rubber stamp, Ned offered Brent advice on how to play the gradings game, extolling the virtues of "the Service" until comfortable retirement.

As Brent packed up for the day, thinking of a swim to escape the heat, a choking, groaning noise penetrated his visions of cool water. He turned to see Ned staggering, and then collapsing on to the floor, his face ghostly grey with beads of sweat across his forehead. People clustered around, loosened his tie, and called the ambulance, but too late. He was dead.

"What a bummer," said one of the cadets, looking at the clock. "Died in his own time."

Brent stood staring at Ned's empty desk, before switching his gaze to the pieces of letter in his own wastepaper basket. Then he wrote out his resignation.

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