Linda wasn’t quite sure if she should go.
After all she had never been invited into the manager’s office upstairs.

Viv the senior receptionist snapped “Please put this envelope on his desk,” then added ominously “and come straight back.”

Possibly seeing the shock and hesitancy in the young girl’s eyes, Viv softened her voice. “Go on, love, he won’t bite and you’ll be back in time for the fire drill.”

It wasn’t biting or fire drill that Linda was worried about. His temper was known throughout the industry, voices were lowered in his presence, the accountant scampered around, flapping papers for signatures when a meeting was due, and shareholders routinely refused tea and biscuits on the pretext of another urgent meeting.

There was no staff interaction and she had the feeling that the boss did not know their names, or did not care, because they came and went on a regular basis. What if he shouted at her? What if she fainted? But Linda enjoyed her reception work, the customers were nice, although edgy, constantly looking over their shoulders.

The small flat switchboard was new and easy to use and the company name was not hard to pronounce when she answered in that singsong voice of all new receptionists.

Plus she had an intercom and a proper ergonomic faux leather desk chair which swivelled.

The other employees were mildly friendly as if to keep her at arms length because she could be gone by the end of the month. She needed this job, she was going to stick it out, and the gloss had not yet worn off. However, she did not want to have anything to do with the notorious Mr. Arthur Roberts of Roberts & Co Pty Ltd.

Linda whispered to one of the office girls “Maybe it would be better if you popped it on his desk, Joanne.” The reply was quick. “Too busy minding your switchboard.”

“Get hopping,” instructed Viv, “and put it in the middle of the sheet of blotting paper on his desk.” Apparently Mr. Roberts still used a fountain pen. Occasionally it leaked Quink and he often requested a document be retyped due to a spreading stain.

Linda thought it was all too quaint and old-fashioned compared to what she was taught in business college but she went along with it. Until he started shouting at someone.

One of her duties was typing invoices on the new IBM Golf Ball typewriter. It made a satisfying clatter. And for the time being she was the envy of her friends, many of whom had left school to work in the public service or one of the lesser banks in town. Linda had her sights set on the travel industry and the glamour of free flights. Leaving Roberts & Company far behind.

Ignoring the office boy’s wink, she stood up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before smoothing her dress, always grateful she did not have to wear a skirt and blouse emblazoned with the company name. An airline hostess uniform would be far more elegant.

The shaky old lift in the foyer stank of cigarettes and Linda had taken an instant dislike to it. Fortunately it only took a few minutes to go up the back stairs where she emerged onto the luxurious deep blue carpet of the fifth floor. Then realisation hit her.

The envelope was still on her desk.

With a huff of annoyance, she was turning back to the stairwell when she heard raised voices. One, of course, was Mr. Roberts and the other was a very angry woman. Moving a bit closer she saw that Mr. Roberts office door was ajar so she stood listening. It was obviously an argument over money. She had heard enough of those from her parents when her father handed over his weekly pay packet.

Linda sucked in a deep breath then slowly, inexorably, found herself drawn towards the heavily panelled door. There was a gasp, the sound of a pained groan and something fell. A spurt of adrenaline coursed through her body before her brain caught up. She turned back to the stairwell door but was too late to stop a fast moving woman reaching it first.

This wild-eyed woman sported a nasty red stain across her chest but had no difficulty in pushing Linda aside. Just as the woman entered the fire door, Linda went into her brother’s favourite soccer slide. She tripped the woman who staggered down several metal steps before falling flat on her face on the next level. There was a metallic clang as a knife fell from her grasp.

“Hey, what’s going on up there?” shouted Viv from below.

A wet cough behind Linda made her turn around, slowly, slowly.

There was Mr. Roberts. He stood with his face the same shade as the blotting paper pressed against his left shoulder. “I’ve buzzed security,” he said. “Best if you ring for an ambulance.” He swayed then sank to the plush carpet and passed out.

“Viv,” screamed Linda, “get the first aid kit!”

At home next day, after several telephone calls from police and workmates, Linda was told different versions of what must have transpired but the knife wound was definitely inflicted by Mr. Robert’s estranged wife Eileen.

“The person you sent catapulting down the back stairs,” Viv observed dryly, “that’s one way to miss fire drill.” The envelope remained undelivered.

Mr. Roberts was recovering in hospital and probably shouting at the nurses. Eileen was held in another wing under police guard pending investigation. Linda, on the other hand, was ensconced at home in her favourite lounge chair, feet up and a big bowl of mixed lollies beside her on the TV tray.

“What if I had not gone up those stairs?” Linda mused, then shrugged it off.

“It was the shock really,” she explained to everyone who called to asked how she was feeling. “My legs just went all wobbly.”
That was her story and she was sticking to it.

🧡 © Gretchen Bernet-Ward 2024

NOTE: Originally titled “What If” a Short Story for U3A Writing Class read at end-of-term.
Fictional events but some elements are retro autobiographical.
First draft Wednesday 4^th September 2024. GBW.