A Kind of Loving by Stan Barstow

instruments, all depending what sort of bloke you are and what you're interested in. There's three smaller rooms open off the big office, one for the estimators, one for the tracing lasses, and one where the prints are done. The print machine's a carbon arc job and it looks a bit like one of them mechanical pianos where you put a penny in and it plays a tune that was in the Top Ten during the Boer War. The prints are done by a young lad called Laisterdyke and a lass called Phoebe Johnson. Then at the top end of the office there's two glass cubicles, one belonging to the assistant chief, Miller, who everybody likes, and the other to the chief, Hassop, who nobody much cares for.
    The real boss is Mr Althorpe, the Chief Designs Engineer, and he has his own office (private - no glass) with his name on the door along the corridor. The work comes from him and Hassop and Miller pass it out to the section leaders. Each section leader has a team and this can vary from two or three to a dozen blokes depending how big the job is they're doing. You'd think in an office this size there'd be bags of chance for experience but each team specializes and once you know a particular job you can find yourself stuck with it year after year. Anyway, that's the D.O. at Whittaker's.
    I'm not sorry to be back because I quite like both the office and the work. I don't like either as much as I did the first two or three years I was here but I haven't got to the stage where I can't stand it any more so I don't mind. And besides, I've got another interest at work now.
    I don't see her again till dinner-time and then it's in the canteen with three tables and about thirty people between me and her. She's sitting facing me and though she doesn't look at me I can't keep my eyes off her. She has a way of breaking off what she's saying to throw her head back and laugh (she's got rather a carrying laugh actually), and as I watch her I see how her neck curves and I wonder what it would be like to run my hand up over it and under her chin. There's a scar on her neck under her left ear and I want to put my fingers on that as well because I can't bear the thought of the knife cutting into her.
    Ken Rawlinson's sitting next to me with enough fountain pens and propelling pencils for half the office in his top pocket. He asks me to pass the water and this takes my mind off Ingrid for a minute. He's wearing that tie clip again. There's a few things about Rawly that get on my wires and this tie clip's one of them. It's one of these glider clips with a bit of fine chain on it. The idea is to slide the clip on to your shirt and let the chain hold your tie; but Rawly always wears it with the clip on both his tie and his shirt and the chain hanging down for fancy like. I've often wanted to put him right but I always think why should I? He's one of these blokes with ten bob each way on himself and so why should I care if he looks a clot?
    He fills his glass up and says, 'I saw a very good French film last night.'
    'Oh, yes?'
    'Gervaise,' Rawly says. 'Based on a novel by Zola.' He pokes about on his plate as if he expects to uncover something nasty. 'Do you know his novels at all?'
    "Fraid not.' Zola? Sounds like a game, like bingo or ludo or canasta.
    'An excellent writer. Surprisingly modern to say he wrote sixty or seventy years ago.'
    'Oh?'
    'Very outspoken for his time. They banned his books in this country. Wouldn't wear them.'
    ' Sexy, eh?' This is more like it.
    'Shall we say "direct"?' Rawly says and I think he can call it any name he likes as far as I'm concerned. I decide to take the mickey a bit.
    ' Was this picture hot stuff?'
    ' Oh, X certificate and all that,' he says.' Nothing pornographic about it, though. An adult film.'
    'Be in French, I suppose?'
    'Oh yes. Subtitled, of course, for those who don't know the language.'
    I gather from the way he says this that he doesn't include himself in this lot of ignoramuses.
    'Well I don't mind these foreign films when