Blessed Are The Meek But, sad to say, in this modern world, most of us have to learn that even more blessed are those who stand up for themselves… At the interview, Mr McBean — of Robinson, Reever, Boland & McBean (Solicitors) — had told Alistair: “You might have to work on Saturday, but just occasionally, when we’re very busy. Mr Fosdyke will explain it all to you. And, of course, we’ll give you plenty of notice…” Alistair Thomas was so pleased to have got the job at all that he would gladly have volunteered to work on Sundays as well! “No better firm of solicitors in the West Country,” his father had said proudly when Alistair had got the letter asking him to go for an interview. And Alistair had agreed wholeheartedly. Now he had been with them six months, and could still hardly believe his luck. An articled clerk! When he’d served his apprenticeship he’d have a good, safe job for the rest of his life. It was all he ever hoped for. However, life wasn’t quite perfect. Alistair was a quiet, almost shy young man, and he found people — some people — intimidated him. Oh, he hadn’t been intimidated at all by Mr McBean himself. The old man had looked at him with kindly brown eyes and explained at length what his duties would be. Then he’d gone on to tell Alistair how his father and grandfather before him had worked in the old-established firm. Alistair had grown more proud every minute, and was happy to be working for such a man. But Fosdyke, the chief clerk, was different. He really frightened Alistair. Quietly and conscientiously, Alistair set out for the office each morning. He did all his work well until it came to a confrontation with Fosdyke. Then, when the man’s piercing blue eyes glared at him beneath those shaggy brows, the sweat broke out in Alistair‘s palms and his legs seemed to waver beneath him. And there was always something! “That’s the wrong file, boy!” Fosdyke had a deep voice which, when he shouted, seemed to shake the small office to its foundations. “Yes sir!” Alistair starting nervously at the reprimand, inevitably knocked over a box of paper clips or tripped over the mat to arrive at Fosdyke’s feet in a heap. Sometimes Fosdyke stood over him, scrutinising his work, and Alistair found himself making mistake after mistake. Once free of the office, he told himself not to be so foolish - after all, old Fosdyke was only an employee like himself! But bullies and people who liked to throw their weight about disconcerted Alistair. When he was a child his mother used to worry about him because he was so different from other little boys. He always came home from school neat and tidy, and one day he remembered she’d come to meet him. There had been a little band of mothers assembled outside the playground, telling hair-raising stories of torn sleeves and jackets and bloody noses. “Oh, the washing I have to do!” “He’s a fighter!” Pride was in every syllable. “You’re lucky,” they said to Alistair’s mother - but their glances had told Alistair what they really thought. “Let him go his own way,” his father had said. “Not all men want to fight. He’s a man of peace - like his dad…” After that, his mother stopped worrying, and accepted Alistair for what he was. But it had always troubled Alistair. Early in July, Fosdyke told him he must be prepared to work the next three Saturdays. The firm was extra busy and everyone would have to pull their weight. The first Saturday morning went well until Fosdyke, coming into the office, suddenly asked him what on earth he thought he was doing... hadn’t he finished the Steel papers? And what happened to the Spencer case? Five minutes later, Alistair was still trying to explain how the Steel papers had had complications and get the Spencer files out of the filing cabinet at the same time. He pulled at the drawer sharply, and the whole thing came out in his hands, spilling files and papers all over the floor. It took him twenty miserable minutes to sort them out under Fosdyke’s scornful gaze. When he had finished that, Fosdyke asked him to make a cup of tea. Well, how was he to know that the cup handle was cracked and would come off in his hands. Just as he was putting it down on Fosdyke’s desk? That seemed the last straw for Fosdyke. He started on a tirade, calling Alistair a young nincompoop and telling him he wouldn’t be much use unless he could do better than that, and how the young didn’t know what they were about. Why, when he was Alistair’s age… Finally, it was lunchtime and Alistair escaped thankfully. Outside, a watery sun shone brightly as he walked through the outer door and into the narrow High Street. Watson’s tea room was crowded, and as soon as he got inside, Alistair saw that the customers on a Saturday were an entirely different crowd to those he saw there during the week. He found the corner seat with some difficulty, and read the menu. Usually, he economised on his lunches, but today he decided to order lamb and mint sauce. Edith, the elderly waitress who usually served him, her white cap askew on her frizzy grey hair, waved vaguely in his direction. At the pay desk sat the forbidding figure of Miss Witherspoon, her spectacles perched on the end of her nose, so that she glared intimidatingly over the top of them. Alistair remembered how his mother had once told him that Miss Witherspoon had been there when she had visited the café as a small girl—and, she said, she hadn’t changed a bit since! As Alistair studied her, Miss Witherspoon swept an eye over the customers and staff. The two waitresses, Edith and Agnes, had been there so long they looked alike with swollen ankles and flat feet. But today — there was a difference. From the kitchen, holding a tray terrifyingly full of steaming dishes, came the prettiest girl Alistair had ever seen. She had soft brown hair, and beautiful blue eyes. He glanced involuntarily towards Miss Witherspoon, who, sure enough, was eyeing the young waitress with disapproval. He watched as the girl slid the tray down on to a nearby table, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she concentrated on the job in hand. Nervously she carried the plates to the various tables, pausing to check her little notebook now and again. Once there was the sharp rap of a pencil at the desk, and looking up she saw Miss Witherspoon glaring at her and telling her to get a move on. The girl promptly dropped the next plate on to the floor with a resounding crash. What a pity, Alistair thought to himself, that dragons like Miss Witherspoon should be allowed to terrify pretty girls like that young waitress, whoever she was. When Edith brought his lunch he must pluck up courage and ask about her. “Er—new waitress?” he said, nodding towards the flustered girl, as Edith placed the lamb and mint sauce in front of him. “Oh, no…that’s Angela, our Saturday girl. She’s been here for a while, but you don’t usually come in on a Saturday, do you? She’s at the Commercial College and wants to make some extra money.” Edith plodded heavily away. Alistair ate his lunch without being aware of what he ate. He was too busy watching the Saturday Girl… It was easy to see that Miss Witherspoon had it in for Angela. From her post at the door she kept an eagle eye on everything the waitress did, rapping on the desk, calling her attention to this and to that until the poor girl didn’t know if she was coming or going. As he paid his bill, Alistair scowled at Miss Witherspoon who, quite unmoved, slammed his change down in front of him. As he opened the door he managed to catch the Saturday Girl’s eye and smiled at her in sympathy. As she smiled back, he fled his face a burning red… Come on! Come on! Where have you been!” He could hear old Fosdyke’s voice over the banister rail, and glanced at his watch. It was only five to two! He wasn’t even late! But just the same he took the stairs three at a time! All the next week he went for lunch at the café, but the place just didn’t seem the same without Angela. He was delighted when the next Saturday came round and this time she served him! Confused, he gave his order. “Lamb and mint sauce, please.” “Vegetables…?” Her eyes went from her pad to Alistair’s face, and he became even more confused. “Cabbage!” he said completely forgetting that he hated the stuff. This morning, Angela was managing very well until Miss Witherspoon discovered that she had made a mistake in making out one of the bills. “You’ve undercharged the customer!” she cried in horror, her eyes glinting. A flushed Saturday Girl examined the bill that was being waved under her nose. “Oh, dear, I’ve added it up wrong!” “One more mistake like that, my girl, and… “ Miss Witherspoon left the sentence unfinished, the threat hanging in the air. Alistair watched the Saturday Girl disappear through the swing door into the kitchen, her blue eyes perilously near to tears. Horrible old woman, Alistair thought, ready to do battle with Miss Witherspoon for making Angela cry. He was really surprised he could feel so angry over a little thing like that. He’d never felt quite the same before. When the Saturday Girl made out his bill, he checked it with her. “You see?” he said. “Take it slowly, and don’t let her scare you. You’ve plenty of time. If you rush you’ll only make mistakes.” Angela looked at him gratefully, and his heart seemed to melt. The following Saturday was the last one he would be working, for the time being at least. The next time Angela might be gone! Alistair had had a particularly difficult morning with Fosdyke, who seemed determined to humiliate him. He pushed back his chair gratefully at one o’clock and rushed down the three flights of stairs to the High Street. The first person he saw when he entered the café was the Saturday Girl, her hair tied hack now with a blue ribbon and a crisp white apron tied around her trim figure. The place was full of customers and the waitresses were rushed off their feet. Miss Witherspoon was watching every move Angela made, willing her to make a mistake. But she was managing well, and smiled across at Alistair when she saw him. Then it happened. A large lady in a voluminous tweed coat got up sharply and knocked the Saturday Girl’s arm. The tray she was carrying tilted and soup and melon, fruit juice and glasses crashed to the floor. In the mêlée that followed Alistair saw the girl rebelliously face the customer who had caused the upset. “Why don’t you watch what you are doing, you stupid girl?” the large woman shouted. “Why, you . . .“ Angela exploded but was stopped by a ferocious glance from Miss Witherspoon, who had actually climbed down from her chair to intervene. “You wretched girl,” she hissed and Angela flinched as though to ward off the blow. Alistair saw her lip quiver at the injustice of it. The tweedy woman, still blustering, had edged her way towards the door. Alistair stood up and quickly took the Saturday Girl’s hand behind her back. “It wasn’t your fault,” he whispered. “Stand up for yourself! Don’t let her frighten you!” Those few words were all that were needed. The Saturday Girl drew herself up to her full height. “It wasn’t my fault,” she said, quietly, but firmly. “This lady bumped into me—but I’m sure it was an accident” “Yes, that’s right. I saw it happen,” Alistair put in, and murmurs of agreement and sympathy came from all round the tearoom. After that, Miss Witherspoon could only retire to her desk, distinctly ruffled. Alistair pressed Angela’s hand again. “Good for you. He smiled. There was a spring in Alistair’s step as he walked back to the office, seeing for the first time the roses in the churchyard, and a tree he’d never noticed before seemed suddenly to be full of frothy, white flowers… He glanced up at the church and saw that the clock said ten minutes to two. “Hurry up!” roared Fosdyke when Alistair met him at the foot of the stair. “What do you think you’re playing at? Get a move on!” Alistair was about to leap up the stairs but instead glanced at his watch. “I’ve another ten minutes yet —sir,” he called, and turned to walk back out into the street. If he hurried he could get back in the tearoom and ask Angela if she was doing anything tonight… THE END © Rose Boucheron