Lets Talk About Jock

[Grib]

This story is in two parts. It is long-winded and possibly boring. It may even have no purpose . . .

 

You've been warned. So there's no excuse. If you want to go to Local News or something, just go now. (Go to Manxchat even, where there are better stories . . . )

 

 

Note: anybody referenced in this tale is totally fictitious (er, obviously) and does not relate to anybody in real life, past or present. Here goes:

 

 

John (or Jock) McLintock had lived on the Island for over ten years. He had a beautiful wife, Morag, had two beautiful children, Rory and Shona. He had a beautiful detached house in Douglas and was a highly successful businessman. In fact, he was an all round nice guy. Admired much by his work colleagues. Admired by even his work rivals. His work associates. His neighbours. But most of all his family. His beautiful family.

 

Over-use of the word “beautiful” maybe, but that is how it is. You get the picture?

 

He works in the construction/finance/accountancy/legal industry. (Please delete as appropriate as this is my get-out clause).

 

Wee Jock - for he was a wee man – with ginger hair and knobbly knees to boot could well have been Groundsman Willie’s lovechild. Who knows, but if this were the case then he was a true, true throwback.

 

To give you an assessment of this guy’s character – or at least a particular aspect of it – I will tell you a story about something that happened at work.

 

________________________________

 

The big night of Jock (and Morag’s) year was the Institute Dinner Dance. ie Architectural/Financial/Accountancy/Banking/Surveying Institue (you pick). This was the evening when he allowed himself to be just a little proud of his not inconsiderable achievements. His Red Brick University degree, his masters degree, his membership of the Institute, his fellowship, his popularity, his charisma. Even his dancing prowess was there to be shown off and applauded. (The Institute always made sure it was a Ceilidh, on account of Jock being, well a jock you see!). But most of all he was proud of his beautiful wife Morag. He was the envy of all. But I shan’t harp on too much about this as it is not the point of this story.

 

So the Big Night was on Thursday and Jock, who was the Senior Manager at the IoM wing of his company, had made sure that the big tender/bid/report for a multi million pound contract had been finalised by Tuesday. 3 Months of hard work by his whole office was going to pay off, he was sure. They were the best – he’d made sure of that. This would mean continued employment for the next 5 years or so for his team of 30 staff. Lose it and they would all be looking for jobs.

 

There was just the final binding, photocopying and presentation of the massive document to be carried out. A two day job by a junior secretary and they’d be ready for the final submission at 10 o’clock Friday morning.

 

4:00pm Thursday and Jock finally had time to relax. He sat back and took the latest copy of Private Eye out of his bottom drawer. He thought of Morag, she would be trying out a new dress just now and preparing for the big evening.

 

Jock was contemplating the evening when he heard a roar go out from the print room. The walls were paper thin in these new offices and he heard a lot more of what went on than his staff knew. Then he heard a scream followed by a girl crying. Another roar a thump against the wall and then he saw the junior secretary rush down the corridor to the washroom.

 

He thought a while and guessed, quite correctly, that the junior had spent the previous two days collating and binding the wrong documents. Probably a previous revision or a draft issue. Her line manager had thown a wobbly and the senior manager above that had done the same. With the douments needing to be served the following day there was little chance of the company having any chance to progress its business further. This was serious.

 

Jock imagined the panic going on next door, the line manager being given a dressing down. Jock pointed to the door - “5-4-3-2-1....” The door opened on cue and the Departmental Manager entered.

 

“Jock, I have something to tell you. It’s rather bad news I’m afraid . .. “

 

Jock was rarely, if ever, aloof. But this time he kept on reading Pseuds Corner.

 

“Er what, “ he said, “come now, there’s no such thing as bad news. We’ve put together the best bid this Island, or the UK for that matter could produce, we’re ready to go with this one”.

 

Jock forced a smile and continued in supposed oblivion;“It’s the Institute Dinner Dance tonight.....and you try and ruin my day by telling me bad news. Are you sure it can’t wait until tomorrow morning?”

 

“Er, no Jock, I mean, Sir." the manger tried to plead. "There’s been a disaster. A real bad disaster . . . .”

 

The Departmental manager looked at Jock and couldn’t believe how nonchalant he was.

 

“Tell me tomorrow. It can wait I’m sure". Jock had little choice but to stay calm. "The one day of the year I don’t want bad news is now. Christmas day, and any problems, I’ll be there. Boxing Day, New Years day even Senior Race Day – but now . . . . . I just don’t want, or need to know. We’ll sort it all out tomorrow......is that clear?”

 

The flustered manager looked at Jock in amazement, realised that there was nothing could be done now.

 

“I’ll see you first thing tomorrow if that’s OK Jock." he said. "Have a good night, by the way”.

 

The manager left.

 

One by one the staff left. They all knew the documentation would be rejected.

 

All that work.

 

For nothing.

 

Their futures well and truly in the balance.

 

Despite his composure, Jock was more than a little worried too.

[Grib]

He was last to leave the office, but not before taking a quick look in the print room.

 

The pile of reports had been flung against the wall and still lay scattered. The staff had given up, they knew better. The disaster simply couldn’t be sorted out before tomorrow's deadline.

 

Jock, for all his knowledge and experience didn’t know better. He would go home, see Morag and come back. Even if it meant working all night he would try and get the report out. At least he would have tried.

 

He walked through the door of his home. Morag was already organised and was proudly wearing a new red dress. As usual, she had planned to spend the next hour relaxing whilst Jock got washed and kilted. There was no shouting to hurry up in this household before a night out!

 

As soon as he walked through the door she realised that something was wrong. “Morag, I’ve got to go back in to work tonight”. The radiance disappeared from Morag, and she knew this had to be serious. The shocked silence was broken by the doorbell and the babysitter arrived. Morag liked to make sure the babysitter was in place an hour before they left – it was then one less thing to worry about for the evening.

 

“I’m sorry Sandra,” Jock explained to the babysitter. “We’ll not need you this evening, I’ll pay you all the same though.” Jock gave his wife a quick hug, turned and left for the office.

 

“Oh, er, well I’ll be off then also, Mrs McLintock,” Sandra realised this was all a bit awkward.

 

“No, could you stay for a while please, I think I need you here this evening. Would you mind staying a bit later than usual?” Morag was suddenly a little frightened for the future. All their futures.

_________________________________________________________

 

Jock lifted the piles of discarded reports. They were indeed a draft version – now quite useless.

 

How was he going to do this? He knew how to print some of the correct pages off, but had never used that new colour printer before. He didn’t even know how to use the binding machine. In fact, he hardly knew how to work the photocopy machine. It would take at least a couple of hours to collate each copy of the report, and there were ten copies. They had to be delivered by ten o’clock the following morning. His local competitors were probably at the Institute Dinner right now and no doubt the local grapevine would have provided them with the news. They’d be happy alright.

 

Where did the junior staff drink after work these days? Some Manx pub called Kestla Vie or something. A couple of drinks to drown their sorrows no doubt. Already they would be putting feelers out for another job which probably included informing the competition of this disaster.

 

He started sorting through the reports and working out which pages hadn’t been amended for the final issue. After half an hour he realised it was useless. “If I just had another pair of hands, I’d have a chance” he said aloud, in desperation.

 

“Will mine do Jock?” Jock turned to see Morag standing behind him, still in the new dress. She had come right over as soon as the children had settled. “Can I help”, she pleaded.

 

“Aye, Lady in Red, you most certainly can”. Jock hugged his wife. At least they would now have a fighting chance.

 

They started to organise the task in front of them. Making up ten piles of the report on the big table. But even between them, they soon realised they were going to be struggling. They may even put together the wrong information. There was an awful lot of computery needed and a lot of different software to mess about with here. They really needed someone who knew about these things.

 

And then a young woman appeared at the door. She had obviously been crying.

“Jock, I think you’ll need my help here,” she said.

 

Jock hadn’t been the last to leave the office that day. The junior secretary had locked herself in the washroom and hadn’t dared to leave after the discovery of her mistake. In fact she hadn’t ever wanted to leave her hiding place ever again, until she heard the activity in the office and Jock and Morag’s voices.

 

So the three of them worked right through until the early morning. They cleared up the mess and by 6:00am had ready ten copies of the correct report. Ready for final signatures and delivery.

 

“Lets go to the Caff for a breakfast, then we’ll go home and get changed, have these delivered and back home for a well earned sleep”.