Between the Lines
Margaret Evans closed the door of the Human Resources office behind her, pausing for a moment with her hand still on the handle, as if testing whether it trembled. On her desk a folder of incoming papers was already waiting, topped by a printout from Accounts bearing the stern annotation for approval. At the bottom of the page were dates and figures, and in the corner, the dry phrase, staffing budget optimisation. Margaret knew perfectly well what that meant when translated into plain English, but the knowledge was a professional one.
Someone passed briskly in the hall, and Margaret instinctively drew the file closer to herself out of sight. In that particular institution, everything was arranged so that papers were always laid face-down, conversations slipped a half-tone lower, and questions hung suspended with a later. She switched on her computer, opened her inbox, and found a message from Finance: Please prepare a list of employees by the age categories 45+ and 55+, years of service, positions. Deadline: today by 4 pm. The email was unsigned, but copied to the Deputy Director.
Shed never liked such correspondence. It looked like routine statistics, but always hid a decision already settled by others, somewhere further up. Margaret did as she was asked. She opened the system, extracted the data, checked for birth date errors, verified years of service. The procedure felt so familiar it was nearly mechanical. The traces were familiar too: a warm sheet in the printer, a pile of personal files on her desk, a sign-off in the register.
By lunchtime, whispers had ceased being vague and became the general backdrop. In the staff kitchen, where the kettle and two old tables sat, the ladies from Housekeeping spoke in low voices, but just loud enough to be overheard.
They say theyll be thinning out the seniors. First us, then Accounts, murmured Mrs. Woodhouse, not quite meeting Margarets eyes.
Margaret poured water into a mug, set it down at the edge of the table, and remained standing. She wanted to walk out, but leaving would seem too much like confirmation.
Whos been saying? Margaret asked, steady.
Everyones talking. The next office is already having a check-up, Mrs. Woodhouse nodded towards the corridor. And theyre compiling some lists.
Margaret felt her stomach knot. Liststhey truly were being assembled. By her own hand.
It could be a check-up for anything, she said. Lets not wind each other up.
Her words sounded as if she were defending the system, not the people. Which, in truth, she nearly was.
After lunch, her manager called her inMrs. Richards, Head of Department. The office was small, with filing cabinets for staff records and a desk always kept clear save for a neat pile of orders. Mrs. Richards shut the door and didnt offer a seat.
Margaret, the corridors full of it. You know what I mean, she said with no preamble.
Margaret nodded.
Youre a clued-up person. And youre responsible. So Im asking Mrs. Richards hesitated, searching for a gentler word, dont add fuel. No discussions. No I heard… People are nervous as it is, and weve reports to get in.
Im not discussing anything, Margaret replied.
Thats right. If anyone asks, say, I dont know anything. Thats not a lie. Its the official stance.
Margaret heard how, in that phrase, the truth became someone elses possession. The official stancewhere reality belonged to those above.
What if, in the end? she began.
If it comes to that, Mrs. Richards interrupted, the Board will announce it officially. Not us. You do realise any word will come back on us. On you.
Margaret did realise. Shed signed the non-disclosure forms when she joined HR. Then it felt like a mere formality. Now it was a noose.
In the hallway, she was caught by Sophie from Planning. Sophie was younger, but looked already weary of things.
Maggie, be honestare they coming for us? Sophie asked, then quickly added, The banks just approved my loan. I dont know if I should go for it.
A wave of frustration rose in Margaretnot at Sophie, but at a world that made her a messenger for others verdicts.
I dont know, she replied.
But youre HR. You know everything, Sophie said, direct, unsmiling.
Margaret wanted to snap back to get her off, but sharpness would speak for itself.
I see forms that dont always mean what people think, she answered carefully. Even if something happens, it wont be tomorrow.
Sophie exhaled as if that were a reassurance.
So I can go ahead? she asked.
Margaret didnt reply. She merely nodded faintly towards her office. I need to get back.
By evening, after most had gone, Margaret remained, locking staff files in the cupboard. She sorted folders alphabetically, checked every spine for signatures, ensured nothing stuck out. Inside, everything was orderly, just like the institution itself: if the file sat squarely, the person was present; if not, they were already gone.
A new memo sat awaiting her on the desk, now signed by the Deputy Director: Explore options for reducing staff headcount. Priority: administrative/support block. Deadline: 10th. No explicit mention of age. But Margaret knew that priority often aligned with whom it was easiest to remove without fuss.
The next day, an inspection party arrived from the higher authorities. The Committee, as they were known, though all they did was wander through offices, ask questions, and demand to see ledgers. Margaret watched staff straighten their backs, switch to proper expressions, and smile a touch too wide.
Up in the stairwell smoking cornershe only went there for the hushtwo caretakers stood, one with a pack, the other a lighter.
Heard Parsons handed in his notice, said one.
No, really? Wheres he going? replied the other.
Says better to leave on his own than get pushed. Hes fifty-eight, whos going to hire him now?
Margaret hovered on the landing, her chest tightening. John Parsons had worked here more than twenty years, knew every pipe, every fuse box, every weak spot of the building. He was the kind who came when a leak sprung, and left only when all was dry.
She made her way down to his workshop. The door was ajar. Inside smelled of paint and dust, tools scattered about the bench. John Parsons was hunched over a sheet of paper.
What are you doing? Margaret asked, though she could see.
He looked up, eyelids reddened with fatigue.
My notice, he said. Before its too late.
Who told you youre for the chop? Margaret stepped closer.
No one needs to. You understand. My age. He gave a wry smile, without malice. I can see how they look at us. Numbers, thats all to them.
Margarets throat dried.
John, dont act on rumour. Wait. At least until you see the official letter, she urged quietly.
Wait, is it? And if the letter comes, do I just chase after my own end? I wont have them call me in, sit me down, and say, Weve no further need of you. Better to walk myself.
She looked at his hands, tough and cracked with years, the kind that quite literally held the building up.
If you resign on your own, you lose your redundancy pay, Margaret said. That was fact, not rumour.
Redundancy pay, he sniffed. Id rather my health, frankly.
She realised that silence now would be an act of compliance. If he left, it wouldnt simply be his decision. He made it in a fogone they had conjured by their silence.
I cant promise you therell be no redundancies, Margaret said. But the list isnt final yet. Theyre just discussing options. Thats all.
John stared long at her.
So they are talking about it, then, he said.
Margaret nodded.
Knew I was right. He picked up his pen again. Thank you for being straight with me.
She felt something sink inside; she had hoped her truth would hold him back. Instead, it spurred him on.
Wait, she said sharply, almost commanding. Give me that form.
Sorry, love. This is mine, he replied calmly.
Margaret left the workshop, her fingers growing icy. Walking the corridor, she realised that whatever happened, blame would settle on her. If he left, she hadnt kept him. If he stayed and was cut, theyd say shed deceived him.
Back in her office, she closed the door and sat. On her computer, the spreadsheet with age categories hung open. She looked at rows of numbers and, suddenly, she saw facesMrs. Woodhouse, who kept the stores running, not 45+. John Parsons, who came out at night if pipes burst, not 55+.
She opened a new document and drafted a memo to the Deputy Director. She wrote it dry, the proper way: In the wake of information circulating regarding possible workforce changes, I request that consideration be given to holding a general meeting to clarify the nature and timing of any planned alterations. A lack of official communication is leading to heightened anxiety and the risk of key personnel resigning pre-emptively. She reread it. It sounded like a threat, and perhaps it was, but she knew no other way.
Then she did one last thingshe picked up her phone, found Johns number, and composed a brief message: If you decide to hand in your notice, please come see me first. There are details you should know regarding redundancy and notice periods. She made no promise to save him, only to explain the process. That was the honest thing.
The next day, she was called to the Deputy DirectorMr. Andrew Jenkinsa man not given to heavy-handedness, more world-weary, who spoke softly as if to keep out eavesdroppers.
Miss Evans, you sent me a memo, he said as she entered.
Yes, she replied.
He gestured at the chair; she sat, folding her hands in her lap to stop them fidgeting.
You do realise nothing has been decided? he asked. Were still working through possibilities. Yet youre proposing a meeting as if were already set.
Im not calling for a meeting to announce a decision, Margaret said. I want us to tell staff that no decisions made yet, and when there will be one. Even a date. People are already drawing their own conclusions and acting on them.
People always make things up, Jenkins sighed. You know that.
I do. But this is past making things up. John Parsons resigned yesterday.
He raised his eyebrows.
Who?
She gave the name.
Jenkins was quiet, rubbing his brow. Thats not good. We need him.
Exactly, Margaret found herself getting firmer. There will be more, too.
You want me to say Dont worry, none of you are going? he asked.
No, she replied. Just tell the truth, as far as you can. That were analysing staffing. That there are timeframes. That the criteria wont be based on age, if thats correct.
He studied her closely.
Are you sure the criteria wont be about age? he asked.
Margaret stiffenedthe question was a trap, deliberate or not.
I dont know. I know that people already believe it is, and silence just confirms it.
Jenkins stood, pacing to the window.
You do see that Im in the middle myself, he said, not turning. Higher up says Cut costs. From below, Dont touch people. And its not as if the money will magically increase.
Margaret was silent. From him, she heard not instruction, but confession.
Ill call a short meeting with section heads, he agreed at last. Well put out a general statement. Give a timeframe. But you he turned to her, dont go around giving out details in the halls.
Im not, she said. I just dont want people wrecking their lives based on shadows.
He nodded, as if accepting, but not quite agreeing.
The meeting was held two days later. All the team leaders and senior specialists assembled in the old school hall. Rank-and-file staff crowded in the corridor outside, listening at the open door. Mr. Jenkins spoke formally: Were currently conducting a staffing analysis. Conclusions will be reached by months end. Decisions will prioritise functional need, not age. We expect everyone to continue as normal. Official communications will follow.
Margaret stood at the back and looked at their faces. Relief flickered in some, disbelief in others. Mrs. Woodhouse whispered to her neighbour, He said by the end of the monthso its coming. Sophie from Planning searched for Margarets eyes, seeking confirmation between the lines.
Afterwards, John Parsons did come to her, resignation in hand, already signed.
So then, what now? he asked.
Margaret took the page, checked the datehed given two weeks notice.
If youre set on leaving, she said, its worth asking for mutual agreement. Sometimes they give compensation. No guarantee, though.
And if not? he asked.
Then its resignation, as youve written. Your choice.
He nodded. Got it. Thank you.
He left, and Margaret felt once more shed become a mere item in the rulesyet at least in this procedure, there was something solid to hold onto.
By months end the official order was posted at last. They hadnt made it strictly about age, but age hovered nearby: posts axed, roles combined, staff put on part-time contracts. Both young and old were on the list, but it was the older ones who struggled more. Margaret watched as people on the staff-room noticeboard read the order, some photographed it in silence, some immediately went to write their resignations so as not to wait for the axe to fall.
She herself was not made redundant. Instead, more duties were loaded onto her You can handle it, cant you? Mrs. Richards said, almost kindly.
That same day, Margaret went to Mr. Jenkins and put her application on his desk for a transfer to Documentation. It was a lower-rung job, with no access to rosters or statistics.
Youre moving on? he asked.
Im stepping away from the in-between, Margaret said. I cant be the silent knower anymore, nor the target for resentment after.
He looked at the form, then at her.
Because of the redundancies? he asked.
Because of how its done, she replied.
He didnt argue, only sighed, Itll be easier therebut less… stimulating.
I dont want stimulation, not now, Margaret replied. I want boundaries.
Within a week, shed moved. In the new office, there were fewer people and less chatter. Her work was registering incoming post, tracking deadlines, sending letters. It was straightforward work, without the weight of others fates hidden in datasets.
One day she met Mrs. Woodhouse in the hall, slowly walking with a folder under one arm.
So, Maggie, she said without her old sharpness. Youre not in HR anymore. Is it easier?
Margaret thought, then answered honestly: Its different. I cant save everyone. But at least Im not pretending nothings going on.
Mrs. Woodhouse nodded, as if that were quite enough.
That night, Margaret turned off the computer, locked the cupboard, checked the window was secure. On the desk was tomorrows outgoing mail. She switched off the light and left, not glancing at her old office. There was still a flutter of worry inside her, but it felt steadier now. Shed traded comfort for a partial truth, stepping down from the role shed always playedand just then, it felt less like a loss and more like a choice.
