Three Testimonies in the Case of Terence Flanagan: Part One, Melanie Montgomery.

A version of this story appeared as ‘Terry Toast’ in Issue 29 of Prole and was long listed for the 2019 Exeter Short Story Prize. Although a standalone story, it was envisaged as one of three. Read part two here and part three here.

Terry Toast

We called him Terry Toast because at least three days a week he came to work smelling like he had burned his breakfast. Nobody could remember a time before the nickname and when the truth came out on that night-to-forget god-awful Christmas party in Battersea Park, nobody would admit to being the source of the joke. Don’t get me wrong: we carried on using it behind his back, but never in the staffroom where the toaster was a gleaming reminder of what he did to himself in the privacy of his own kitchen. The berth he was afforded grew wider and wider still until he endured solitary breaks and lunch hours while we waited out his occupation of the communal space.

Terry’s professional history was available to anyone with the inclination to wind up Christine Cleaver and watch her go. This was a popular sport in the office, as was taking a guess on how long it would be before she used an approximation of the phrase for the love of God can he not smell it himself. Will Tyler ran a sweepstake every Friday on whether Christine would say something or other, when prompted. He had a long list of prompts. We tipped our hats to Will because he would include Terry in his shenanigans whenever Terry wasn’t the subject, which was more than most of us had the courage or decency to do. If it meant another pound in the pot, Will would include anyone, including visiting suppliers, contract cleaners and the fellow with the trilby who begs at the cash point by the Esso garage.

From behind her desk in the cubby hole next to the print room, Christine would go through her unofficial induction and inform new colleagues that Terry had joined the company three iterations ago, which was only one fewer than The Cleaver herself. Like her, he had seen bosses come and go; and he had been through six rescue plans, which when you do the maths means that sometimes they succeed. In Christine’s version of events, he had inherited a sales book from Jim Rosling, who had dropped dead with the phone cradled between neck and shoulder. Only Terry would have been able to verify this, but one fact we all knew to be true was that of the size and quality of his client list, from which we all benefited when the team bonus was given out. I don’t know which boss had the bright idea of putting him in the corner office – it had two big windows – but kudos to that clairvoyant.

You know the kid at school that everyone takes against for no reason? That was Terry. Well, not exactly no reason, but it’s something and nothing. The kid comes in one day wearing odd socks. Or his gym kit hasn’t been washed. His shoes are too big. He’s known to cry when a teacher shouts. In Terry’s case, like I say, it was the smell of burnt toast. Anyway, you don’t pick on the kid physically: you ignore him; you exclude him from games; and you tighten the circle when you’re whispering about something, especially when that something is – and of course it often is – him. Will Tyler once said that he bet life was like that for Terry before the toast thing, but the rest of us argued that no, it was the toast thing and like Christine says, how could he not smell it himself? Will wasn’t convinced, and said that it had probably always been like that: there are winners and losers in life. When Terry walked in on that conversation – he had a knack for it – you’ve never seen six people so desperate to be anywhere else.

There was always a new boss determined to make his (yes, it was usually a man) mark, although the better ones knew to bide their time before any big announcements or changes. Even with those, it was a while before they realised that perhaps Christine Cleaver wasn’t the most reliable ear-to-the-ground in the office. Simon Tisdale, who has managed a respectable eighteen months and counting as Sales Director, had a wonderful idea to pair off junior staff with the more, ahem, experienced members of the team. I wasn’t as quick off the mark as the rest of my colleagues and that was how I found myself being mentored by Terry Toast. Due to certain incidents in school which had alerted me to the contagious nature of victimhood I was not looking forward to my enforced association with the man Mr. Tisdale describes as The Legend of Sunbury Office Supplies.

I admit I should have told the others how Terry was respectful, funny and happy to listen and talk through my ideas. I could have added, if I had any kind of backbone, that he had encouraged me to take the lead in a meeting with one of his oldest clients. They had already agreed the fifteen percent uplift in the quarterly order, but Terry insisted I sign the contract and the sale was credited to me. When The Cleaver said that not even Terry could have squeezed another fifteen percent off tightarse Critchley, that would have been a good time to tell the truth. But everyone was agreeing with Caroline and working out what it might mean for the bonus, and the opportunity sort of slipped away. The mentoring scheme was cancelled after two months and even though Terry told me his door was always open – except that people liked to pull it shut when they walked past – I could bring myself to do no more than smile at him whenever we met in the corridor and try not to get too involved in the bitchery.

In a straw poll of any staffroom, results will show that a significant percentage of workers do not enjoy the office Christmas party. An even larger percentage will state for the record that it is never a good idea to volunteer to organise said festivities. There will be no glory to bask in; you will experience an evening of complaints and abuse; and you won’t be able to enjoy a proper drink, as it will fall to you to ensure that your colleagues are safely ushered to their carriages at the end of the night. None of this I knew when I emailed my interest at the end of September. Never has a hand been bitten off so quickly. It took me a further two months to decode the sympathetic smiles proffered whenever I passed The Cleaver. When she reminded me, on the first of December, that I had yet to confirm numbers and, oh yes, don’t forget Secret Santa, I scuttled away and found myself in front of Terry, crying into a tissue. Even then, I looked around to see if anyone had seen me take a seat at The Toastmeister’s desk. Without questioning why I hadn’t set foot in his office for over nine months, Terry showed me how to organise the Secret Santa and totted up the number of the usual suspects who would be attending our seasonal celebration. Not that it was his thing, he informed me, but he wouldn’t want to see me fail and so he put his name down because we were one short on the table. He was grinning when he said he’d have to buy himself a penguin suit.

Two weeks before the party, we drew names for the Secret Santa. I took the one remaining scrunched-up piece of paper to Terry’s office. He opened it up and from the smile on his face I was sure he hadn’t drawn The Cleaver or Mr. Tisdale. There were certain things – knickknacks, like Russian dolls and a set of ceramic chopstick rests – in Terry’s office that showed he had taste; and whoever he was buying for was going to be lucky. Unless the gift smelled charred. I turned down his offer to escort me to the venue and I was being truthful when I said I didn’t want to put him out. When I arrived at the Winter Wonderland he was already at our table, sipping water and fixing his bow tie. He stood behind the chair next to his and I had no choice but to take the place he had offered. He did the same when the others arrived, even with The Cleaver. I think she liked it, although you wouldn’t have known it from how she went on as soon as he excused himself – no one else bothered with such polite formality – and went off to find the toilet. Look at what he’s wearing, she said. How much did that cost? There’s no way that’s a rental. Mr. Tisdale, who wanted everyone to call him Simon for the night, attempted to defend Terry: nice that he’s made an effort; good to see him out; that kind of thing. What he should have said or what I should have said was for the love of God Christine can we not leave the man alone for one evening?

As soon as Terry returned, Christine went straight for him and asked how much he had shelled out for his tuxedo. Simon countered with a joke about paying Terry too much, which no one found funny. Christine spat prosecco into her flute when Terry said how he didn’t get out often and so he’d dipped into his rainy day pot. The table was silent for a while after that except for some grumbling about the food. We were all in agreement that the starter was taking too long and when it did arrive everyone looked to Simon to see if he was as underwhelmed as the rest of us. Terry, on the other hand, tucked in to his filo parcel with gusto; maybe a bit too much, but I appreciated the effort he was making when no one else, not even Simon, was bothering to hide their disappointment. Will Tyler whispered something into my ear on his way to the toilet. It didn’t register at first, but he when stood behind Terry and pinched his nose I realised he’d made a joke about toast not being on the menu. Will came back whooping as the plates were being cleared. I hadn’t told them about the between-course quizzes, so he must have heard about it in the line for the loo. Five minutes later a waiter brought a clipboard to the table and a voice from the roof announced, in a tone approaching ecstasy, that the first quiz was about to begin. General knowledge. I noticed that Terry, Will and Simon moved closer to the table and put on their game faces. The Cleaver and I shared a moment of genuine solidarity when we rolled our eyes simultaneously.

With someone like Terry, people assume, for no good reason, that they’re useless at everything. But by question eleven out of twenty, Will had surrendered the clipboard and barged me out of my seat because we had a chance of winning if he and Terry could get their heads together. We? He wouldn’t let anyone else get involved. We had to restrain him when a waiter came to check no one was using a phone to cheat. When Terry had written down the final answer, Will grabbed the clipboard and raced to the DJ booth, as in the event of a tie the team that had submitted first would win. Nineteen wasn’t good enough, however. Terry had answered one question incorrectly and you would have been forgiven for thinking that he had poisoned Will’s kitten rather than mixed up the eleventh and twelfth presidents of America. Will, egged on by The Cleaver, made some very unChristmassy comments that Terry pretended not to hear – although how could he not – and I was thinking about coming to Terry’s defence when Simon suggested he and The Legend nip to the bar for some shots. I imagine he hoped that the carping would have run its course by the time they returned with two trays of tequila.

By the end of the three bird roast, Simon’s gamble had more or less paid off. Most of us – including this resigned organiser – were too drunk to care about losing out by a single point, but Will continued to fume. When the clipboard arrived for the second quiz, he sat as far from Terry as was possible on a circular table for ten. But pop music’s my specialist subject, said Terry, to his cutlery. I put my hand on his arm to show I had heard, but he flinched before regaining his composure and sitting back in his chair. Will and Simon studied the clipboard while The Cleaver hovered behind them, occasionally leaning in to agree with whatever they were writing down. They seemed pleased with themselves until they got to the last question. They looked at each other, then at the clipboard and Simon shrugged. No one will know that, he said. Let’s just put it in and see how we do. Will threw the clipboard into the middle of the table, washing his hands of another defeat snatched from the jaws of victory. The clipboard bounced off the flower display and smashed the unused flute in front of Terry. As he stood to clear the glass, I sneaked a look at the offending question. Simon’s right, I said, who’s going to know who came second to Bucks Fizz in 1981? Quick as a flash, Terry said from the side of his mouth, Germany, Lena Valaitis, Johnny Blue. He took a pen from his pocket, grabbed the clipboard and wrote down the answer. Ten minutes later he returned with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot as the voice in the roof, as delirious as ever, announced that Sunbury Office Supplies had won the second round with a virtuoso answer to the final question.

I doubt that Terry had waited all of his life for a moment like this; it was plain to see that he was not accustomed to being in the spotlight. Will, who was dancing on his chair and waving the unopened bottle at the losers – his word – on the surrounding tables, was gracious enough to climb down to slap Terry on the back and assure him that he knew he’d come good in the end. Well done Terry, said Simon, and then, presumably without thinking, he added, you see, every dog has its day. That was a cue for another almighty snort from The Cleaver, who had yet to congratulate Terry. Once again he excused himself, this time going off in search of a fresh flute. Open the bubbly Will, he said over his shoulder as he disappeared into the darkness. Will got back up on his chair and uncorked the Veuve like he had just won the Grand Prix. When Terry returned with a glass and, God love him, doing a little jig, there was none left. Sorry mate, said Will, in the most unsorry tone you can imagine, I didn’t think you’d want any. Without bothering to take his seat, Terry wandered off.

The insipid crème brûlée came and went without comment; such was the drunken triumphalism that had consumed our table. Everyone was shouting and no one was listening. When the DJ announced that the dance floor was open and the fun casino was now taking bets, Simon dragged The Cleaver and a few others in the direction of the music and Will released his dickie bow in preparation for a session at the roulette wheel. I had been alone at the table for fifteen minutes when a large man in a dark suit and holding a walkie-talkie approached. He asked if I was Miss Montgomery of Sunbury Office Supplies. I’d like to think it was the drink, but when he mentioned a Mr. Flanagan the name meant nothing to me. I was escorted to the sick bay, a space at the back of the marquee which had been sectioned off, where Terry was sitting at a table minus his jacket. One of his sleeves had been rolled above his elbow and a medic in green scrubs was dressing a wound on his forearm. He got through to the kitchen, said the man with the walkie-talkie, and he was holding it over the charcoal. Stupid bugger. Why would he do that?

I asked Terry the same question as we were waiting in the rain for his taxi. I just wanted to know I was there, he said as the car pulled up. It’s no fun being invisible and sometimes I have to remind myself that I am here because who else is going to? I didn’t know how to reply to that and before I could think of anything Terry got into the cab. The last thing he did before he closed the door was to remind me about the Secret Santa.

I didn’t rush to call everyone back to the table. I sat alone next to Terry’s seat and thought about how I’d never seen him in a short-sleeved shirt, even last summer when the office was melting in the heat. I thought about the smell of burning and how he had reacted when I had touched his arm. I wondered what it was like to feel invisible, although I was kidding myself that I didn’t already know. When the table was full again I passed around the Secret Santa sack and was relieved that Terry wasn’t with us when I discovered we were one parcel short. I had promised myself that I was going to wait until we were all sober and back in the office and maybe even in a meeting where it could be recorded and therefore undeniable, but when I unwrapped my present and counted six matryoshka dolls – Joseph, Mary, the three kings and a tiny infant – I couldn’t hold it in. For the rest of that night at least and even though he was not with us at the table, Terry was no longer invisible.

In the office on Monday morning, Christine abandoned her desk to eat her Oats So Simple in the staffroom and stayed there long enough for everyone to hear her post-mortem on what she called The Farce in Battersea Park. It’s not your fault, love, she told me, if that idiot insists on showing himself up in public. That idiot, I wanted to tell her, won us the quiz, but all I did was hurry over to my workstation when Will started taking bets on what time, if any, Terry would make an appearance. We were called to a midday meeting by Mr. Tisdale, no longer Simon and in no mood to be anybody’s friend. Mental health, he reminded us, is no laughing matter and when Mr. Flanagan returned to work we were to treat him as we would any other member of the team. Terry had refused the offer of leave of absence until after New Year and was making Christmas visits to clients for the next couple of days. Would things have been different if he had come back into work while Mr. Tisdale’s words were echoing up and down the corridors? Probably not, but we’ll never know. What we do know, although perhaps it is only I who noticed or cared, was that when he returned on the Wednesday, certain people had had a day and a half to sulk about the bollocking – that’s what Will called it, although The Cleaver held her tongue for once – they had received in separate one-on-ones with the boss. Mr. Tisdale must have been hoping for a Christmas truce.

Terry was admiring the tinsel draped around his doorway when I arrived on the Wednesday morning. I didn’t tell him I was responsible for the decoration because I wanted him to imagine that there might be more than one person at Sunbury Office Supplies who was rooting for him. There’s a parcel on your desk, I said, from your Secret Santa. I didn’t wait around for him to unwrap it, but when I went by his door on my way to lunch he was examining the Japanese sake cup and probably wondering how someone was able to get something so beautiful for five pounds or under. He waved at me as I passed and he pointed to the cup. Wow, I mouthed as I bumped into Christine who was coming the other way. She snorted at the tinsel and chuntered on about special treatment. The following day, which was Christmas Eve and a noon finish, Terry went from desk to desk with a plate of mince pies and a can of squirty cream. He held his smile as colleague after colleague got in on The Cleaver’s joke about whether or not the pastry was overcooked and if he had made them with his own burned hand; and he ignored the billowing sprig of mistletoe that someone had pinned to the ceiling above his door. He sat out Mr. Tisdale’s Christmas quiz, but got in line with his sake cup for Will’s Famous Eggnog. The bowl was empty when Terry reached the front of the queue.