twenty-four

Dad wasn't that disappointed that I left school when I did. I guess, ideally, he would have preferred me to have done something more academic, but he was pleased that I had found a job.

"Look at me with my degree and years of experience," he said to my mum. "Look at me now, selling biscuits. At least he's doing something. And they do run some excellent courses at the college these days. Just because he's started work, he doesn't have to stop learning."

That placated mum a bit who went and got me some brochures on evening courses, which I promised to investigate (even though I had not the slightest intention of going anywhere near a classroom ever again). Still, it shut her up for a bit.

It was strange leaving school when I did, like jumping off a boat in midstream. I had missed the earlier boat with all those who had left in the fifth year to go on to jobs or apprenticeships or nicking cars, colour TVs and credit cards (which generally paid a lot better than the YTS). But I was also immediately distanced from the sixth formers with their Cure posters, borrowed mother's hatchbacks and UCCA year books. Educationally, I was neither middle nor working class. I was misfit class. However, I wasn't merely a misfit in the sense that I was a round peg in a square hole (or, for that matter, a square peg trying to fit into a round hole). I felt more like a mutant carrot-shaped peg, so twisted and misshapen no slot existed into which I would possibly fit. However, as I soon discovered, whilst working for Target, I was not alone.

Although I spent a couple of hours of every day picking out stock, wrapping up parcels and taking in deliveries, the job mainly entailed driving round town and dropping off boxes of envelopes and brochures to people for them to stuff together. It would be unfair to describe the people I had to deliver to as a collection of misshapen vegetables (albeit having admitted that I am one myself). Perhaps it would be politer to describe them as colourful characters bursting with quaint idiosyncrasies, but that would be a cosmetic cop-out, glossing over the raw depths of their peculiarity and the severity of their isolation.

It soon came clear from the wearily faked cheerfulness of the people I delivered to that envelope stuffing was something that they were compelled to do, rather than chose to do. And I really did sympathise with their plight. I used to do a bit of filling myself and my boredom threshold extended to about a hundred envelopes. The repeated series of movements - fold letter, slip inside brochure, put brochure in envelope, seal envelope, stick address label on - just did my head in after a while. I couldn't imagine how people could possibly manage to repeat this procedure five thousand times and stay sane.

Envelope stuffing seemed to me to denigrate people to the status of androids, and I wondered why no one had invented a non-human machine to do the job. Sometimes, on rainy days, when it was too cold and wet to wind down the window of the van and leer at passing girls, I used to sit in the traffic and dream up elaborate Heath Robinson style envelope-stuffing contraptions. Often, during idle moments in the warehouse, I would sketch these machines (quite appropriately) on the back of manila A4 envelopes. Typically they would include conveyor belts for carrying boxes, a mechanical arm for plucking out brochures and some kind of paddle wheel that dropped brochures into envelopes, as well as an automatic stamp licker and lots of other bits and pieces all held together by wire and string.

One morning, Mrs Barley, whilst searching my desk for a file of monthly despatches reports, discovered my latest sketch of the envelope stuffing machine. Fortunately it was not the annotated version that suggested that she and Chris the salesman should spend all day loading the machine whilst me and the stuffers went on a well-deserved holiday. But nonetheless she didn't seem to find it particularly amusing.

"You've been busy," she said, carefully studying the drawing as I returned laden with boxes from the far end of the warehouse. "I hope we're not boring you too much."

"Oh no," I said. "It's just a doodle."

"Well, I hope you don't spend all day doodling," she said sternly.

"Oh no," I said. "I only doodle during my tea break."

"Well make sure that's the only time you doodle do," she said, her voice deliberately softening.

"Sure," I said smirking politely. "I'll make sure I doodle don't at any other time."

Mrs Barley laughed (a little artificially) and I hurriedly picked up another couple of boxes of envelopes in an attempt to appear industrious.

"You would have thought somebody would've invented a machine to do all this filling," I said as I stacked the boxes on the shelf.

"Oh they have," said Mrs Barley. "But machines have a nasty habit of breaking down. People are more reliable and quicker."

And cheaper, I thought, but bit my tongue and listened patiently as Mrs Barley continued her spiel, which I got the feeling she had recited many times before.

"People are more sensitive than machines. Machines never notice when things go wrong, they carry on regardless. People do make mistakes but they are able to correct them. They are able to make decisions and adapt to new circumstances, which machines cannot do. Besides, I prefer people to machines don't you?"

I was tempted to say, "No, I doodle well don't," but decided that this was perhaps not a moment for sarcasm, and therefore I just nodded in a kind of serious and interested way.

Probably Mrs Barley was right; probably people are better than machines, probably they are more flexible and able to adapt. But if you force people to do the work of machines, is there not a danger that they might turn into machines, their human sensitivity deadened by the mundane repetitiveness of their task? The short answer to that question is probably, yes - judging from the number of incorrectly-stuffed envelopes that were returned to Target. So, in truth, the stuffers were probably no more efficient than a mechanised system. However, as Mrs Barley pointed out at least she was giving people much needed jobs, and that many of them seemed to enjoy their work.

True, the stuffers did always seem pleased when I turned up with my batch of boxes. But mainly this was because I was bringing their wages too. Despite the fact that the contents of their pay packets always seemed incredibly light in comparison to the heaviness of the boxes I'd delivered to them, they'd be as excited to see me as if I'd been a man from Littlewood's Pools with a cheque for half a million. It made me feel quite humble sometimes to see people getting so excited over so little money, and made me feel privileged to drive a van and sweep the warehouse floor.

Although, obviously, none of the stuffers would have done the job for free, some of them did seem to get more out of it than mere money. For some, my visits appeared to be one of the social highlights of their weeks. And they would have the front door open and the kettle on before I'd even reversed the van up their drive. I found their friendliness quite flattering at first, but after a while I realised they were so lonely they would happily have invited Hannibal the Cannibal in for a quick chat and a bite to eat.

There was one woman (whose name I forget so I will call her Madge) who was always knitting jumpers. She lived in a small three or four room bungalow which, although it was in the newer part of town, didn't seem to have any mod cons like central heating (or carpets for that matter). Whenever I visited Madge she was invariably sat, needles clicking, on a stool in the kitchen beside a stove in which she burned anything she could get her hands on; paper, wood, whatever. Her kitchen always smelled of baked potatoes. I never saw any other kind of food in there only a sack of potatoes, which sat in the corner like a primitive fridge substitute. My guess is she hardly ate anything else. But she seemed very healthy. To judge from her rosy cheeks and bright eyes I would recommend a baked potato diet to anyone.

When I delivered to Madge I used to carry the boxes of envelopes down to the end of the hall. And, being the nosy person I am, I used to peer into the other rooms as I passed. It struck me that they all seemed strangely bare and cold compared to the warmth of the kitchen, and I guessed Madge must have stayed in there virtually all day. The kitchen was the first room you entered when you went into the house. And I suppose, like a colonist who settles by a verdant delta on the coast of a desert island, never venturing inland, Madge found that kitchen so warm and comfortable she saw no reason to use any of the other rooms.

Every week Madge would offer to knit me a jumper and insisted that I take away a book of patterns so that I could choose a design I liked. And every week I made the same excuse. 'It's too hot for jumpers,' I'd say. 'I wouldn't want you to go to the trouble of knitting one if I were just going to leave it in a cupboard. I'll wait until the weather gets a bit colder.' But frankly, had I been contemplating a move to Siberia, I doubt whether I would have accepted a jumper from Madge, as, unfortunately, she did appear to be a graduate of the tight chest and baggy arms academy of knitting. Still, she was a very nice lady.

As I have already inferred, a lot of the envelope stuffers were women who spent a lot of time alone. But that wasn't particularly surprising as Target did most of it's recruiting through cards stuck in newsagents windows. Work from home. Make £££s in the comfort of your own armchair!!! I guess that was what attracted most of the stuffers, as none of them seemed to like going out much. Whenever I rang up to work out what time I should make my delivery, invariably they'd say, 'Whenever you like. I'll be in all day.' And I got the feeling that some of them never left their homes at all.

There was this one woman, Janet, who was mad about David Bowie. She had about eight mortise locks on the door of her flat and her skin was almost paper white, and powdery like a mime artist's, as if she'd been dipped in chalk. Just inside the door of the flat was a life-size cardboard cut out of Aladdin Sane (which as you can imagine gave me quite a shock the first time I saw it!). The cut-out was surrounded by paintings of David in various guises, neatly framed like reproduction Renoirs. And in her front room every inch of wall space was plastered with album covers, clocks, pictures, newspaper cuttings and a large Ziggy Stardust mirror.

"So you're a bit of a Bowie fan are you," I said (never one to miss an opportunity to state the obvious).

Janet didn't say anything. She seemed rather frightened of me and backed away as I carried the boxes of envelopes into her lounge.

"Right I'll be back on Tuesday to pick this lot up then," I said. But she didn't reply. She just stood staring at me, arms wrapped protectively around her scrawny chest.

At first, I thought Janet must be mad. But after a bit I came to realise that she was just very, very nervous of men, to the extent that it was actually like some kind of phobia. On my early visits she used to look at me as if I were some huge spider or snake. And I shuddered to think what outrage must have occurred to her to make her view my rather mediocre masculinity with such revulsion.

Uncomfortably aware of her fear, I always tried to be as quiet and unintrusive as I could when making my deliveries and gradually, to my relief, she grew slightly less nervous and one fateful day did actually talk to me.

"Hello Janet," I said through the door. "I've just come to pick the boxes up for Mrs Barley." I spoke slowly as if to someone deaf and senile. I heard all the chains and bolts being unhooked, and Janet opened the door looking as pale and vulnerable as ever.

"Hi," I said edging into the flat slowly like a farmer trying to catch a nervous chicken, so as not to alarm her. "All done are we?" I picked up one of the boxes to check that the envelopes looked OK.

"I met him you know," she said.

"What?" I said, dropping the box with shock and amazement that Janet had actually spoken to me.

"He was walking down our lane," she continued, "in the village."

"Oh right," I said, still not quite sure who she was talking about, as I knelt down to gather up scattered envelopes.

"I was walking Bonny, our dog, and he came to me through the mist," she said. "I thought I was dreaming, but it was definitely him. He had different coloured eyes and they were definitely his teeth. No one else has teeth like David." She smiled silently with her eyes closed for a few seconds swaying like some high-on-Jesus evangelist at one of those tambourine and hallelujah churches (presumably enraptured by the thought of Bowie's charming, if somewhat gappy, grin). She opened her eyes, but kept on smiling. "He was really nice and we went for quite a long walk and talked. He was visiting the people who used to lived at the 'Starlings', someone , who made films, I think." She showed me a signed concert programme hanging on the wall. "My brother bought that for me," she said. "I didn't have anything to write with when I saw him. But I didn't mind." Her eyes glistened with emotion. "They never believed me," she said. "Not one of them. But it was him. It was."

"I believe you," I said, surprisingly moved by her monologue.

"Yes, I know you do," she said. "But they didn't."

"Oh well," I said vaguely, and handed over her slim envelope heavy with coins in the bottom, wishing that it could have been about a thousand pounds.

Although a couple of the other stuffers, like Janet, seemed permanently shrouded in sadness, by no means all the women were lonely and unhappy. Take Sue, for example, who lived in a narrow house down a maze of concrete alleyways on one of Westing's most infamous estates. The whole area had obviously been designed by an architect who was a fan of low budget 1970s British horror movies, the ones that lasted fifteen minutes and all you ever saw of the killer was a pair of hands (either in black leather gloves gripping a steering wheel or all hairy and sharpening a huge cleaver). The films always ended with a girl being chased up and down concrete staircases and running into closed doors and bricked up dead ends and taking numerous left and right turns through a slalom of concrete bollards before ending up where she started. In fact, I'm sure they must have filmed half of those films on the estate where Sue lived. Even after I'd been there about five times I still used to get lost, cursing as I walked into another grey, grafitied cul-de-sac, arms straining beneath piled boxes.

When I eventually found my way to Sue's house, there was always a kind of party atmosphere inside with loads of neighbours chatting loudly over the noise of blaring disco music and the shouts and screams of a dozen kids. Several of the older kids looked as if they should be at school, and I guess they were kept home to stuff envelopes. Because Sue had so much help, she always used to get the really big orders - the fifty thousand brochure jobs. We used to pile the boxes in her lounge forming a kind of cardboard pyramid which the kids would scamper up and over like mice. Sue was without doubt the queen of the envelope stuffers.

"She's a bloody marvel," Chris, the salesman would say, as he helped unload the finished boxes from the back of the van (in other words as he held the storeroom door open for me, as I carried the boxes in). "I don't know how she does it."

"Don't know," I'd say vaguely, not wishing to mention that she kept all her kids home from school and had half the neighbours round to help her, in case I got her into trouble. I guess Chris and Mrs Barley knew what was going on anyway, and turned a blind eye to it. I couldn't help but think the kids would be better off at school, but having just quit school myself, felt rather two-faced to actually suggest such a thing.

During the time I was at Target, I sometimes used to get Terri (my skinny-but-beautiful occasional hairdresser) some work stuffing envelopes. She still lived in the chocolate cake house up the hill with her foster parents. And when I went round to deliver the stuff to her, I would often stay and talk for ages.

By then, Terri had shed her punk look and adopted a slightly more glamorous gothic image. She looked like a very beautiful witch, and sometimes when we were up in her bedroom together I was very tempted to reach out and wrap my arms around her. But I never did. Mainly because I thought she was far too beautiful to be interested in me and partly because I was still seeing (shagging) Debbie. Therefore our friendship remained purely platonic, and all we ever did was talk and talk and talk and talk.

Luckily it was summer and the traffic was terrible in the town, so I always managed to convince Mrs Barley that cavalcades of caravans and jack-knifed juggernauts were to blame for the absent hours I spent chatting in Terri's bedroom. Sometimes, as we talked, I used to help Terri stuff envelopes. It was not something I enjoyed doing, but to be honest I would gladly have done the whole lot for her had she let me. I know it sounds terribly elitist, but I didn't think someone as beautiful as Terri should have to stuff envelopes. But she, like the rest of the 'stuffers,' was simply glad of the money and was always profusely thankful for the work that Mrs Barley had so generously given her.

It made me angry sometimes, knowing how much Mrs Barley charged companies per hundred envelopes and how much the stuffers got paid. I guess it had to be that way. But sometimes it was rather uncomfortable being a back and forth errand boy, driving the van up and down that hill.

Some days (especially if I'd seen something terribly sad or unjust on the morning TV news) I wished that Sue with her kids home from school and Madge with her baked potatoes and knitting patterns and Janet with her mortise locks and cardboard cut out David Bowie, could occasionally enjoy the luxuries that Chris and Mrs Barley did. I wished they could dine out in expensive restaurants choosing their next meal from menu's sent through on a fax machine, and that those two could do all the envelope stuffing instead. It would be much fairer, I thought, if people could swap round every once in a while, if society were like an egg-timer you could turn upside down every month, so that all the sand at the top of the pile became the sand at the bottom and the sand that was at the bottom ended up on top, and everyone shared a roller coaster ride of suffering and success. I mentioned this idea to Chris once. But he didn't really understand.

"Don't knock Cath. She's worked hard for what she's got here. And she cares a lot about our part-time mailing co-ordinators. Most of them would never have a job without her." His voice became quite angry. "You weren't here last Christmas. She invited them all to a meal, paid for it all herself, with crackers and everything and half of them didn't even bother to turn up. So don't you dare knock her."

"That's not really what I meant," I said. "I'm not saying there's anything wrong with Mrs Barley. I'm not saying that all the stuffers could run a company or anything. It's just that, sometimes, I think if some of them had more of an opportunity then....."

"Everyone has opportunities," said Chris, chest pumped up with the indisputability of his wisdom. "But not everyone takes them."

"Yea," I said, not bothering to argue. "It just seems a shame that's all."