Confessions of a Personal Secretary. Rosie Dixon
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work does not get any easier and I have to confess that I am not making the progress I had hoped for. Symphonic Typing is a dead loss as far as I am concerned and I am relieved beyond belief when we eventually sit down in front of a real typewriter. I have taught myself to play Chopsticks but that is about all Mr Kruger’s ‘unique piano method’ has done for me.
The typewriters are as old as the hills and rear up like steel wedding cakes, but at least they should provide me with the first step towards playing the only music I am really interested in at the moment – the rhapsodic, flowing beauty of more than forty words a minute. I run my fingers lovingly over the keys and – oh no! This is too much! I have put up with a lot from the Lft Sl o Fwt – including the totally inadequate toilet arrangements in the back yard: it is so embarrassing going out there and finding Mr Kruger and Sandor playing some form of quoits with the lavatory seat – but I do expect any typewriter, however ancient, to still have the letters visible on the keys.
‘Mr Sandor!’ My hand shoots into the air. ‘The lettering has worn off my keys. I can’t see anything.’
For the first time that I can remember, Sandor looks totally in command of the situation. ‘The letters were never on the keys in the second place!’ he says. ‘It is necessary for you to remember their position by your experience.’
Something inside me snaps. ‘This is ridiculous!’ I shout. ‘Typing on the piano was bad enough but if you think I’m going to sit down at a typewriter that doesn’t have any letters, you—’
‘Darling.’ Penny looks up from the copy of ‘Open wider, please’ that she is reading under her desk. She says that Sandor gave it to her in the back yard – I believe he gave her the book afterwards as a memento. ‘Don’t subject your underwear to unnecessary strain. Not having any letters on the keys is standard teaching practice.’
I glance round and see that the surrounding typewriter keys have less writing on them than the lavatory walls at Festival of Light headquarters. Oh dear. I blush scarlet and sit down hurriedly. ‘I was only trying to make a stand,’ I murmur to Penny.
‘You don’t have to make one with Sandor,’ says Penny. ‘He self-erects if you brush past his coat on the hallstand.’
‘Now, if the interruptions finished quite have,’ says Sandor singling me out for a crushing glance, ‘to work we will get down. First I give you letter, then you transfer it to typewriter. If at first, mistakes you make, worry not. It is the habit. Are you ready with your little pencils? Good! I begin: “Dear Mummy, it is very nice here in Sierra Leone and I am making lots of new friends. The sun is shining and …”’
In the weeks that follow I notice a very funny thing. All the dictation we get takes the form of letters home from Port Said, Accra, Dar es Salaam and the like, and all of it says what a good time the writer is having. After a while you begin to feel that it must be lovely in these places and a number of the girls can hardly wait to take up Mr Kruger’s oft repeated promises of overseas employment. Only one hurdle remains to their ambition: the final examinations for the Learnfast Diploma – or the Lft Dla as we call it amongst ourselves. Mr Kruger has explained that because of its revolutionary techniques the school sees little point in sitting its pupils for open examinations and prefers to set its own special tests.
‘Anyone Pitmans can pass,’ says Sandor. ‘But Learnfast, now difficult that is.’
He is right. I had been expecting a tough exam but my performance is abysmal. I do not finish my typing in the allotted time and what I do do is littered with mistakes. As for my Fastwriting, it is quite unintelligible. Not surprising when one is being dictated to by Sandor who can hardly enunciate in fractured English. I sign my papers with heavy heart – we have to sign all our work at Learnfast – and prepare for the worst. I think if I fail I will try again at one of the more traditional secretarial schools. There is no point in trying to duck the fact that the Learnfast techniques are too sophisticated for me.
‘The results disappointing very are,’ says Sandor the next day as we assemble nervously in the assembly hall – or front lounge as it might be called if the house was in private use. ‘Mr Kruger upset is. High hopes dashed are. Himself he will you tell. One on top of the other.’ Penny nods as if the arrangement does not come as a complete surprise to her and I decide that I might as well get the bad news over as quickly as possible and volunteer to go first.
When I go through the door of Mr Kruger’s office I am surprised to find that he is not alone. A brooding, dark-haired man is sitting beside the desk and studying me through piercing eyes no less magnetic than Mr Kruger’s. He wears a small moustache and reminds me of Omar Sharif.
‘Ah, Miss Dixon,’ says Kruger rising to his feet courteously as does the stranger. ‘Allow me to introduce Mr Hassan who is recruiting secretaries for some of his Middle Eastern ventures.’
‘Charmed,’ says Hassan bending over my wrist and implanting a small kiss on the back of my hand.
‘Likewise,’ I say. ‘But don’t forget, Mr Kruger. I don’t want to go abroad.’
Mr Kruger frowns and runs his finger down a list of names on his desk. ‘I’m afraid it’s not very easy for a young lady in your position to be too dogmatic about where she goes. Your charm and sweetness have made an indelible impression on us all but your examination marks have not come up to what we normally consider to be diploma standard at Learnfast.’
‘So I’ve failed?’ I say. ‘That’s what you’re trying to tell me isn’t it?’
Mr Kruger looks toward Mr Hassan as if expecting him to speak but the Arab courteously waves his hand, willing the Managing Director of Learnfast to continue. ‘Yes and no,’ says Kruger clasping his hands together and looking up at the ceiling. ‘As I have already intimated, your general expertise leaves something to be desired when considered against the technical qualifications of the average secretary practising in the Western Hemisphere, but in terms of the Middle East where standards are, perhaps, less exalted—?’ Kruger puts a question mark into his voice and raises his eyebrows towards Hassan who spreads his arms wide in another inscrutable gesture ‘—you might have something to offer.’
‘I can’t understand why,’ I say. ‘I mean, I don’t speak a word of Arabic.’
‘That is not important,’ says Hassan, his voice confirming the dark brown impression it made when uttering the word ‘charmed’. ‘English is the language of intercourse.’
‘Business intercourse,’ says Kruger hurriedly.
‘Precisely,’ says Hassan. ‘To have an English secretary is very much a question of prestige.’ He turns his dark brown eyes on to me and my resolve begins to weaken. Arabs have such a romantic reputation, don’t they? Despite eating sheeps eyes with their fingers and making their wives walk in front of the camel in case there are any mines left over from World War II. I especially like the Westernized ones – like Hassan. His beige silk suit fits so perfectly that it might have been sprayed on to his body and his heavy gold cufflinks must put a heavy strain on the stitches that hold the arms of his shirt to the rest of the sumptuous lawn material. Perhaps I am being too hasty in my rejection of a position abroad.
Kruger clearly senses the hesitation in my eyes because he coughs apologetically and glances at his watch. ‘Why don’t you have a private chat about it with Akmed?’ he says. ‘He can put you in the picture about it better than I can.’ He turns to Hassan. ‘You can use the interview room on the second floor.’
‘I have already installed myself there,’ says Hassan smoothly. ‘If Miss Dixon would care to accompany me I would be delighted to fill her in.’
‘Well-er, yes, thank you,’ I say. I mean, it is difficult to refuse isn’t it? Kruger is already rustling his papers and looking over my shoulder for the next pupil and I have nothing to lose by hearing what Mr Hassan has to say. I can always say no.
As we go out of Krugar’s office, Penny is waiting outside the door and I notice the way her eyes light up appreciatively as they dwell on my accompanying hunk of Eastern promise.