And then there were none

Even under normal circumstances I’m not keen on making a big splash when I leave a job. I’m not saying it’s wrong to do so by any means; it’s just not my way. After all, under normal circumstances, you’ve taken a conscious decision to leave the job you’re in and move to another because for some reason the job you’ve got just doesn’t fit you properly any more. Under normal circumstances.

I guess redundancy is not really normal circumstances. That it might be common circumstances at the moment is certainly helpful and reassuring in the shoring-up of self-confidence dimension but otherwise - at an individual level - doesn’t really cut the mustard. I should say that I’m not remotely bothered about leaving this job; the only thing that had concerned me was finding another before my somewhat fragile finances fell down the gap in between like the TV remote control accidentally falling down the back of the sofa. You know you’ll find it again, just will it be quickly enough to catch the documentary you really want to watch before it turns into a cardboard soap opera.

But I have –luckily – found a new job that starts next week and have already shaken the dust from my feet of this one. So my reluctance to have any kind of leaving do was even more heightened than normal. Nevertheless people had asked me if we were having a final get together, and so a few weeks ago I’d invited our little team along for a lunch at the Tudor Rose pub in Sittingbourne. After all, it would give us all a chance to say goodbye to each other for the last time, and any excuse for a pub lunch is good to go as far as I’m concerned.

The first previously accepted apology came on Tuesday. A colleague would be elsewhere, in another part of the county, she said, and couldn’t cancel. Perhaps we could catch up another time? Of course, I said, yes, we’d catch up another time, gave her my personal number too, and know full well I’ll never hear from her again. It’s a polite end of work charade that suits all parties I’ve found and I’m happy to play it. The next apology was brought along by another colleague upon arriving at the pub. A washing machine problem, apparently, so he wouldn’t be able to join us lest the water ran into the flat below. And, added my news-bearing colleague with a flourish, he said his household insurance has just run out. My absent colleague does clearly not read as much detective fiction as me, otherwise he’d know the surest way to spot a fib is one that’s dressed up in a fur coat and diamonds and way too much detail. The final apology didn’t actually arrive at all; or rather the colleague who’d confirmed he was coming along just didn’t show up. Which is at least as blunt and as honest as one could wish for.

So in the end our final get together was four of us, sitting round a rectangular table in the large square conservatory at the back of the pub. One chose not to eat, electing instead to sip Diet Coke and watch as we three shovelled forkfuls of delicious pub grub and made conversation in between. As she stood up to go, another colleague also got to her feet pleading pressure of work, wished us well and put a tenner on the table for her food. The two of them left together, making telephone gestures with their hands and mouthing ‘keep in touch’ through the window as they walked to their cars.

The two of us looked at each other and asked for the bill, which we settled in cash and walked outside into the early afternoon sunshine. She starts her new job the day before me and we’ve grown quite close over these last few months. When she said she’d keep in touch, I have the feeling that she actually might. I watched her get into her car and drive off to collect her young children from her parents’ house.

I stood there for a moment longer in the car park, alone and smoking a cigarette, then I too got into my car and drove off. And then there really were none.