12 KiB
Chapter Four: The Queue
The queue at the Crown Office on Sutherland Road, on the fourteenth of March, 1984, was not, in the strictest sense, a queue. It was a collection of people, arranged in a roughly linear configuration, in the ground-floor foyer, and the linearity was aspirational rather than actual, in the way that a line of ducks in a pond is linear in intention but organic in execution. There were, at any given time, between six and fourteen people in the collection, and they stood, or sat, or in one memorable case knelt (a man from the Valuation Office who had dropped his pen and had been unable, for reasons that were not entirely clear, to pick it up), in a state of low, patient, institutional waiting, and the waiting was, Gerald had come to believe, not a punishment but a medium, the way that the dark was a medium for the cabbage, and the queue was the becoming, the process by which a concern was transformed, slowly, painfully, irreversibly, into a resolution.
Gerald stood in the queue at 2:15 p.m., waiting to see Mr. Pemberton. He had, in the intervening three hours, read the Mrs. Underwood file four times. He had cross-referenced the pension figures with the Teachers' Superannuation Scheme records, which were held in a separate office on the second floor and which required a form, a very specific form, Form IR57B, which was, Gerald had noted, a form that was not beige but a sort of institutional pink, which he found deeply unsettling, as though the building had developed, in addition to its beige, a secondary colour, a condition, a disease that was spreading from the second floor to the third floor and, if left unchecked, would eventually consume the entire structure.
The pension figures checked out. £487.50 per annum, from the Teachers' Superannuation Scheme, commencing in September 1979. The reclassification from "earned" to "non-earned" was, Gerald had to admit, technically correct. Mrs. Underwood was not earning the pension. She was receiving it. The distinction was, in the language of the ICTA 1970, real, and it had consequences, and the consequences were that the pension, as non-earned income, was subject to a different (and in this case, lower) rate of tax, and that the threshold for assessment was, for non-earned income, higher, and that, at £487.50, Mrs. Underwood was, in fact, below the threshold for non-earned income, and therefore, in the strictest, most literal reading of the statute, she owed nothing.
Gerald had to admit this. He had to admit it to himself, which was, in his experience, more difficult than admitting it to a file, because the file did not judge, and his own mind did, and the judgement was not harsh, exactly, but it was persistent, the way that a small, persistent drip from a tap is not loud but is relentless, and after a long enough time, the drip has worn a small, specific groove in the surface of the sink, and the groove is real, and the groove is permanent, and the groove is, in a sense, the point.
The interest income was also, he had to admit, correctly classified. Section 322 of the ICTA 1970 was, as Vivienne Ashworth had said, a valid reading. The interest was incidental to the holding of a personal investment. The building society account was not a trading account. It was not a business account. It was a personal account, in a building society, and the interest was incidental, and the word incidental was, in the statute, a real word, with real meaning, and Vivienne Ashworth had used it, and the use was correct, and the correctness was, in a sense, the point, and Gerald was, in the queue, in the beige foyer, in the low, patient, institutional waiting, admitting it.
The property in Epsom was, as Vivienne had said, her primary residence. It was exempt. It was not a capital asset. It was not assessable. The private residence allowance was, in this case, absolute, and there was no further query, and there was no further action, and the file could, in the language of the Inland Revenue, be closed, and the closing was, in a sense, the point.
And yet.
And yet there was the structure. The way the three elements fit together. The interlocking. The precision. It was not the work of a casual hand. It was not the work of a woman who had sat down at her kitchen table with a cup of tea and a copy of the Sunday Times and filled in the form. It was the work of a system. A method. A school. And the school was Vivienne Ashworth, and the school was good, and the goodness was, in a sense, the problem, because a good school was not a single return. It was a pattern. It was a repetition. It was a signature, and the signature was in the file, and the signature was Ashworth & Dale, and the signature was, in a sense, the thing that Gerald could not put in the drawer, because the drawer was for single cases, for single returns, for single instances, and the signature was plurality, was repetition, was pattern, and the pattern did not fit in the drawer, and the pattern was, in a sense, the point.
Mr. Pemberton's office was on the third floor. Gerald took the lift. The lift was not beige. The lift was a sort of institutional green, the same green as Mr. Pemberton's office, and Gerald stood in the lift and watched the numbers change, 4, 3, and he thought: the building is spreading. The beige is spreading. The green is spreading. The pink is spreading. The building is a patient, and the colours are symptoms, and the diagnosis is unknown, and the prognosis is uncertain, and the treatment is not yet *available.
Mr. Pemberton was in his green office. He was a large man, not in the way of weight but in the way of presence, as though he had, at some point in his early career, been moulded to the shape of a man and the mould had set, and the shape was permanent, and the shape was large, and the largeness was not aggressive but was architectural, the way that a column is large, and the column is not angry, it is structural.
"Firth," Mr. Pemberton said. "Sit down. What is it?"
Gerald sat down. The chair was green. The desk was green. The walls were green. The teacup on the desk was green. The entire room was green, and Gerald sat in the green and felt, for the first time in his professional life, a small, specific, irritable sensation in the back of his neck, as though the green was looking at him, as though the green was measuring him, as though the green was a woman in a purple skirt suit who was holding him up to a ruler.
"The Ashworth & Dale file," Gerald said. "The Underwood return. I've reviewed it. The reclassification is correct. The interest exemption is valid. The property is primary residence. The return is, in the strictest sense, correct."
Mr. Pemberton nodded. He picked up his teacup. He took a sip. He set the cup down. The cup made a small, definite sound on the green desk, and the sound was, in the green silence, very specific, and Gerald thought: the sound of the cup on the desk is the sound of the file being closed.
"So?" Mr. Pemberton said.
"So the file can be closed."
"It can."
"However."
Mr. Pemberton looked at him. The look was not unpleasant. It was structural. It was the look of a column at a beam, the look of a load-bearing element at a non-load-bearing element, the look that said, in effect, I am here, and you are here, and the relationship between us is structural, and the structure is sound, and the soundness is the* point.
"However," Gerald said. "The structure of the return suggests a method. A system. A repetition. I would like to look at the other returns that Ashworth & Dale has filed in the last three years. Not to query them. Not to investigate them. Simply to understand the pattern. To see if the method is consistent. To see if the signature is repeated."
Mr. Pemberton was quiet for a long time. The telex machine in the next room was clicking. The metallic teeth were chattering. The sound was, in the green silence, very specific.
"Firth," he said, eventually. "You are a competent inspector. You are a thorough inspector. You are, in the language of the department, a very good inspector. And I am going to tell you something, and I am going to tell you once, and I am going to tell you in the green, and you are going to sit in the green and you are going to listen. The Ashworth & Dale file has been opened before. In 1981. It was looked at. It was reviewed. And it was closed. The closing was correct. The closing was sound. The closing was the point. And I am telling you, in the green, in the column, in the structure, that the point is closed, and the file is closed, and the drawer is closed, and the drawer is beige, and the beige is the colour of the office, and the office is the colour of the* building, and the building is the colour of the* state, and the state is the colour of the* law, and the law is the colour of the* point, and the point is closed."
Gerald sat in the green. He listened. He did not argue. He did not push. He nodded.
"All right, sir," he said.
"Good," Mr. Pemberton said. "And Firth."
"Yes, sir?"
"The roses in the front garden of 14 Wellington Road. Are they roses?"
Gerald blinked. "They're Rosa canina, sir. Dog roses."
"I know they're Rosa canina, Firth. I know. I'm asking if they're roses."
Gerald was quiet. He thought about cabbages. He thought about the dark. He thought about the becoming.
"They're in the genus, sir," he said.
Mr. Pemberton nodded. He picked up his teacup. He took another sip. He set the cup down. The sound was definite. The sound was the point.
"Right then, Firth. Off you go. Close the file. Make your tea. And for the love of God, stop noticing the cabbages."
Gerald stood up. He walked to the door. He put his hand on the handle. He turned back.
"Sir. The structure. The method. If I can't look at the other returns, can I at least make a note? A small note. In the file. Just a note. Query re: structural consistency of Ashworth & Dale filings, FY 81-84. To be revisited if further returns filed in Croydon."
Mr. Pemberton looked at him. The look was structural. The look was architectural. The look was the look of a column at a beam.
"Make your note, Firth," he said. "And close the file."
Gerald closed the file. He made his note. He went back to the fourth floor. He made a fresh pot of tea. He sat at his desk. He opened his leather notebook. He wrote, on a fresh page: Savoy, continued. The heart is white. The white is not the absence of colour. The white is the presence of the becoming. The cabbage is becoming in the white. The white is the medium. The medium is the point.
He closed the notebook. He went to his drawer. He put the Mrs. Underwood file in. He closed the drawer. The drawer made a small, definite sound, and the sound was, in the beige silence, very specific, and the sound was, in a sense, the point.
He made another cup of tea. He drank it standing up. He looked out of the window. The March sky was grey. The March light was thin. The March air was cold, and the cold was the medium, and the medium was the becoming, and the becoming was the point, and Gerald Firth, Senior Inspector, Personal Income Tax Division, Croydon, Inland Revenue, stood at the window and became, in the thin, cold, grey March light, a little bit less beige, and the little bit less beige was, in a sense, the point.