ActionPlay™ was another of those little surprises that Martin seemed to enjoy springing on her. Just when she thought she had the schedule under control he informed her that there was another task to perform, another meeting to attend. In this case it was ActionPlay™: a five-day residential course designed 'to foster multi-dimensional interdisciplinary management empathy and motivation' as the accompanying introductory notes put it. Martin's translation of this was that it was designed to help people, particularly managers, work together as a team, and to think innovatively and supportively. As far as Bernice was concerned it was just five days out of the schedule that she could ill-afford.
Happily Yasmeen was developing fast, and so Bernice was able to offload more work in her direction. Even Pete was turning in solid quantities of work now, and some of it was surprisingly good, though he remained nervous in the office, and spent much of his time on the phone to 'Piggy-wiggy' as he called his wife, as softly as he could, embarrassed that the rest of the office was listening, but not wanting to upset her since she needed this kind of intimacy even when it was inconvenient for him. With typical self-deprecation Bernice blamed herself both for not valuing him more and for not helping him find his feet earlier.
She had been told about ActionPlay™ some time ago, and had once more resigned herself to being sucked into the maw of corporate activity. But she had to admit that her attitude towards it had been transformed rather radically now that James would be there. Before, the prospect of being trapped in a hotel on the south coast with Martin, Bob, Tim and a 'facilitator' was marginally preferable to having the 'flu; now she was certain that things would at the least be entertaining.
Not that the venue helped. It seemed to have been chosen for its isolation: stuck on the edge of nowhere more or less due south of Southdon, it was a pig to get to without a car, and involved three changes of train and a taxi. When she arrived there Monday morning in time for coffee, she was not much heartened by the hotel itself. An old rambling assemblage of rooms and halls, built when the south coast was flourishing, and when visitors' expectations of comfort were not so high as those of today, it would have been charming had it had more character; now it just looked rather down at heel, a hotel that had been passed by.
Things began badly when the man on the reception proved unwilling to believe that she did not have a car: nobody, he seemed to imply, turned up here without a car. He seemed to think that she had one and was simply being bloody-minded in not owning up. He felt that his office of receptionist was being insulted. At least her room, when she got there, gave on to the sea - but it was a steel-grey and miserable sea, with a gravel beach noticeably devoid of visitors. Everywhere there was that smell of tea that you found in old hotels, a smell that made them seem more like youth hostels than luxury residences once favoured by minor European royalty.
When she came down from her room for coffee in the Kent Suite - a small room at the back of the hotel, reached through a labyrinth of passages and fire doors - she found that everyone else was already there: Martin - who clearly loved these kind of activities - James, looking rather attractive in his civvies (as requested in the course's introductory notes), Tiny Tim looking even more fragile than ever, and the facilitator. This turned out to be a woman who looked like a PR girlie twenty years on. She wore the same pearls, had the same upturned blouse collar, the same tight skirt; but she was much more heavily made up, and her face was fuller, teetering on the verge of becoming blowsy.
"Bernice, so pleased - Clarissa Molyneaux", she introduced herself as Bernice entered the room. The others, who were drinking coffee, turned and wished her good morning. For a while they talked about nothing in particular - the weather, their journeys down, the hotel, their rooms - and then, as if at a pre-arranged signal, Clarissa took them through into another room, called simply Canterbury. Inside was a circular table with five places set, flasks of water, boiled sweets, writing pads, pencils and rubbers. Around the room there were also several flipcharts. At least Tim should feel at home, thought Bernice.
Clarissa began by explaining the basic principles of ActionPlay™. Central to what Bernice assumed was an extremely costly course was the idea that real-world situations could be Mapped Onto (an ActionPlay™ concept) structured games, or Plays as they were called. Similarly, by practising Plays independently of real-life tasks it was possible to develop the required skills that could be Mapped Onto those real-life tasks. Clarissa explained that the week would be one of agglutination and exponentiation. As they came to discover, this meant more of them would be involved in particular Plays and that the course would get worse as it wore on.
The five days would be based around the five senses, but the central sense was listening: throughout the week Clarissa's constant schoolma'am comment would be "We're not really listening, are we?" Most days were structured in the same way: two sessions each in the morning and afternoon, and one in the evening. She promised that by the end of the week they would all be mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually exhausted. Great, thought Bernice, just what she needed.
In addition to the five senses, there were five Players corresponding to each sense. The Players were Scouter, Counsellor, Hunter, Appraiser and Stroker. The logic behind these was never explained, it being assumed that they were in some sense 'obvious', Bernice assumed. The five Players were within us all, Clarissa explained, but obviously different Players dominated in different people. Part of the week's exercise was to understand the 'internal dynamics' of their Players. For each task, all the Players would be needed, and these might come from one or more people.
To get them into the swing of things, Clarissa had a task for them immediately.
"What I want you to do," she said, her eyes twinkling, "is, working separately, to produce detailed internal diagrams of a combine harvester. You can use any means to produce them, and use any of these materials" - she indicated the paper and flipcharts around the room - "or others, but have only 30 minutes to do so. Starting now."
For an instant the four of them sat there, caught unawares by the nature of the challenge. And then suddenly there was a flurry of activity as each leapt into action. James sped out of the room, clearly knowing where he was going and what he was going to do. Martin too seemed to have a very distinct idea as he left the room at a brisk pace. Tim, on the other hand had simply gone to one of the flipcharts, which he now took down from its stand, and carried away to his room along with some pencils and a rubber. This left Bernice alone with the still smirking Clarissa. She felt that she had to leave if only to show that she was not completely clueless.
Unfortunately she was. Where on earth could she find information on a combine harvester? Clearly nowhere near here. Who might know about combine harvesters? - and immediately the image of Mowley came into her mind. She raced back to her room, and rang his extension. Luckily it was after 11 am, so he was in the office.
"Dave," she said, panting, "what can you tell me about combine harvesters?"
"Er, well," he began, "I read an interesting article about them recently on their influence on seasonal trends within the US economy. It said - "
"No, no, no," she interrupted, "I need information about their internal workings. Any ideas?"
"Hm, bit outside my competence. If you want an analysis of combine harvesters, fine, but as to how they work...but it's obvious: why not try Combine Harvester Today - I think Wright's still publish it - you never can tell these days. For example - "
"Great idea, Dave" - why didn't she think of that - "could you put me on to Janice, please."
Janice came on the line, and was only too happy to find out whether the title existed, and if it did whether they had plans of a combine harvester. Janice rang back five minutes later to say that it did and they had. What was the fax number of the hotel? Good question. Bernice rang down to reception and asked what their fax number was. The answer was they didn't have one. What?!? thought Bernice, how can a modern business survive without a fax machine? She made a mental note to write an article about it sometime. OK, they would have to do it the hard way: over the phone by dictation. It would prove one of the most fraught fifteen minutes of her life.
Meanwhile the others were frantically working away at their own solutions, until the half an hour was up and everyone returned to the Canterbury Room. Everyone except Martin, that is.
Clarissa looked at her watch, rather displeased that of all the people it was the publisher who had failed to make it back in time. At that moment Martin burst in, clutching various pieces of paper in his hand.
"Ah, Martin, so glad you could join us," she said with only a hint of acid.
"Sorry about that, I had one or two, er, problems." And he sat down, panting after his dash here.
"Well, perhaps you could begin, Martin," she said, pointing at the papers now spread out before him on the table.
"Sure, well, here it is, photocopies of a book about combine harvesters - "
"Is that legal, Martin?" Bernice couldn't resist asking.
"Sure," he said, ruffled, "research purposes and all that."
"Well done, Martin," Clarissa said as if talking to a five year old.
"And could you tell us how you managed to get these drawings?"
"Well, I went in to the local library," Martin said, rather pleased with himself.
"Really?" said Clarissa, rather surprised. "But the library's ten miles away - how on earth did you manage to get there and back so quickly?"
"Er, well, that was one of the problems I had," began Martin. "I knew it would be tight, so I was driving quite fast. And I got stopped by the police and fined for speeding." He hung his head slightly. Everyone commiserated.
"You said 'one of the problems'...?" Clarissa continued.
"Yes, well, because I was held up by this, er, policeman, I had to hurry at the library. Which meant parking outside...on a yellow line. When I came out I found I had a parking ticket. At least I got the information."
"Yes," said the facilitator, "at least you got the information. Well done."
"Bernice" she said turning to her. "What about you?"
Bernice produced her attempts to draw what had been described to her over the phone. They were not very clear, but the basics were there she felt. "Well done," said Clarissa as she had to Martin.
Tim was next. He went up to a flipchart, and turned over the cover sheet. There beneath, drawn in intricate glory, was a cutaway drawing of a combine harvester. The others drew in their breath, admiring what was more art than science.
"Tim," said Clarissa, "that's beautiful. But where on earth did you get the information from? Or do you just happen to know everything about combine harvesters?"
"Certainly not the latter, no," said Tim, grinning.
"Well then, where did you get the information?"
"I didn't," said Tim grinning even more.
"What?"
"I made it up," he said finally, laughing quietly.
"Oh Tim," said Clarissa, laughing too, "well done." No wonder he was in marketing, thought Bernice, impressed nonetheless.
This left just James. Bernice was intrigued to find out how he had fared. During the presentations of the others, he had sat there, showing no emotion, with a folder in front of him; so he had something, thought Bernice. But what?
When he was asked to produce his solution, he opened the folder and took out five pages of detailed drawings of a combine harvester.
"But those are faxes," said Bernice, outraged.
"Sure: Clarissa said we could use anything we liked. That includes a fax in my book."
"But there isn't one at the hotel - I asked." Bernice felt cheated, as if the hotel had conspired against her. She thought of the receptionist: had he lied to her deliberately - or had Mr Slide bribed him, even?
"Looks like there is," said Martin.
"Actually, no," said James. "I used one I had in the car...."
"What?" asked Bernice. "You had a fax in the car?" She had noticed his bright red Escort XR3i outside the hotel, next to Martin's black Series 5 BMW and a Peugeot 205i she presumed belonged to Tim, if only because no one else would have re-sprayed a car banana yellow.
"Sure, never go anywhere without it - you never know when you'll need it...."
"And the information?" asked Clarissa just to finish things off.
"Well," said James, "a friend of a friend is in the export business. I knew he'd shifted a few of these combine harvesters, so I asked him to fax me some copies of the manuals. Which he kindly did. So I owe him one there."
Yes, thought Bernice as Clarissa once again praised everyone's solutions, this Mr Slide is certainly something out of the ordinary.
After this stimulating introduction they went for lunch - there was only one task that first morning. Lunch was the usual buffet affair. They each took food from the prepared platters - Bernice noted with interest that James took no meat - and then sat at a table together. The room was practically empty, which only added to the bleak and depressing air lent by the slate-coloured sea visible outside. Weak bulbs overhead only emphasised the melancholy feel of the place.
Most of them were too drained by the first exercise of the day to make much conversation, though the indefatigable James was assiduous in his courting of Clarissa, Bernice observed. After a civilised coffee in the Library, it was back to work.
If you could call it that: the next task required them to devise means of pushing the longest piece of string they could. This led to some interesting solutions, such as soaking it in water and freezing it (Bernice), soaking it in fat and cooking it (Tim), draping it over his car and pushing that (Martin) and - sneakiest of all - rolling up the string into a ball and pushing it in this form (Mr Slide: "Well, the task said nothing about pushing a straight piece of string, did it...?" he correctly observed.)
The rest of the tasks for the day were marginally more sensible: still working on their own, they had to produce a map of the hotel and its surroundings - which had them all scurrying around in the freezing, salty air - and, after a supper served by silent middle-aged waitresses in the main dining room beneath dusty chandeliers, to draw up an Introduction to that Introductory Day. By bed-time there were all exhausted from the strain of coping with inane tasks and thinking laterally. Which on reflection Bernice had to admit was pretty good training for Wright's.
The rest of the course followed a similar pattern, except that they began working together: first in pairs, running through the various combinations, and finally in a single team for the last day. After minor tasks such as producing and carrying out surveys on the hotel's facilities and service, or raising money for charity (partly achieved by selling the results of the survey to the hotel - one of Martin's suggestions), their final challenge was to write and perform a musical about Wright's.
This brought out the best in them. After everyone had agreed on the rough plot outline, Bernice wrote the words while Tim produced the scenery, costumes and props - conjuring up the most amazing creations from everyday objects. James turned out not only to be a good musician, but also to have a small keyboard synthesiser in his car (what didn't he have in there? wondered Bernice), and so was soon able to set the songs to music and knock together some sort of accompaniment. Martin fell naturally into the role of lead actor and director.
The day and course culminated in a once-in-a-lifetime, not-to-be-missed, Grand Finale performance of Wright's and Wrongs: The Musical for the initially bemused and ultimately amused guests and staff of the hotel who happened to be in the lounge at the time of the performance. As the makeshift curtain came down - a couple of bedspreads suspended by cords from the minstrels' gallery, in fact - the cast were elated but utterly shattered by the heady combination of ever more demanding individual tasks and intense teamwork.
But by then, it was true, they had indeed forged much closer working relationships. At times they lost their tempers - except for James, who remained cucumber-cool throughout - and at times some of them felt like leaving, especially Bernice, whose intensely down-to-earth approach to life bridled at these inane and artificial activities: she had enough real ones to cope with, thank you very much. But they didn't leave; they stuck it out and a new mutual respect grew among them.
ActionPlay™ may have been ridiculous in its terminology and risible in its tasks, but whether because of or despite this, it certainly seemed to engender a new sense of camaraderie between the four of them, something that people back at the office would comment on, particularly Chris, who was more attuned to these things. In particular, the course's catchphrase of 'We are not really listening, are we?' was, for a while at least, frequently used by them all - and soon hated by everyone else in the vicinity.
