Talk Simple

The headquarters of the Bureau of Plain Speech, Tottenhamcourt Road, London was impressive only for its size. In the shape of a right-angled triangle looming above the end of Oxford Street, like the fin of some monstrous shark, its long and substantial shadow made a sundial of Central London whenever the sun chose to shine. Only the top three floors were glazed. The rest was blank, monotonous and foreboding.

Those on the very top floor had ordered a new Section on the third floor. It was staffed with competent, unquestioning, pension-conscious personnel and the latest quantum computers. All it lacked was a squad of hard-nosed field officers. To obliterate this deficiency, Jamil Said, the head of the newly-formed Section of Semantic Sanction, was about to interview one, Derrick Hawkhill, for the post of Field Supervisor.

Derrick stood before Jamil’s office door, while waiting for permission to enter, thinking again about the graffiti he had seen scrawled over a wall in the Underground: The season of freedom is as autumn in the heart.

With all the worry over his promotional chances pushed momentarily to the back of his mind, he thought: What on Earth can it mean? Then he quickly reprimanded himself for his lapse in concentration, and looked anxiously at his watch:  11.00 am, Thursday, 11th November, 2084. I’m bang on time! Forget the graffiti!

A slow, deliberate, almost unconcerned voice responded to his second knock. “Enter.”

His wait over, Derrick did as ordered, entered and sat before Jamil’s rosewood desk. The top was a dancing light display of six inlaid monitors. Jamil had anger-bright eyes and skin that looked like chocolate on the melt. His expensive attire was wedding-guest neat. Derrick was impressed; as impressed as he was pleased to receive this interview. He had heard through several, long and sinuous, staff grapevines that the job was his for the asking; a significant move up in his undistinguished career.

The brusque Jamil made a mild attempt at courtesy. “I’m pleased you could make it at such short notice.” He glanced at one of his ever-informative monitors. “Been with the Bureau for twelve years, enjoying the work?”

Anxious not to blow it, Derrick’s was cautious, and hesitated before replying, “It’s rewarding, interesting. I never get bored.”

“Quite so, Semantic Sanction needs an experienced field man. You’re well qualified. The job is yours if you want it with one proviso: I require someone who is enthusiastic about our agenda. Have you any notion of what that is?”

Derrick’s pulse raced, his mouth grew dry. “It’s to do with Semantic Sanction. I’ve read the Green Paper, of course. I believe the White Paper is up for its first reading next month. It’s to go through, then?”

“You have! Good! Yes, its enactment will follow in three months. Time is short. We must recruit a thousand field personnel, and train them in readiness for its implementation in five. Does such a challenge interest you?”

Derrick allowed his principles to foolishly surface. “I welcome the challenge, but I can’t say I wholeheartedly agree with the agenda. Why ban the use of adverbs, figures of speech and idiomatic phrases? Why dumb the language down any further than it is? Soon it will not be worth talking about - or in for that matter.”

Frowning darkly, Jamil reproached the non-believer. “They’re rushing this Act through because English is not the first language for over fifty-five percent of the UK’s population. The latest Census brought this to the Government’s notice. Speaking English is hard enough for them without coping with unnecessary complications. We’ve had Standard Vocabulary, which you’ve been happy enough to enforce for the last twelve years. Your linguistic sensibility and patriotism are outdated. One might even say they have racist undertones. However, will 300 000 euros a year assuage your reprehensible concerns?”

Derrick was shaken: I’ve blown it! The line between patriotism and racism is so blurred now. No, wait a minute. He’s offering me 300 000 a year! Geez, for that kind of money I’d enforce no adjectives as well! To hell with patriotism!

Derrick cleared his throat, and backtracked. “I’d no idea! Over fifty-five percent, you say! That does shed a different light on things. English is not as common as it once was. That’s a fact; a fact that will take some getting used to. That’s for sure. However, we live in a democracy and anything that makes it easier for the majority should be encouraged – enforced, yes – enforced!”

With his eyelids pressed to suspicious slits, Jamil reluctantly conceded. “That’s better.” However, he opened them warmly when he asked, “I take it you want the job, then?”

“Yes, indeed! When do I start?” Derrick decided against a smile.

Having become Derrick’s boss at the moment of his acceptance, Jamil sat back, his usual brusqueness taking over. “Why, as of now! It was anticipated you’d take the job. Your former Section Head waives your required notice. Your new office awaits, report to reception immediately. Sandra Dundee, our Office Manager, will fill you in on all our procedures. Assimilate them by tomorrow; dismissed.”

His swift appointment and abrupt change in circumstance made him rise on shaking legs. He staggered slightly as he sauntered to the door. About to clasp the doorknob, he jumped when Jamil ordered. “By the way, I want a full progress report on my console by Monday. Don’t disappoint. I expect a full complement of field staff recruited by the end of the month. And if not, a very good reason why not! Is that clearly understood?”

“Clear.” choked Derrick, and foreseeing the frenetic weekend that lay before him, he left the room with gathering dread. The season of freedom is as autumn in the heart. These hastily scrawled words charged across his mind. They were beginning to make some sort of sense.

Sandra Dundee, a greying stick of womanhood, was waiting for him, as promised, when he reached reception. She greeted him with ear-stinging sibilance: “Mr. Hawkhill, I believe? Come this way please.”

Turning immediately on her sensible heels, and, without waiting for his reply, she led him down a polished corridor floor, which reflected their bodies upside down, and comically distorted. It reached all the way to his office, which was clean, functional and sorely needed this-and-that to make it cosy. Angered, he noticed they had fetched down his treasured collection of personal detritus from his old office; haphazardly and without his consent.

Sandra Dundee did not stand on ceremony. She sat before his plastic desk with one inlaid monitor. From behind this low-ranking office furniture, Derrick formed an all-ears expression.

Sandra took that as her cue. “Last week, the Department of People Utility transferred the details of six thousand non-productive units it considers suitable for field officers. Our computer selected only nine hundred and forty that measure up to our criteria and seventy that are almost suitable. So tomorrow there’ll be seventy for you to interview. If you can’t get sixty out of them or decide none of them are suitable, we will have to second the shortfall from existing Bureau staff. Avoid this if possible. Demanding though our criteria are, there’s room for a little slack.

“In the meantime, I will talk you through our office procedures. After that…” she looked quickly at her wrist watch indicating it would not take long. “I suggest you spend the rest of today getting fully acquainted with the White Paper. Government sources assure us the act will go through unopposed and unaltered. We can proceed with confidence, and form the necessary machinery for its enforcement.” Then she plunged into the familiar waters of her standard lecture, which ended when she declared. “If there’s anything else, let me know. I’ll be in my office.” With that she got up and left, having never smiled hello or said goodbye.

Real friendly! Cursed Derrick’s inner voice, straight from the bureau of the bitch!  Boy could I use a cigarette!         
   
It had been a long day, but it was only a short walk to his favourite Smoke Easy along pavements lined with the blank facades of several Ramadan- screened restaurants still boarded up till evening. It was unpleasant nevertheless. Shrouded in a fantastic fart of pollution, London was a bloated smear across the Thames Valley. Walking outside was no better than walking through a Sunday morning sewer. It was with some relief Derrick flashed his member’s card at the Smoke Easy’s door scanner. It slid open in silent greeting. Once inside, a cocoon of Van Gogh red and chrome glint met his eyes. The smell of smoke and alcohol charged up his grateful nostrils, he sighed, and he made for his usual table.

Janice Westport was there, sitting waiting for him. Her eyes twinkled as her smile hovered above the rim of her glass. “Hard day by the look of you; been through the wringer twice and once more for good measure, I’ll wager. You must have got the job.”

Replying with only a smile, Derrick slid in beside her, slipped his cash-rod into the table slot, requested a double whisky, and pulled a ready-lit cigarette from the silver dispenser. “Yeah, I got the job all right. The money’s good, great really, but the job - well it’s not so great.”

“And why not?” she pouted, snuggling her hand into the crook of his arm.

It felt good. Derrick relaxed. “Like I said before, I wasn’t sure what the new Section is for. Turns out it’s that Semantic Sanction thingamajig. If you were you in the House when they read out the Green Paper, why on Earth didn’t you raise an objection? They’re really going ahead with it!”

“I wasn’t, or I would have, believe me, but I’ve read it, of course. So your new job is to do with that. Shit! They don’t seriously think it will go through, do they?”

Her question amused him. “You’re asking me? You mean you don’t know?” She raised an eyebrow in answer. He shrugged, and continued. “I guess you don’t. Well, they’re not only going through with it, a whole new Section is already up and running at the Bureau. I’m a Field Supervisor in charge of a thousand personnel; a major operation, every bit as big as Standard Vocabulary. I’ve read what’s intended for the White Paper, by the way. It’s just the Green Paper with knobs on.”

Janice withdrew her hand, ordered Vodka, took a fresh cigarette and, having sampled both, assumed the expression she was voted for, and vowed. “My party will oppose it. I’m sure the Preservatives and the Social Sense parties will join us too. The Government will have to concede. We’ll let them do away with figures of speech, but idiomatic phrases and adverbs are off the agenda. Mark my words! Wait till my colleagues hear they’ve a new section up and running already. Questions will be asked, and they’d better have the answers!”

“I’m okay with that so long as you don’t say who told you.” She nodded in agreement. He stroked her chin. “They’ve spent a lot setting up this new Section. It will go through, no matter what your party does. I don’t know how they can be so sure, but they are.”

He took out his law-checker, a slim rectangle of stainless steel with a blue display. It was the size of a pocket calculator and carrying one at all times was the legal requirement of every citizen. Waving it at her, he said, “In five months time, this will show the new legislation. And once on this, they’ll accept no excuse from anyone breaking the law!” He ignored the flag that popped up on its screen for a new Sharia Law inclusion: Bukhari 8:12. It was the third that day. 

The Vodkas were beginning to soak in. Janice slurred. “The public won’t wear it. This time they’re going too far. There’ll be an outcry!” She had raised her voice and received uneasy looks from everyone in the Smoke Easy.

Derrick patted her hand. “You’re attracting attention, darling. Calm down. There’s no need to get upset. They’ll find it impossible to implement. Restricting vocabulary is one thing, but chopping off swathes of syntax is against the very nature of speech. Our brains are pre-wired for grammar. Evolution cannot be denied.” He ordered another double. It tasted good. It flowed down a treat. He ordered more. “It may be the very thing that brings down the Government. Perhaps you shouldn’t oppose it.” 

Janice joined him glass-for-glass, double-for-double. “Now there’s a thought. Meantime we’ll just have to learn Hungarian or any foreign language if we want a decent conversation in public. They won’t sanction them. Who’s in charge of your Section, anyway? Anyone I know?”

Derrick’s expression changed to that of a constipated camel. “No, you wouldn’t know him. He’s been with the Bureau for over five years, came over from Immigration. He was quite high up there, but the cutbacks came. Guess he thought it was best to get out when the going was good, even if it meant demotion. He’s right back up on top now though, enjoying the ride with the full use of his whip hand.” Another whisky appeared in the table’s server arm as soon as Derrick asked.

Janice was serious. Her eyebrows gathered before saying. “I read mention of something called Sanction Chokers in the Green Paper. Have they elaborated on them in the White Paper? They haven’t already made them, have they? Have you actually seen one?”

“Yeah, would you believe it? Thousands are stacked in a corner of the third floor. That’s the floor our section’s on by the way. Needs one with plenty of space, it does, that’s why it’s so low down.” His eyes almost focused on, Janice.

“How do they work?”

“No idea. But the White Paper says when they’ll force people to wear them.” He nodded for emphasis.

“And when would that be?”

“Camera and mike coverage is everywhere, right? Big Brother is not only watching you, he’s up your right up your arse!  Well, if you ever use the no-no words, you’ll get a warning first. That’s because they say to go softly, softly for the first three months the legislation comes in. Yes sir, we’ve to go easy for the first three months.” His face glowed red as the end of his cigarette shone fiercely with a powerful drag.
“Then if you’re caught again, it’s the Sanction Choker. Around your pretty little neck it’ll go.”

For a moment, he leered at the sensuous pillar supporting her graceful head. “Then you can’t say the no-no words, at all, anywhere; not just in public. If you say an adverb or whatever again, you’re banned from speaking for three months. If you violate that, then it’s jail, big time.”

"So wearing a Choker, we couldn't say what we liked anywhere, not even in here. But - but, without a Choker, well, this place could be a Speak Easy as well as a Smoke Easy!" She gazed with salacious intent at his end-of-the-day stubble. Sandpaper kisses were her delight. 

“Speak Easy, where have I heard that before?” muttered Derrick. He took another lung-shrivelling drag, and blew out far less smoke than he took in. “Geez, I wonder if that Choker can tell them if you’re smoking or drinking. What do you think? Big Brother could have you by the throat not just for speaking but for everything.” He jerked a thumb at his prominent Adam’s-apple.

Janice’s cigarette waved up and down between her lips. “I’ll raise it in the House. Find out just what else that Choker can monitor. It might light a fire under those Government yes-men, who park their powdered little bums on the benches opposite.”
   
The Smoke Easy owner was a Rumanian rough-man. Over-inebriated, tobacco-soused patrons drawing attention to themselves, was the last thing he wanted.  For the last half hour, he had closely monitored their intake, and had overheard most of what they had said. Deciding enough was enough, he came over to their table with all the menace of a charging gorilla. He placed a knuckle-resplendent hand, backed up by a considerable forearm, upon each of their shoulders. “Speaking of the English, I so finding so difficult. I liking sounds of Sanction. Drinking it up you will - then going this place; you much drink too many anyway. You never come here back! No welcome: member’s card, now!”

The bottomless reserve of gripping power that was his to command was gently touched upon. Their cards were quickly flung upon the table with the use of each of their arms that had not gone completely numb. Then, assisted by him, they walked lightly, as if on the Moon, swiftly to the door. 

Once on the pavement, they slowly recovered. They desperately needed a cigarette, far more than they needed a drink. It was night and turning cold. An M-wave police hover passed overhead, giving out the order to move on in six different languages. They looked up just as it drifted away. Pollution-yellowed, the stars shone above the streetlights, dimmed to conserve energy and lower the Nation’s emissions. The Bureau cut its stark silhouette into this pallid sky. They drew up their collars against the chill and walked hastily away; walking where it would cast its long shadow come morning, while Derrick thought again of the graffiti scrawled upon the Underground wall: the season of freedom is as autumn in the heart. By then he knew exactly what it meant!