Scotland Street: Stuart plans his future

One floor below, unaware of the meeting taking place upstairs in Angus and Domenica's flat, an encounter of a very different sort was about to occur. Since his resignation from his post as a government statistician, Stuart had been busy preparing for his new life, both professional and domestic.

The professional side of this preparation had involved a consultation with a financial adviser whom he had met in the Cumberland Bar. This man knew all about redundancy packages and pension entitlements and such things, and was an expert in what he called “exit strategies”.

“I take it they’ve offered redundancy terms,” said the adviser, over a pint of McEwan’s India Pale Ale. “The civil service tends to be quite good about those sort of things. Better than the private sector, on the whole.” He paused, looking momentarily concerned. “You have been offered something, I take it …”

Stuart tried to look nonchalant. “Actually, I resigned. Handed in my dinner pail – in a manner of speaking. Not permanently, of course – I’m still alive …” He smiled weakly. “But no, I resigned.”

The adviser bit his lip. “An actual resignation? As in: I quit?”

“As in I quit.”

The adviser took a sip of his McEwan’s. “That’s almost unheard of,” he said. “Nobody resigns from the civil service. They die, yes, and they very, very rarely are nudged out, but they don’t go and resign.”

“Well, I did.”

The adviser put down his glass. “Amicably, I assume.”

Stuart hesitated. But now bravado took over. “No, I insulted the Supreme Head of Personnel.”

The adviser made a noise somewhere between a whistle and a gasp. “Well, that’s something. Her. I’ve come across her. Few have survived who’ve done that. Or not survived in post. You’re a brave man, Stuart – a brave, currently unemployed man.”

“Well, it’s done,” said Stuart. “I suppose I’ll need to make arrangements.”

The adviser produced a sheet of paper, and listened while Stuart gave him figures. Then he did some quick calculations, checked them, and then shook his head. “Not good,” he said. “And your wife? Does she work?”

“She’s going back to university to do a PhD,” relied Stuart. “Up in Aberdeen. She’s got hold of some funding for that, but I imagine I’ll have to contribute.”

“You need a job pronto,” said the adviser.

“I know,” said Stuart. “I’ve registered with a head hunter and I’ve been offered a couple of interviews.”

The adviser looked relieved. “That’s fine,” he said. “I suspect you’ll be all right. We’ll freeze the pension and start contributions to a private scheme. You can sell your ISAs.” He handed over the sheet of paper. “There’s one thing I want to ask you. What was it like insulting the Supreme Head of Personnel? Was it … was it cathartic?”

“Immensely,” said Stuart.

“Then it was worth it,” said the adviser. He leaned forward. “You know, I think I’ve met your wife. My own wife is in one of her book groups. She’s called Irene, isn’t she?”