I'm All Right Jack (10 page)

“Y
OU
HAVE
a look at
Collective
Childhood
?” asked Mr Kite in the morning. “I’m always interested in people’s first impressions of it. Funny when they was on that collective farm the way they all chased that cow that went barmy.”

“No, I’m sorry, I couldn’t manage it,” confessed Stanley. “I went to a dance with Cynthia, you see.”

Mr Kite looked disappointed, but he said: “Oh well, I won’t spoil it for you. You’ll find it very descriptive. I hadn’t heard, not about you and Cynthia. She doesn’t say much.”

“No,” agreed Stanley.

“Funny she’s never married,” observed Kitey, as though Cynthia would never see fifty again. “Takes after her mother’s family, you know. They were never ones for serious discussion or thinking about anything bar tomorrow’s dinner. Well, best get on, but your heart’s not really in it, working for private profits.” He sighed. “It’s different in the Soviet Union.”

The Personnel Manager, Mr Hitchcock, shuffled the letters in his tray biliously and looked dubiously at the new Time and Motion man.

“What’s it you feel like doing?” he asked indifferently.

The Time and Motion man, a youngish and keen-seeming fellow, brought out a notebook and said: “I rather wanted to have a go at the handling side of things.”

“Fair enough,” said Mr Hitchcock. “But it’s only fair to warn you you’ll have to be really teed up, they’re a pretty crafty lot.”

“As bad as that?”

“Oh, an absolute shower. Always let you down. Look how they were all lounging about yesterday when those Coloured Conference gents were traipsing around. You know why that was? They were afraid someone would stopwatch them when they weren’t looking. Of course, those were the chaps on piece rates, but the chaps on day-work are just as bad. I got this job,” he went on, wagging a pencil, “on the strength of Man Management, the stuff you do in the army, always see the men are fed first, and so forth—nothing to it, of course, they could always scrounge food—however, here I sit, thinking up all sorts of jolly attractions, darts tournaments and what have you during the dinner hour, dealing with suggestions and being a father confessor to the girls, moving chaps about when they don’t like a job, but one gets no thanks for it. For instance,
look what I got this morning from the suggestions box.” He held up a note and read out: “‘To reduce costs, cut out the frills, e.g. ping-pong tournament and the Arse and Tartan Club.’”

“The what?”

“That’s what they call the Scottish Country Dancing Club. I started it last winter. Chap called MacAngus in the foundry runs it. At a loss, of course. Well, there you are. I’m regarded as a key-figure, you know, the essential link between the management and the unions—chaps like old Kitey, for example. Have you met him yet?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well, no doubt you will. He’ll tell you all about the Soviet Union and lend you books on it as soon as look at you. He belongs to GEEUPWOA, known as the General for short. That’s one of the big unions here. The other big one’s called ANTEGS—that’s the Amalgamated National Technical and Engineering Guilds Society, known as the Amalgamated. Charlie Prince is the usual mouthpiece for that lot. ‘Bonny’ Charlie Prince, they call him. Funnily enough, he’s one of the bitterest opponents of the Scottish Dancing Club. I can’t think why.”

“They get on well together, these unions?”

“Oh, absolutely. Mind you, they all think I’m a shit, but that’s the way you have to work it. All the while they hate my guts they forget about hating each other’s guts, so we get by. Some of them even send me vulgar postcards when they’re on holiday—you can see a few of this year’s crop over there.”

“If only they
realized
‚”
said the young Time and Motion man earnestly, “the way to a higher standard of living depends on higher output, and casting aside all the old prejudices …”

“Oh, they know all about
that.
”
Mr Hitchcock waved a deprecating hand. “The thing is, chaps like you won’t let them settle down to a natural rhythm.
That’s
how they work best. To a natural rhythm.”

“Ah, but …”

“Oh, I know what you’re going to say. Their natural
rhythm’s quite disgustingly slow. You’re absolutely right, but so it is for most of us, my dear fellow.” He leaned back. “You probably don’t know it yet, but there’s chaps here can break out in a muck sweat merely by standing still. It’s absolutely astonishing. And they can hear a stopwatch ticking with compressed air and road drills going full belt.”

“I have a sort of vision,” explained the Time and Motion man, “of management and unions sinking all differences and working harmoniously side by side to double and treble our national production and give us living standards that will, er—astonish us today.”

“Oh, absolutely,” agreed Mr Hitchcock moodily. “As long as everyone turns up. I suppose you’ve heard of absenteeism? We had a bit of a blitz over a lot of chaps absent on the afternoon of the Derby, but they all swore blind they were sick and put it in writing. Listen to this.” He took a pile of papers from a drawer and read out: “
My
absence
from
work
is
that
I
never
had
any
corn
and
feet
plasters
which
ease
the
pressure
on
the
ball
of
the
foot.
You see, going to the Derby is all part of their natural rhythm. If you go and stopwatch them the odds are you’ll just upset everybody, but by all means have a go. People have had a go before, after all.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve seen the figures.”

“Jolly good. Well, you can see from the figures the only time they haven’t put one over on the management was the time your predecessor did a timing with binoculars through an open window last summer, and what we saved on that one we lost when the union rate went up in the spring. But my point is, once that chap had done that bit of timing he used to get booed whenever he came out of his office. Oh, he lost a stone in weight. Became a dead loss to the company. Resigned in the end. Another cigarette?”

“No, thanks. You’re not putting me off, you know.”

“Oh no, no. Far be it from me. Just putting you in the picture. You see, frankly, you’ve got to forget all that stuff they told you on your course and get to know how industry really works. Surely you want to know that?”

“Oh, of course. Still, if we can get costs down …”

“My dear chap, what it amounts to is: we pay union
rates and charge trade association prices. That way
everyone’s
miserable, but it keeps the peace. You take a small firm. You ever worked for a small firm? No, well, I shouldn’t. It’s a sweat, I can tell you, and where’s the next order coming from? Perhaps you can do a small job at a cut rate, but a big order
has
to go to a big firm. Take this couple of million whatnots we’re just starting to do for the
Agyppian
government. Now, if you want to get a big order like that done quickly, you’ve got to kid the chaps along with a fair rate for the job, not keep showing them how to do it twice as quick when it doesn’t come naturally. A big firm like this can take the whole thing in its stride if you give it half a chance.”

“Well, I’d still like to see what they really could do if they’re let off the leash.”

“You carry on, old boy. But don’t let old Kitey catch you.”

“It
is
nice to see you again so soon, Bertie,” said
Great-Aunt
Dolly. “I hope you’ll keep it up.”

“Of course I shall, Mother. May I pour you some more tea?”

“Thank you, Bertie. Oh, by the way, I had a chat to Hawthorn.”

“Hawthorn?”

“Yes, he’s senior partner at the solicitors now. He showed some interest in your scheme, but he definitely advised me against it.”

“He’s very stuffy.”

“Oh, I do so agree, but he
does
know about these things.”

“Mm. He certainly appears to. Oh well, one must think of something else. Ah, here’s Stanley. Well, Stanley, how do you find it as a working man?”

“Oh, a bit dull. Hullo, Aunt. Mind you, I think I’m in the right job, and they all look after your interests, just as you said. I wonder everyone doesn’t do it. It was a lot duller at the Foreign Office and I wouldn’t have got as much money in management.”

“Good. Nice and restful, eh?”

“Well, I’ve got to think of the future and getting married sometime.”

“Oh,” said Great-Aunt Dolly, “was that why you brought that young girl here? I must say she looked very nice. What’s her father?”

“Oh, she is. I told you about her father; he’s Mr Kite at the factory. Her name’s Cynthia.”

“Tell me, Stanley,” asked Uncle Bertram, “I hadn’t thought of your getting married. Can you earn enough?”

“Oh, I dare say, if I really get cracking. I’m used to the fork-lift now. I could speed up a good deal.”

“Well, be careful with the unions,” advised Dolly.

“And I shouldn’t start till you’re pretty sure she’ll have you,” said Bertram.

“Yes, well, I don’t know yet. I expect I’ll be out at these dancing sessions a good deal with her.”

“She sounds very gay,” sighed Dolly.

“Not as gay as her mother.”

Uncle Bertram looked very thoughtful.

Later, Uncle Bertram made a telephone call.

“Hullo, I want to speak to Mr Cox.”

“Cox speaking.”

“Hullo, Cox. Bertie Tracepurcel here.”

“Well, well. Fancy. How’s it going?”

“Tolerably. Long time since we met. I’ve been thinking, it might be rather interesting to have a drink, eh?”

“You’re not still up to your larks in the world of art, are you? That last caper was a bit dodgy.”

“Oh no no. Not art, though the market’s never been better. No, this is just a little idea I’m beginning to have. I’ll tell you what; I’ll see you at the Siamese Cat, say about nine.”

“Knowlesy,” asked Stanley, “I’m beginning to find this work awfully dull, even though one gets a lot of money for it. Is that because we’re working for capitalists or what?”

“——d if I know why,” said Knowlesy. “I never worked
for anyone else bar capitalists. Personally, I get cheesed off at home, never mind here.”

“Really? Is that what comes of being married?”

“Course it is. Are you thinking of getting married, then?”

“Well, I had rather thought about it. Old Kitey’s daughter. She seems an interesting girl, rather.”

“Is she? Doesn’t take after her old man, then, or she’d be telling you all about Russia all night.”

“Oh no. She doesn’t say anything much at all. And she seems very energetic in the evenings.”

“Well, at that rate I’d say you was on to a good thing. Why don’t you ask her?”

“Yes, I think I’ll have a shot at it.”

“You do. You never know your luck. A friend of mine, Bernie Jenkins over the lathe shop, used to go out with a girl in Lewisham and he never used to say much. He never was much of a talker and one night when he’d finally sorted out how to ask her to marry him he couldn’t get the words out properly, so when he’d got as far as ‘Will you? Shall we?’ she says ‘All right, Bernie’ and takes him up to her bed-sitter, with old Bernie all tongue-tied, and the offence took place, as they say in the papers. Course, old Bernie wasn’t going to say no to a free offer, and it went on for months. Lucky he never did ask her, either, she’d only have said no.”

“Oh, why?”

“Well, because of her husband. Stoker, he was, on the New Zealand run. Frozen meat and all that.”

In the evening Stanley called at Kitey’s house.

“Ah, evening,” said Kitey. “I’m glad you called. I got a bit of a problem here in something I’m writing, and you’ve got a college degree in English.”

“Well, I’d be glad to help. Is it a book you’re writing?”

“No, the union bulletin. Just on the branch’s activities, you know. Must keep everyone informed, that’s essential for democracy. Come in the front room. Here’s the bit. I can’t decide. Which do you think is better? ‘Toadying
flunkey of the capitalist class’ or ‘Crawling lackey of the bosses.’”

“Who does it refer to?”

“That’s the Personnel Manager, Mr Hitchcock.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose ‘Crawling Lackey’ is more logical.”

“Thanks very much. I was inclined to think so too. Oh, by the way, I meant to bring in this book for you,
A
Churchman
Looks
Left.
By the Dean. He’s
very
descriptive about the Soviet Union.”

“Oh, splendid. And when can I read the union bulletin?”

“It’ll be out next Thursday. I see you’ve got some flowers. For young Cynthia, I expect.”

“Yes. Is she in?”

“I’ll call her,” said Kitey, and going to the door he called up the stairs: “Cynth! Young Stanley’s here, duck.”

An answering cry floated down.

“Oh, just having a wash,” said Kitey genteelly, at the obvious sound of a lavatory flushing. “Won’t be long. Have a sit down while I get on with this writing job.”

He settled down again, humming at his work.

“Kitey,” said Stanley after a while, “I’ve been wondering. What do we have to have a union
for
?”

“For? Oh, come on, comrade. You know about the struggles of the masses.”

“Yes, but I don’t mean a hundred years ago, I mean
now.
No one gets chucked out of a job. At least,
I
have, but I got another, at more money. Suppose you didn’t have to do all this committee work and writing. What difference would it make to us?”

“Ten bob a week this year,” said Kitey, without looking up, “and four and eleven last year, for a start.”

“Well, I wasn’t here last year, but Knowlesy says they lost four weeks’ money striking, and we’re worse off anyway, because prices have gone up again.”

“That’s right. The bosses passed the price increase on to the consumer. That’s why we got another claim in. Who’d do that except the union, and us Party members on the committee who was freely elected to look after your
interests? Mind you, there’s not the same need in the Soviet Union.”