I'm All Right Jack (14 page)

He led the drivers dramatically out, leaving Mr
Hitchcock
facing Stanley.

“Black men?” said Mr Hitchcock. “What on earth’s this? Windrush, what the hell have you done? I warn you, Windrush, you can’t play silly-buggers with industry.”

With a menacing look he hurried back to his office.

“W
HY HAVE
you come home to lunch, Stanley?” asked Great-Aunt Dolly. “Surely you won’t get back in time?”

“We aren’t working this afternoon, Aunt,” said Stanley. “Mr Kite called a stoppage.”

“You’re on strike? Oh,
Stanley.
How could you?”

“I knew it,” said Great-Aunt Mildred. “I knew it would come to this, getting mixed up with trade unions. Don’t you realize you’re letting the country down, not to mention your Uncle Bertram? Always wanting more money. Suppose you had to live on a fixed income like us?”

“But, Aunt, it’s not a strike, it’s just today, to protest against being stopwatched, and anyway I wish my income
were
fixed, if they fixed it as high as yours.”

“Who was stopwatched?” asked Dolly.

“Me. I didn’t know about it at the time, but it caused a dickens of a row, and we walked out. I didn’t want to, because I’m saving up, as you know, but I had to. Is there anything to eat?”

“Mildred got some chops. But Stanley, if you drivers don’t cart things about, won’t it bring the whole factory to a standstill?”

“Oh no, they’ll just pile up this afternoon.”

News of the stoppage by the fork-lift drivers quickly reached the Mayfair headquarters of Missiles. Bertram’s reaction was to drive down to the factory at once to fan the flames, but he called in at Eaton Square on his way.

“Hullo, Stanley. Letting us down, I see. What’s it all about?”

“Well, a man came and talked to me and it appears he stopwatched me while I was sprinting about a bit with my truck. Then the union man Mr Kite turned up and kicked up a fuss with the management. He’s going to see
the Branch Committee, and we’re all out till tomorrow while the management makes up its mind what they’re going to do.”

“Bad luck, Stanley. I’d better drop in there and sort it all out. But I dare say you’ll be for it with the Branch.”

“Do you really think so? Oh.”

“Never mind, my dear chap. I’ll see what I can do.”

“With the union?”

“Oh dear no. Can’t interfere there.”

“Now, Mr Waters, tell me how it started,” said Bertram.

“Well, sir,” said Mr Waters. “I went across at about half past ten and engaged this chap in conversation while he was stacking….”

“Yes, yes. You timed several movements a number of times, I understand. Quite right. You’d decided to pick on mechanical handling, I gather, as a key item in efficiency?”

“Oh yes, rather, sir. I regard greatly increased
productivity
as the key to our salvation. I’ve got the report sheet here….”

“But damn it,” interrupted Mr Hitchcock, “I know those drivers are appalling, a complete shower it’s true, but it was fantastic not to consult the union first. We’ve had no trouble for a full two years now because I’ve
personally
supervised any nonsense of this sort, but now look at it.”

“My dear Hitchcock,” said Bertram smoothly, “we must face up to economic facts. What was good enough yesterday won’t do today. The reason we’ve had no trouble so far has been that the firm has always given in and paid up every time there’s been a wage-claim, and raised its prices to cover it.”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Mr Hitchcock. “But this isn’t a wage-claim. If that report goes through it’ll mean cutting the rates, so that they have to work at more than their natural rhythm to get the same money.”

“You mean they’ll have to cut out their restrictive practices and use the equipment properly? Why not?”

“Well, quite frankly, you won’t get them to do it.”

“All right, my dear Hitchcock, let ’em go. If we regrade the job downwards, and
they
won’t touch it, let’s get someone that will.”

“And who might that be?”

“My dear Hitchcock, there’s a tremendous
unemployment
problem among coloured immigrants to this country; our black brothers after all, if I may say so. Oh, you may protest, but it would be an excellent way to get our prices down and keep our customers.”

“But my God, you’ll never get GEEUPWOA and ANTEGS to agree to that! At least, it would strengthen Charlie Prince’s position, but old Kitey wouldn’t wear it.”

“My dear Hitchcock,” pointed out Bertram, “
we
haven’t
tried yet.
”

In the evening Stanley called for Cynthia.

“Oh, there’s no one in but me, ducks,” announced Mrs Kite. “Dad’s gone to a meeting of the Branch Committee and Cynthia went out with the gentleman who called for her. She told me to tell you. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“I don’t think so, thanks. Who did Cynthia go out with?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t know him. A gentleman called Mr Cox. I met him the other night and I mentioned Cynthia and how keen she was on dancing and he said he thought he might be able to get her an audition for the Television Toppers.”

“A Mr Who?”

“Mr Cox. I didn’t know he had anything to do with television, but it seems he knows a lot of people. Friend of Mr Tracepurcel’s, he is. Got a nice car.”

“I see. And what does Dad think of all this?”

“Oh, he doesn’t know. It was after he left. But what’s all this I hear about you in trouble with the union?”

“Well, I’m not sure I am.”

“Well, you will be after tonight. Dad’s gone to this special meeting of the Branch to get a ruling on you.”

Stanley, deprived of Cynthia’s company, fell back on that of Wallace Hardy-Freeman at the Hyde Park Hotel.

“Great news, Stanley,” said Wallace, “I’m off to Bangkok again next week, all being well. Have a drink with me.”

“Good for you, Wallace,” said Stanley. “How did you manage that? I thought they swore never to have you back.”

“Actually they’ve become very short-staffed. A couple of the chaps have been invalided home with DTs, and another one’s been declared
non
grata
for shooting some policemen. Not badly, of course. So the cry goes up for young Wallace. And how are you in that sweat-shop of yours?”

“Well,
I
seem to be rather
non
grata
just at present. Old Kitey’s getting a ruling on me at this very moment.”

“Too bad. Why don’t you try and get your old job back at the Foreign Office? They’ll be short now I’m going. Of course, it’d be very much a second best after the money you’ve been getting. You could try appealing against them throwing you out for being a Commie.”

“No, I don’t think they’d fancy me now, somehow.”

In the morning, Stanley was met outside the Stores Block by Kitey.

“Communication addressed to you from the Branch Committee,” said Kitey, handing Stanley an envelope. “We heard your case last night.”

“Heard my case? But I wasn’t there.”

“No need for that. We were in possession of all the facts of the matter. I can tell you, they seriously discussed
suspension
, but in view of other aspects they finally decided on a week’s disassociation.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Sent to Coventry. It’s all in the letter.”

“You mean no one’ll talk to me for a week?”

“That’s right. In view of your careless jeopardizing of the terms of the negotiated agreement.”

“Well, why are you talking to me now?”

“Merely to inform you of the nature of the Branch Committee’s decision democratically arrived at. And I might add that this is a temporary judgement pending whatever emerges in negotiations with the management
over the terms of the new settlement they propose for rating operations involving members of the General
engaged
in driving these trucks. Their proposals are to be the subject of a consultation between the management and unions later this morning.”

Having delivered himself of this, Kitey walked off. Stanley could readily understand why Knowlesy and the other lads could so rarely make head or tail of union business, wrapped up as it always seemed to be in prose of this sort. He went inside, but there was no response to his good morning, although everyone watched him come in. One or two indirect remarks made it clear that the union’s directive was going to be obeyed.

“A certain party will just have to keep his eyes open in the future,” announced Perce Carter. “Otherwise people might get the impression he’s a bit of a creep.”

Stanley went despondently about his tasks, deprived of his usual little chats with Knowlesy and the others. Mr Morris had considerately altered his schedule for the morning, allocating him to picking up loads for the scrap compound.

After an hour of this Stanley, advancing slowly with a great container of metal shavings down the main road through the factory, was tooted from behind, and Uncle Bertram got out of a car.

“Morning, Stanley!” he hailed cheerfully. “Back this morning again, I see.”

Several passing employees shot Stanley curious looks at his being addressed by one of the directors.

“I’m in Coventry,” said Stanley. “But I suppose you can talk to me as you’re not in the union.”

“Bad luck,” said Bertram. “But never mind. You’ll soon be the hero of the hour. If they accept the new schedules you’ll all be getting another ten bob for a standard week. I’m just off to attend a meeting with the union now.”

“Well, that seems a bit better,” admitted Stanley, brightening. “When do you suppose you’ll have it settled?”

“Well before lunch, I hope. Must go. Goodbye to you.”

This little episode cheered Stanley considerably and when he saw Kitey walking across to him he waved a greeting.

“Just a minute,” said Kitey stiffly. “I’m not
communicating
with you except in an official capacity, but I should like to know why a member of the Board of Directors should address you so affable.”

“Oh, it’s quite all right,” Stanley assured him. “He was just saying the new schedules should bring us more money. So it appears it’s all right after all.”

“And why should he communicate with
you
about it?”

“Oh, I happen to know him, that’s all.”

“Oh,
you
know him, do you? I suppose it was Mrs Kite introduced you, was it?” Kitey was becoming annoyed. “Is everyone I know getting to be pals with the bosses or what? What’s the idea, deliberately crawling to a sworn enemy of the economic interests of your mates?”

“But I can’t help knowing him, Kitey; he’s my uncle.”

“He’s what?”

“My uncle. I mean, why not? It doesn’t make any difference.”

“Difference? Oh, doesn’t it? I can see it makes a good deal of difference. Oh yes, I can see it all now, false pretences and all. I can see it makes you an agent pervockatoor.”

“But why should I tell you if I was trying to provoke you? I’d keep quiet about it.”

“Subjectively you may think you’re not, but objectively that’s how you’re placed, act in good faith though you might,” said Kitey, always ready to explain the dialectic. “I’ll sort this out later, when we’ve had this meeting.”

At twelve o’clock the representatives of GEEUPWOA walked out of the meeting. They had heard, they decided unanimously, quite enough. By twelve-thirty Kitey, a duplicated copy of the proposed schedules in his hand, was addressing an emergency mass meeting of members of the General, on a bomb site in front of the main gates of Missiles.

The meeting, hurriedly assembled by the General
stewards from their various shops, had not yet had its dinner.

“Come on then, Kitey,” called a voice from the crowd, “let’s ’ave it.”

Kitey, on the roof of the van belonging to the General’s Clyde Street branch, tapped the microphone. A loud ‘Pock, pock, pock’ came from the loudspeaker.

“This meeting has been convened, brothers,” boomed an electronically magnified Kitey, “to discover your views on proposals by the management to reduce their costs by cutting down the rates paid to fork-lift drivers, members of this union.

“This morning the union’s special committee met the employer’s representatives, where they were shown these proposals.” He waved the sheaf of papers. “Your committee protested at the proposed reduced rates, but I have to report to you, brothers, the employers refused point blank to make any alteration.”

There were several cries of “Shame” and “Lousy bastards.”

“On the grounds,” went on Kitey, “on the grounds that on
their
reckoning, a normal week’s work as scheduled would mean an extra ten shillings for each man.”

“What’s up, then?” asked a voice. “Don’t you want it?”

“Shurrup,” called a number of other members.

“You ask what’s up,” continued Kitey.

(“Yes,” said the voice.)

“Well, I’ll tell you.”

(“Good,” said the voice.)

“Sharrup, will you?” called several others.

“What’s up is this,” said Kitey, “the figures and times in their schedules” (“Let’s ’ave a copy,” said the voice) “a copy of which you should all receive by tomorrow, these times and rates they quote are based on unrealistic times outside normal human capacity which were taken from stopwatch records made yesterday without the knowledge and consent of the union or man concerned and which it would be
impossible,
I repeat,
impossible,
for an average man in average health to keep up with for any length of time.”

Stanley, on the edge of the crowd, thought this last contention very shaky, but he held his peace.

“Furthermore,” continued Kitey, “these proposals
introduce
loads on these vehicles far in excess of what had been agreed two years ago between union and employers to be safe limits. This just shows you, brothers, what the feeling of the management is to safety factors of long-standing experience.

“I’ll give you one example,” he went on, “of a time your committee considers completely unreasonable.” He flipped several of the sheets of paper over and appeared
momentarily
to have lost his place.

“Never mind the details, Kitey,” called the interrupter. “What does it all mount up to?”

“What it mounts up to,” said Kitey, still fumbling for a moment, but then abandoning it, “what it boils down to is, your committee calculates that average earnings on the proposed schedules would go
down
” (cries of “Eh?”) “yes,
down
,
from anything up to ninepence an hour, excluding bonus.”