I'm All Right Jack (15 page)

There were whistles of surprise, and a cry of “Bleeding liberty.”

“Ninepence an hour down,” repeated Kitey, “and they have the cheek to claim it would mean a rise of ten shillings! And they weren’t prepared to alter a line of it. So what I propose is, a vote of confidence by you in your workmates who the bosses are proposing to victimize by this savage cut in their standard of living.

“I propose an immediate stoppage by the entire
membership
until such time as the employers listen to the voice of reason and justice and withdraw.”

“Seconded,” called a throaty-voiced person beside Kitey on the van.

A third member of the committee on the van now spoke rapidly over the loudspeaker: “The motion is an immediate stoppage of all work by members of the General, employed by Missiles, until further recommendation let’s have a showervandsplease. In favour?”

An obvious majority of hands was raised.

“Against?”

Stanley, anxious to lose no more paid time, began to raise his hand until prudence checked him and he looked round instead. There was a meagre showing against the stoppage.

“Carried by showervands,” announced the third
committee
member.

As they proceeded to the business of electing a strike committee, Stanley felt a strong nudge.

“Come on, Squire,” said Knowlesy. “Might as well go home.”

And so the strike began. None of the members of GEEUPWOA reported back to their shops, but collected their bicycles from the sheds and left.

Bertram Tracepurcel also left, a little later, by car. His face did not show any visible signs of the satisfaction he felt.

C
YNTHIA WAS
in the Amalgamated and was at work in the afternoon. Stanley went home to lunch, to the repeated surprise of his great-aunts, and hung about the place till five o’clock, when he set off for the works in the bubble car to catch Cynthia coming out.

The stoppage by the General was not particularly popular with the Amalgamated, many of whose members were finding their earning capacity reduced by the partial dislocation of work, but no feeling had as yet arisen.
Standing
by the main gate and watching the cars of a number of the executive staff coming out (Missiles was not run on the same lines as Spindley’s and Bumper Bars, and the management grades tended to leave early), Stanley was hailed from the emerging car of Mr Hitchcock.

“Windrush!” called Mr Hitchcock, pulling into the kerb and getting out. “I’ve something to say to you.”

“Sir?” said Stanley.

“You can see what you’ve done, Windrush,” said Mr Hitchcock accusingly. “You’ve let everyone down. What the devil are you doing employed here, anyway?”

“It’s the money,” said Stanley, “and everyone looking after one’s interests instead of one being responsible.”

“But damn it, Windrush, look what you’ve been
responsible
for. The whole blasted place on the verge of chaos, and the Agyppian Embassy threatening to cancel its contract if it’s not started tomorrow. And what’s all this about black men?”

“I don’t know. Mr Kite seems to have got it in his head that they’re going to make our jobs so unattractive only black men would do them. Of course, he didn’t say so at the meeting this morning because of what progressive opinion might say.”

“Yes, well that’s all balls,” said Mr Hitchcock, confident that Bertram would be made to see sense over this point. “But let me give you a tip, Windrush. You’re not going to be very popular round here, one way and another. You’ve been sent to Coventry by the union, and you’ve got me in a bloody awful spot. But there’s something you can do that’d be an enormous help.”

“Oh, what?”

“Resign on grounds of ill-health,” said Mr Hitchcock in a wheedling tone. “Overstrain brought on by exertion. You can count on that getting publicity and if that happens the firm will have to cancel these proposals and do a proper time study in the usual way. They tell the union
beforehand
, the whole thing is supervised, and the chaps go through the motions like a slow bicycle race. How’s that? Otherwise you’ll lose the country a million quid’s worth of exports.”

“I can’t do it,” said Stanley. “I don’t care about the export drive. I’ve got my standard of living to consider.” He caught sight of Cynthia, coming out of the gate with the first batch of Amalgamated workers. “Excuse me: I’ve just got to see someone.”

He dashed away to catch Cynthia.

“But you won’t be able to marry her on strike pay,
blast you!” Mr Hitchcock called desperately after him.

Cynthia was walking to the bus stop with her friend Brenda and Brenda’s friend, Baz. In response to Stanley’s urgent calls she turned round and the three of them waited for him.

“Hullo,” said Stanley. “Cynthia, can I see you alone?”

“This creep’s been hobnobbing with the bosses again,” observed Baz. “Supposed to be on strike and nattering away to Itchy like old pals.”

“Oh, come
on,
Baz,” urged Brenda. “Tara, Cynth.”

“Cynthia,” said Stanley, “I must talk to you.”

“Well?”

“You were out last night when I called.”

“I’ve got to hurry, Stanley. I’m arranging about an audition.”

“With Cox?”

“Yes, Mr Cox arranged it. Why?”

“Well, you’ve got to be careful with old Coxy. You never know what you’ll get mixed up with. I know him. Let me run you home.”

Cynthia got reluctantly into the bubble car.

“I knew Cox ages ago when I was in the Army,” Stanley went on, “and if I were you I wouldn’t get involved.”

“I don’t know why
you
should object,” said Cynthia. “It’s not as if we were engaged.”

“Yes, but we almost are and I’m saving up.”

“You’re a long way behind Mr Cox,” said Cynthia. “That’s
his
car, outside our house.”

Stanley pulled up in front of Cox’s Daimler and opened the lid for them to get out.

“Well! Old Stan!” exclaimed Cox through his car window. “Won’t be long changing, will you, dear?” he asked Cynthia. “Dad wouldn’t let me in the house, me being a capitalist hyena, I think it was.”

“Oh never mind
Dad
‚”
said Cynthia. “Won’t be long.” And she went inside.

“Look here, Cox,” protested Stanley, “I don’t like what you’re up to with Cynthia. What
are
you up to?”

“Don’t worry, Stan boy,” soothed Cox. “You’re interested in her welfare, aren’t you? Well, then. It’s just I think she’s got a bit of a talent for dancing and I promised her Mum I’d do what I could for her, that’s all. You’re as bad as her Dad, fussing. And how are you, Stan? Well in at this factory, are you?”

“No, not exactly. I’m in Coventry and on strike.”

“Oh dear. Course, you’re approaching industry from the wrong end, my old Stan.”

“Oh?”

“Yerse. The mistake
you
make is actually
doing
anything in industry. You want to be sort of, well,
associated
with it, like me. Still, you know your own mind best, of course. And how’s that Uncle of yours? Herbert was it? Used to be a Brigadier.”

“Bertram.”

“That’s it. Bertie. Haven’t seen him for a long, long time.”

“But Mrs Kite said she was with both of you only the other night.”

“Oh yes, so she was. How time flies. Well, look, my old Stan, I can’t explain anything at the moment. You know how it is in business, china, or perhaps you don’t. Now don’t you worry about young Cynthia. She’s going to make a lot of money on television. Just between you and me, I’m only doing this to oblige Mrs Kite, and make her Dad wild. Don’t let on. Ah, here we are. In you get, dear.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Stanley,” suggested Cynthia. “Oh no I won’t: you’re out on strike.”

“Perhaps you’ll be on picket, eh, Stan?” suggested Cox. And with a broad wink he drove Cynthia away.

Stanley saw Mr Kite watching this departure sourly from an upstairs window and called up to him: “Can I speak to you a minute, Mr Kite?”

But Kitey raised his nose, lowered the window
ostentatiously
, and turned away.

Stanley spent the evening disconsolately watching the television with Great-Aunt Dolly.

“I do adore that fat man that does that amusing
programme
on Mondays,” she said. “You know, the one that’s off all the summer.”

“Oh, I know the one. And they sometimes have that other fat chap with glasses. The one they send anywhere there’s any trouble, and they throw stones at him.”

“Oh look, they’re talking about this strike of yours on the news.”

“The
strike
of
twenty
fork-lift
truck
drivers
at
a
London
factory
spread
today,
when
all
the
members
of
GEEUPWOA,
the
General
and
Electrical
United
Projectile
Workers
and
Operatives
’
Alliance,
walked
out
in
protest.
The
strike
is
already
affecting
exports
as
the
Agyppian
government
this
evening
cancelled
the
firm’s
contract
to
supply
them
with
two
million
rockets.
To
find
out
the
views
of
men
and
employers
we
sent
our
reporter,
Henry
Forearm.
”

“Oh, that’s interesting,” said Dolly. “Where’s this? Not the factory, surely?”

“No, that’s GEEUPWOA’s branch office. Good God, there’s Kitey.”

“
Mr
Kite:
As
President
of
the
Strike
Committee,
will
you
tell
the
viewers
why
the
strike
was
called?
”

“
Yes.
The
workers
at
Missiles
voted
democratically
to
resist
attempts
which
were
being
made
to
threaten
the
wage
rates
of
certain
members
in
flagrant
repudiation
of
the
agreement
drawn
up
two
years
previously
and
currently
in
operation.
”

“
You
mean
the
new
proposals
would
mean
smaller
wage-
packets
?”

“That
is
correct, yes.”

“The
employers
say
the
new
arrangements
would
mean
increased
productivity?”

“Yes,
that
is
what
they
say.
But
having
given
the
new
schedules
proposed
close
study
and
attention
the
committee
recommended
that
the
prior
agreement
gave
greater
scope
for
increases
in
productivity
‚
coupled
with
proportionate
remuneration
to
those
employed
in
implementing
them,
and
advised
our
members
to
resist
any
alterations
of
the
nature
proposed.”

“You
mean
you’re
better
off as you
are?”

“That
is
correct, yes.
”

“That interviewer man’s very helpful when you try to follow this, isn’t he?” said Dolly.

“Oh yes. It’s a special jargon. Only Kitey and the committee understand it.”

“Forearm
then
interviewed
a
representative
of
the
employers,
who
had
this
to
say.”

“Oh look, it’s Bertie.”

“Now,
 
Mr
 
Tracepurcel,
 
what
 
comments
 
have
 
you
 
to
 
make?
”

Bertram looked unconcerned, but was trying hard to give an impression of gravity.

“
Well,
the
management
proposed
a
reorganization
of
the
work
done
by
the
drivers,
on
more
modern
lines.
We
showed
the
union
figures
proving
it
would
mean
an
average
increase
of
ten
bob
a
week
per
man,
but
they
said
it
couldn’t
be
done.
”

“
And
can
it
be
done?
”

“
Oh,
certainly.
It
was
done.
One
of
the
drivers
was
timed
doing
work
at
rather
more
than
the
speed
of
working
we
propose.
”

“
Thank you
very
much.
”

“I thought Bertie spoke very well,” said Dolly.

“Oh yes, but you don’t get the whole story like this. No one’s mentioned the black men yet.”

Next morning Stanley went down unhurriedly in his dressing-gown to get the newspapers and the letters. There was no hurry, for there was obviously no chance of work having been already resumed. Stanley was about to open a letter from his father when the bell rang and he popped his head out. A series of blinding flashes prevented him from making out who was there, but his vision cleared and he became aware of a dozen reporters and photographers. Some of the latter continued to photograph him as he peered out at them all.

“Any statement to make, Mr Windrush?” they clamoured.

“Comments on the situation? What do you say about the strike? What about the effect on the general public?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t seen the papers yet,” admitted Stanley. “Here, you might have waited till I’d done my hair.”

“What’s it like in Coventry?”

“Are they talking to you yet?”

“Why aren’t they talking to you, anyway?”

“No comment,” said Stanley, the phrase coming suddenly to mind.