I'm All Right Jack (17 page)

“Oh, don’t be such a drip,” advised Mrs Kite. “Fat lot of good your blessed Party’s done, getting the
Amalgamated
out as well and all over nothing.”

“It’s a matter of principle,” said Kitey. “Demarcation’s something you got to be vigilant over or the boss-class get it all their own way, and that’s nothing to do with the Party.”

“Don’t tell me, I know,” said Mrs Kite. “It’s different in the Soviet Union. Well, you going to be out or in?”

“Out,” said Kitey bitterly.

My
 
Dear
 
Father
 [Stanley had written],

I
was
going
to
write
to
you
and
make
my
position
clear,
but
I’ve
done
it
in
detail
for
the
Daily Rapid.
See
tomorrow’s
paper.

Both Stanley in London and his father in Surrey scanned the following day’s paper for any sign of the article. For some reason it was not there.

Sorry
try
tomorrow’s
(telegraphed Stanley).

Where
is
article
(telegraphed his father).

The next day was Sunday, which passed uneventfully‚ apart from two rival protest meetings in Trafalgar Square. However, on the Monday there was no missing the article, which appeared in the middle pages under the large heading
A WORKER PROTESTS. STOP THIS FOLLY
by
STANLEY
WINDRUSH
. Near the top of the page there was one of the
pictures taken at the door some days previously, made composite by using Stanley’s head and neck with the chest of a pair of overalls, Stanley’s dressing-gown having been airbrushed out.

“That’s odd,” thought Stanley, reading the first
paragraph
. “This isn’t what I wrote.”

He was astounded at how the article read. Whereas he had written of his becoming a factory worker because of a crying need, and of how he had been well treated and only sent to Coventry because of a misunderstanding, and how he intended to marry his shop steward’s daughter, the article gave a far different impression.

Further on it became even more unfamiliar.

(Here reference was made to a footnote in heavy type, reading:
William
Kite,
Chairman
of
GEEUPWOA’s
local
Strike
Committee.
Member
of
Communist
Party.
Seen
recently
on
TV.
)

Stanley telephoned the Features Editor.

“Ah, Mr Windrush. You got your cheque?”

“Yes, thank you, but this article is hardly any of it my stuff. What’s the idea?”

“All that’s been added is certain objective facts, Mr Windrush, and material from observations made by you to our reporter the other day. All right?”

“No, it isn’t. What about ‘
After
only
a
fortnight
at
the
job
I
was
able
to
work
twice
as
fast
as
the
others
’?”

“Yes, that was information you gave our reporter. You
did
say you paid in your cheque, didn’t you?”

“Yes, yes. I——”

“That’s fine, then. Anything else?”

“Yes. What about
‘Industrial
production
was
down
two
per
cent
last
year.
If
we
go
on
that
way
we
shall
lose
our
position.
This
strike,
which
I
did
not
want,
is
helping
us
down
the
precipice
’
?”

“Those are objective facts. You can check the figures. We had your permission to do any rewriting necessary, remember. And let’s be fair. The stuff
is
human interest now—much more than it was.”

“Oh goodbye,” said Stanley irritably.

The six million
Rapid
readers certainly
would
be interested. And there was no doubt what they would think, either. Looking over the article again, it became clear to Stanley that there was no future for him at Missiles, or indeed anywhere else as a member of GEEUPWOA. Nor would any other union be likely to give him a card, or collect dues from him on a Friday.

“And I didn’t even win any of Kitey’s raffles,” he thought bitterly.

The telephone rang again and it was Knowlesy.

“You shouldn’t have written all that, Squire,” said Knowlesy.

“I didn’t,” said Stanley.

“It won’t suit Kitey to believe that,” said Knowlesy.

Taking it all round, Stanley was glad he had decided against queueing for his strike pay on the Friday.

There was, however, still the question of Cynthia. He had looked in at the television programme she was supposed to have been in, but found it difficult to spot her. When the camera came close enough to the girls for identification he had had one or two glimpses of her, though she was not altogether plainly recognizable in the unfamiliar costume. Her legs, which he had not seen properly before, were apparently up to the general standard, as, he realized, ten million viewers would be able to appreciate. He was rather disposed to resent this, though Cynthia herself showed no signs of minding. She certainly looked more at home with this than with her daily thousands of diesel injectors.

If he could not visit Cynthia at home, Stanley thought, he
must ring up the Variety Department of the BBC to find out where the girls rehearsed, and see Cynthia there.

But he was occupied all the morning in answering the telephone. Large numbers of people, mostly eccentric, were ringing him up to congratulate him on his outspoken article. Several appeared to be adulatory middle-aged women, others were secretaries or members of small hot-headed organizations, one or two were old-age pensioners. He rashly promised, under pressure, to add his name to several petitions and manifestoes they intended sending.

Because of these interruptions he missed the one o’clock news, on which it was reported that the strike was spreading.

The BBC said that the rehearsals for ‘Name Your Poison’, the show in which Cynthia was dancing, were being held at the Palmerston Boys’ Club in Chiswick, an unlikely place, but one often used because of the shortage of rehearsal rooms in Central London. Stanley found it after some difficulty, and no one took much notice of him when he went in.

There were a large number of technical fellows in
shirtsleeves
, bandsmen, and several despairing script-writers slumped in parish-hall chairs along one wall. Somewhat to Stanley’s disappointment, the dancing girls were not in uniform, but trousers, with pullovers or blouses. They had just finished a routine and were all panting speechlessly. Various ropes hung from the ceiling. Cynthia, he noticed at last, was sagging on a vaulting horse.

“I must see you, Cynthia,” he said. “I’ve got enough money to set up house. Isn’t it splendid? Now, what about it?”

“Have you seen Piggy, sweet?” came a voice by Stanley’s ear before Cynthia could make any reply. “I must find him. I’ve got a
superb
thing for that flight of steps bit.” It was one of the male dancers.

“No, I’m sorry,” said Stanley.

Cynthia shook her head, still gasping for breath.

“Two minutes, girls!” called a voice. Groans went up from one or two corners.

“Well, Cynthia? Do speak to me.”

Cynthia wiped the sweat from her brow and puffed.

“I can’t,” she got out. “Won’t have us if we’re married. Might spoil our figures.”

“Oh, surely you could give it up?”

“Don’t want to. Signed. Contract. Anyway.”

“Let’s have you, girls!”

“Please, Cynthia. Why not?”

“Don’t want to give it up.” (Pant) “Don’t want to marry you.”

“Oh.”

“Never did.” (Pant)

“But damn it, you said——”

“Places please, girls!”

“No. Must think of my career.”

“But, Cynthia——”

“No. I like dancing. I don’t like you. Sorry. ’Bye.”

“OK, girls.” The number started.

Stanley watched despondently for a little while, until the movements spread across the gymnasium floor and enveloped him. Then he threaded his way through the edges of it to the door, where he bumped into the male dancer again.

“I say, have
y
ou
seen Piggy?” asked the dancer. “Oh no, I’ve
asked
you. I must find Piggy. Oh
damn-damn-damn.
”

Stanley turned at the door but Cynthia shook her head energetically at him and he went sadly away.

When Stanley got in he found Uncle Bertram and Cox waiting for him.

“Well, Stanley. Let’s come to it straight away,” said Bertram. “Things are looking a bit serious.”

“You don’t know how serious,” said Stanley. “I’m in bad with my union and look here, Cox, you’ve done for me with Cynthia, filling her head with this gallivanting. She’s thrown me over. I’m ruined. I just don’t know what way to turn.”

“Kuh,” said Cox, surprised. “Poor old Stan. Fancy young Cynthia doing that.”

“Oh, it’s all right for you,” complained Stanley, dropping into a chair. “And don’t go telling me some other girl’ll turn up. It was Cynthia I wanted. I wanted to marry her and she was thinking it over. It was all going along all right until this strike. And why did you have to get her this job to annoy her father?”

Uncle Bertram cleared his throat.

“Perhaps we’d better not go into all that now,” he said. “The big thing at the moment is that this strike is spreading. There are five thousand out in Manchester and another two thousand in Leeds, not to mention Scotland and Wales. It’s got to stop before it becomes nation-wide. If you’re not quick about it you’re going to paralyse the country.”

“Me? And quick about what?”

“Oh yes,
you,
my old Stan,” confirmed Cox. “You ask anyone who reads the papers who the strike’s over and they’ll say you.”

“So you see it’s up to you to put matters right,” resumed Uncle Bertram. “You’ve got to nip smartly along to Missiles tomorrow and resign. Ask for your cards. Otherwise half the working population of the country will be out idle. But if you resign, you remove the root cause of it all and the whole thing can be settled.”

“But I don’t want to resign. I was getting good money and it was going to be ten bob a week more on the new schedule.”

“My dear Stanley,” said Bertram, “we’re going to have to drop that new schedule, and, quite frankly, it’s not going to be very comfortable for you going back—not that there’s much prospect of your being allowed back for ages. Once you get two unions scrapping like this it can go on for months. Look at that business of who was to drill the holes in that shipyard. Besides, we don’t want the Ministry of Labour stepping in to investigate it all.”

“It’s not much to ask, is it, Stan boy?” said Cox. “All you got to do is hand in your resignation with a lot of publicity.”

“Well, that’s exactly what Hitchcock asked me to do and I refused.”

“Ah, but he couldn’t make it worth your while, my old Stan, and I could.”

“Perhaps you could, but why should you?”

“Well,” Cox coughed discreetly, “if it becomes
nationwide
, they wouldn’t work at
my
firm, Shipshape Harpoons, and then there’d be hell to pay. I got a contract to do. I’d lose my profit.”

“And I might add that Cox’s firm is doing a contract of great public importance,” said Uncle Bertram. “Heaven knows what might happen if they don’t get straight on with it,” he added, thinking of what Mr Mahommed might say. “So you see where your duty lies.”

“That’s right, my old Stan,” said Cox hopefully. “So you will go and do it, won’t you?”

“I don’t know. The
Daily
Rapid
paid me two hundred and fifty pounds for blighting my future and I don’t think it was worth it.”

“Certainly it wasn’t, Stan boy,” agreed Cox. “If you go and resign, and stop
my
future being blighted, I’ll give you twenty-five hundred. Cash, naturally.”

“I’ve got to live on something,” sighed Stanley. “Thanks very much.”

The other two heaved audible sighs of relief.

“Well done,” exclaimed Uncle Bertram.

“Good boy,” said Cox.

“But I don’t quite see why
you
should be so relieved, Uncle.”

“Well, you see, Stan,” explained Cox, “it’s because of the black men. Mr Mahommed and them. Your uncle promised he’d get another firm to do their rockets for them and he doesn’t want to let them down, do you, Bertie?”

“Certainly not. If they don’t get their rockets pretty smartly it’ll upset the balance of power in the Middle East.”

“Who
is
supplying their rockets now?”

“I am,” said Cox. “So you see, my old Stan, you’ve just got to do it.”

In the morning Stanley had not made up his mind. The collaboration of Cox and his Uncle Bertram seemed somehow fishy, but though he felt uneasy, he could not
quite put his finger on what was illegal about it. But a letter from his father decided him.