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Authors: Alan Hackney

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BOOK: I'm All Right Jack
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W
HEN THE
post arrived Stanley opened the letter from Spindley’s first. It came from their head office and said:

On the results of recent interviews of candidates for our Management Training Scheme it has been decided to appoint Mr R. E. G. Carp and Mr B. T. H. Philpott to posts under the Scheme.

We regret that your name does not appear among those of the successful candidates, but we should like to take this opportunity of thanking you for giving us the chance of meeting you, and we would wish you more success elsewhere.

It seemed quite likely to Stanley that it was two of the odd chemists of the previous day who bore these strange names, and he spent a little time in meditation, wondering how best to meet the challenge of industry, before opening the other letter.

This was from his father, and contained strong advice: 

My
 
dear
 
Stanley,

I
was
at
some
loss
to
see
why
you
should
have
left
the
Foreign
Office
in
favour
of
the
industrial
world,
but
while
such
a
decision
must
be
one
for
you
yourself
to
make,
I
must
beg
you
to
resist
any
offers
of
employment
which
may
be
made
to
you
by
Spindley’s.

Mr
Fairwind,
a
valued
part-time
member
of
our
community
here
at
Sunnyglades,
who
runs
the
local
sewage-disposal
plant,
recently
gave
us
a
graphic
account
of
the
endless
battle
they
have
to 
wage
to
combat
foam
resulting
from
the
widespread
use
of
house
hold
detergents.
The
whole
community
here
has
voted
to
refrain
from
their
use
in
sympathy.

It
would
indeed
be
embarrassing
to
have
a
close
relative
actively
associated
with
the
production
of
this
offensive
commodity.
Please
let
me
know
where
you
stand.

I
might
add
that
no
one
here
feels
strongly
on
the
matter
of
Bumper
Bars,
your
alternative
choice.

Give
 
my
 
best
 
wishes
 
to
 
your
 
aunts.

                                                   
Your
affectionate,

                                                                            
Father

“I do sympathize with your father,” said Great-Aunt Dolly. “But they don’t want you, it seems, and Boltley
did
sound a little unpleasant.”

“If you ask my opinion,” said Great-Aunt Mildred forthrightly, “I think you’d present a better proposition for industry if you were fitter. Quite frankly, what about the judo class this evening at six?”

“I’m so sorry, Aunt,” said Stanley. “I can’t say for certain if I’ll be back from Bumper Bars in time. They’re seeing me at half past two. And I’m pushing Aunt Dolly round the park after tea. We both get exercise that way, and I’ll take some of the dogs along too, if you like.”

Bumper Bars were sited in one of the clumps of modern factories that line London’s western arteries. It is possible to reach the place from Piccadilly Circus in one move if you sit long enough in an Underground train, and this Stanley did. The train finally came out into the sunlight and scurried from one cluster of new suburban houses to the next. The Bumper environment—spoilt countryside—was as hideous in its own way as smoky Boltley had been. One of the factories was shaped like a tube of toothpaste.

Stanley was tiring of the clean box houses and the neat hoardings by the time he reached his factory, a low wide building, with low hedges, over-well kept grass, and the single word “Bumper” in chromium over the frosted glass entrance doors.

Once inside he was faced, surprisingly, by a huge bank
of flowers in a spidery white-wire stand. Beyond, in what looked like a vast but carpeted aircraft hangar, row upon row of folk sat quietly busy at desks. The daylight lighting, which ruined the natural colours of the flowers, glared evenly down on all. Stanley looked in vain for any signs of the Bumper Bars themselves, but there was not a trace of them in sight.

Stanley told the receptionist his business and was led through the hangar to the office of Mr Hooper.

Mr Hooper wore an American tie and an expression of wistfulness.

“Good morning, Mr Windrush. Take a seat. Tell me,” he said, “what’s the weather like outside?”

“Oh, moderately bright,” said Stanley. “I didn’t notice particularly. Is it important for the process?”

Mr Hooper seemed to sigh.

“It certainly is, but then we don’t take any chances. The air-conditioning keeps it always dry and at sixty-seven. No,” he went on, “I always ask because I never know. It’s usually dark when I get here in the mornings and dark when I go, and sometimes my wife says to me, ‘What about that thunderstorm?’ or, ‘We had a light fall of snow.’ You can never tell here, you see.”

There was a slight pause.

“I see Bumper Bars are bigger than ever before,” Stanley said tentatively. “At least, it said so in an advertisement I saw.”

“Yes, that’s quite true,” said Mr Hooper. “Actually, that’s because of the design of the new machinery.
Num-nums
and Chokers are still in batch production, but the Bumper Bars themselves are in continuous-flow production. In fact they’re made from start to finish in the one machine. It’s a hundred and eighty yards long. The ingredients go in at various points and get stamped out and the bars come out wrapped and boxed straight to the vans. But you should see the American factory.” His eyes filmed over. “They have fourteen machines like that.” He sat back, spent.

“Tell me, Mr Windrush,” he asked, “why are you so keen to get into all this? Do you know what you’re in for?”

“Well, I did try some Bumper Bars,” said Stanley, “and that hasn’t put me off. I can offer you a trained and open mind, the willingness to learn and genuine enthusiasm for the job.”

Mr Hooper’s face remained unimpressed.

“Yes, yes. But I want to know
why
you want to tuck yourself away in a factory. Has it ever struck you how odd it is? Isn’t it extraordinary, when you come to think of it, that
any
human being should be doing
any
job at all, day in, day out, unless he can’t think of anything else? Is there
nothing
else that appeals to you?”

“Oh,” said Stanley, “look here, you’re putting me off. Of course I don’t really
want
to be cooped up with Bumper Bars all my life. Do you think I could see this machine a hundred and eighty yards long? I saw all round Spindley’s the other day.”

“It does seem to me,” said Mr Hooper, “that you aren’t really answering my question, ‘Why do you want to come here?’ Let me show you how the management is arranged.” He fished in a drawer and presented Stanley with a sort of family tree. “You’ll note the horizontal structure below the top,” he said. “That means in practice a large degree of autonomy for each of our products; they even compete with each other, in much the same way as the different divisions in General Motors.”

Stanley puzzled for a little while over the diagram while Mr Hooper toyed with the pens on his desk and looked a little distastefully around his office, as if seeing it properly for the first time.

“It certainly does look
very
horizontal,” admitted Stanley. “So much so it leads me to ask what the chances are of getting to the top.”

“That’s a fair question,” said Mr Hooper. “The answer is, it depends partly on the firm and partly on you, but anyway you’ve a fair way to go before you would appear on that diagram at all. It would mean some years, even after your training. And I might add that advancement means even harder work. For instance, there’s no nonsense like the top management rolling up a couple of hours after
the rest. Everyone from the General Manager downwards clocks on before eight in the morning, no matter how senior.”

The prospect thus outlined surprised Stanley a great deal. It seemed to him unlikely on the face of it that industry was going to attract many of the best brains, going about it that way. No wonder they were crying out.

“I suppose that’s American influence,” he said. “Do the men make a lot of money as a result?”

“Fourteen to sixteen pounds a week and subsidized canteen dinners,” said Mr Hooper. “We’re pretty efficient you see.”

“I do see,” said Stanley. “It’s most interesting.”

“I’ll show you part of the process,” said Mr Hooper reluctantly, “before you go.” He put on a white coat that was hanging up in the corner and led Stanley out and along to a door.

“Through here we come out half way along the Bumper machine I was telling you about,” said Mr Hooper. “Here we are. They’re just going to be enrobed.”

In front of them a continuous stream of little yellowish cylinders ran past on a perforated strip conveyor into a curtain of chocolate at the entrance of a low tunnel. On each side stretched the length of the interminable Bumper machine. It hummed and clicked in front of them, hissed steamily to the left where an early part of the process was going on, and gave out a continuous flum-flum noise from the packing end on the right.

“This is a standard enrober. Three-stage,” said Mr Hooper. He picked off one of the naked cylinders with a swooping movement as it ran past, took a bite mechanically and showed it to Stanley.

“Oh yes, I had some the other day,” said Stanley.

“We’re on the summer formula now, of course,” said Mr Hooper, swallowing, and dropping the rest of the bar into the reject basket by the conveyor. “The winter formula comes in in October.”

“What do you put in?” asked Stanley curiously, but Mr Hooper would not say.

“The formula’s only known to Mr Bumper himself in America and two other men,” he said. “One of them will be flying across about the end of September for the
winter-base
mixing.”

“How mysterious,” said Stanley, “I wonder if I can guess.” He imitated Mr Hooper’s swooping movement to pick up one of the passing bars. It resisted his attempt and he was not able to pick it off the conveyor before his hand and cuff had gone into the enrober.

“Bad luck,” said Mr Hooper, “it’s a question of knack. They’re pressed onto little prongs further back there so’s they don’t roll about. I’ll show you where to wash before you go.”

Stanley, left with the undercoated bar in his hand, felt it only polite to bite it before throwing it in the basket. It was a well-remembered taste.

“Quite up to standard,” he said with an effort.

*

In the Eaton Square house Great-Aunt Dolly was
entertaining
a visitor when Stanley returned. It was her son, Bertram Tracepurcel.

“Bertie’s here, Stanley,” said Great-Aunt Dolly. “He’d come round oftener, you know, but for Mildred.”

“Well, Stanley,” said Uncle Bertram. “Some years since we met.”

“Well, what a surprise. I thought you were still in Bolivia. Are you just back?”

“Good gracious no, Stanley,” said Great-Aunt Dolly. “Bertie’s been back years. He’s just been telling me of a wonderful idea to do the Tax Man in the eye. I give him all my money now and he keeps me, and as long as I live another five years I don’t have to pay any death duties.”

“You must think it over,” said Uncle Bertram. “And what are you doing these days, Stanley?”

“Stanley’s trying to get into industry,” said Dolly. “They witch-hunted him from the Foreign Office, so he’s trying to get into industrial management.”

Stanley shook off some of the dogs who were assiduously licking the remaining chocolate from his cuff.

“It’s pretty difficult to get in,” he said. “Today I went to Bumper Bars, but it all seemed very horizontal and a bit difficult to get to the top. And really, it didn’t sound
frightfully
rewarding when one got there. Clocking on at the same time as the workers and wearing oneself out.”

“But you’re absolutely right, Stanley,” said Uncle Bertram. “We’re living in a technological age, and if you want to get to the top you’ll have to be highly technical. Do you feel highly technical? No, I thought not. So you’re likely to stay at the bottom in management and there’s no future at all in that. In my case, I’ve got a bit of money and I’ve got on a few Boards of Directors. But if you haven’t any money, take my tip and become a proper worker. How much were Bumper Bars going to pay you?”

“Well, I said I was unmarried, mobile and ambitious, and they said five hundred.”

“Well, I ask you. Why bother, my dear fellow? If you were unskilled, your union would see you never got as little as that, I can assure you. And any firm would be glad of you. Why not?”

“Well, they told me at Bumper Bars that their chaps get sixteen pounds a week.”

BOOK: I'm All Right Jack
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