I'm All Right Jack (8 page)

“That’s the fun?” asked Stanley.

“That’s right, cock,” said the man with the bike. “The poor buggers’ve clocked eight-sixteen and they get docked ten minutes.”

Stanley was surprised that the promised fun had not been received with any wild hilarity—indeed, the diversion seemed to meet only with a sort of gloomy satisfaction. Surely, he thought as the smoking groups round the
entrance gate drifted away to their work,
this
can’t be the origin of clock-watching?

He made his way to the Stores block.

“Mr Morris?”

“Yes, lad?”

“I was to report to you. My name’s Windrush.”

“Oh yes. I got a note. On driving.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I got you down for a fork-lift. I’ll get Vince Knowles to show you the controls and that.” He came out of his little indoor shed and called: “Knowlesy!”

“Thank you,” said Stanley. “I’ve always wanted to drive one of those. They’re such a help in productivity, they say.”

“I don’t know who told you that,” said Mr Morris. “But I want to give you a word of warning. The bloke you’re replacing got the ace-and-jack for toting round betting slips all round the different shops instead of doing any helping productivity. He never got more than his basic while he was on the job, but then he never reckoned he had to. So you’d better watch your step.”

A man of about forty appeared round the door.

“’Ow goes it, Knowlesy?” asked Mr Morris. “New bloke here. Give him the lowdown, boy. Ta.”

Mr Knowles led Stanley away down the building to where a number of electric fork-lift trucks were lined up. Several were moving off to speed the export drive, but the drivers of most of them were clustered round the doors of the building enjoying an unofficial smoke, a practice of such long standing that the management had never been capable of abolishing it. The trucks remaining were all plugged in to battery-charging sockets on the wall, and smoking was forbidden while charging. Hence the group in the doorway.

“It’s dead simple,” explained Mr Knowles. “You got your forward and reverse here, and that’s the lever for lift. You get the forks in the old palette and lift. You might be on the stacks here, or any of the departments, all according how you’re scheduled. The only thing, you got to plug in
the old charger every evening when you knock off. The mechanic won’t do it, that’s not his job.”

“What is his job?”

“——d if I know,” admitted Mr Knowles frankly. “They never seem to go wrong. And we’re on a shared bonus, so don’t go working your guts out. Get your schedule from old Morris and I’ll see you back here.”

Stanley got his schedule and came back.

“Ah, you’re on Number Four Block with me. When the stuff comes off the line and gets crated you stack the crates up the far end for the lorries. I’ll show you. You use that one. Take the plug out and hang it up and follow me.”

“What’s in the crates?” asked Stanley.

“——d if I know,” said Mr Knowles. “They make all sorts of things here. You don’t want to worry about that.”

“W
ELL,
I’
M
pleased you’ve got another job,” said Wallace. “Surely it must be better than the FO?”

“Oh, a great deal better,” said Stanley. “I wonder you stay there. There’s no writing reports or having to show a lot of enthusiasm. It’s all very informal.
And
better paid, you know.”

“You haven’t been witch-hunted yet?”

“Oh good gracious no. Old Kitey wouldn’t let them.”

“Who’s old Kitey?”

“A Mr Kite. He’s our shop steward. Very pleasant. As he’s a Commie himself, you see, he’d raise all hell.”

“Pity we haven’t someone like him at the FO. But goodbye to all that, anyway.”

They were drinking in the Buttery of the Hyde Park Hotel. Wallace, on leave before his re-posting to Bangkok, was waiting for a débutante whom he had encountered serving in Woolland’s, and had fascinated with tales of the mysterious East.

“It’s a funny thing,” said Stanley. “Do you know, there are people coming round all the time with raffle tickets and those little cards with the names of football teams on.”

“What for?”

“They say charity, but Mr Knowles tells me they just call it that and everybody knows it’s to raise money for the shop stewards to fight capitalist oppression.”

“Well, I hope you subscribe.”

“I certainly do. And as it’s supposed to be for charity, Mr Crawley, the foreman—they call him Creepy Crawley—has to turn a blind eye.”

“Why don’t they do that sort of thing at the FO?” wondered Wallace. “Then we all might get a bit more money.”

Stanley had got on well during his first day.

“It’s all sitting down all day when you come to think of it,” Mr Knowles had said. “What you call a sedimentary occupation.”

Stanley had quite taken to the unbustling routine. It was very cheering to think that everyone was vigilant to see that no one overstrained himself.

In the afternoon Stanley and Mr Knowles had been shifting crates from the stacks in the stores block to lorries, and when Stanley had lifted a load he had inadvertently revealed a group of old workers playing poker and sleeping.

“Put ’em down again, Professor,” advised Mr Knowles. “Start further along.”

“Why are they playing cards?” asked Stanley.

“They been superseded when we got mechanical handling a couple of years ago,” said Mr Knowles. “Old Kitey done a good job there in negotiation.”

“You mean he got them kept on, I suppose?”

“That’s right. Wouldn’t ’ave them laid off. Very humane ’e was. ‘You can’t sack a man just because he’s redundant,’ he told the boss. So they compromised.”

“How?”

“Well, they took them on as extra checkers. Every one of us with a fork-lift does what three of them used to do, so there’s a couple spare for each truck. It pays the company to keep ’em on the rest of the time as checkers rather than ’ave a stoppage. Only you don’t want to rely on them to do any checking for you.”

“Would there have been a stoppage?”

“Too true. Old Kitey would’ve called a meeting.”

“How?”

“Oh, he goes round blowing his bird-warbler. Then we all stop and convene.”

“I see.”

Stanley saw how right Uncle Bertram’s advice had been. With this sort of thing going on there was no doubt which was the profitable side to be on.

“Old Kitey isn’t allowed to ring a bell or blow a whistle, because it’s laid down in the regulations he can’t,”
explained
Mr Knowles. “And he can’t play a musical instrument either when he’s in the works, or he’d be for it, but a bird-warbler doesn’t count, being a recreational device.”

“Well, I’ve got through the first day nicely,” said Stanley. “I parked the truck and plu—— Oh dear, no I didn’t. I forgot to plug it in to charge the batteries.”

“Oh never mind that now,” said Wallace. “Jane’ll be here any minute. Have another.”

“Jane is this deb, I take it?”

“That’s it. Now will she or won’t she turn up?”

Wallace thought after a time that he had better telephone. He borrowed pennies from Stanley and clumped away with his crutch. His telephoning did no good and he returned to lecture Stanley on the faithlessness of women. From time to time other telephone numbers occurred to him and he hobbled away to ask other girls out for the evening. Stanley began to get hungry.

“Wallace,” he said. “I’ve done a day’s work. I want to eat.”

“Nonsense,” said Wallace. “Remember I’m your superior
officer. We must get this business organized. Haven’t you any ideas about any girls?”

“Nothing occurs to me at the moment.”

“Well, damn it, aren’t there any girls at this factory of yours?”

“Oh, I think so, but it’s only my first day, you know.”

“Well, how do you propose to pass the evening then, without any girls?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I was thinking I might read a book.”

“
Read
a
book?
Steady on. You’re getting ideas above your station.”

In the end they went to one or two of Wallace’s clubs. Wallace’s choice of clubs did not meet with the approval of the Office. They were selected entirely on the basis of the availability of dancing and hostesses. They ended at the Siamese Cat, a place where Wallace could chatter away to the girls of his yearning to go back to Bangkok. Stanley was a little uneasy at the thought of how much the evening seemed likely to cost, but Wallace was cheerful enough for both of them.

“Come on, Stanley,” he urged. “These Siamese girls are better than debs. They don’t have to ask Daddy.”

Even more interesting than the Siamese girls was a sudden glimpse of Uncle Bertram talking with some men at a corner table. One of them was Mr Mahommed.

“My Uncle Bertram’s over there, Wallace,” said Stanley. “I can’t think what he’s up to, but he’s chatting with Mr Mahommed.”

“Showing him the town, I imagine,” said Wallace. “What does he do? Cooks Tours, or something?”

“I don’t really know. He used to be a Brigadier during the war, but I’ve no idea what he does now.”

“Probably got a knitting machine to supplement his pension.”

“Oh, I don’t think they gave
him
a pension. He
disappeared
abroad, but he’s probably doing very well. He usually manages to.”

“He looks as if he’s up to Something. Any idea what it is?”

“In the words of Old Knowlesy,” said Stanley, “——d if I know.”

They were late home, and Stanley clocked on well after time the next morning. The factory had been opened for nearly half an hour and had already achieved the dead appearance that meant that work had started. Clouds of tobacco smoke hung above the lavatories, where numbers of men on day-work were traditionally filling in the firm’s time.

As Stanley slunk with an attempt at invisibility into the Stores Block, he was hailed by Knowlesy.

“Morning, Squire,” said Knowlesy. “Old Morris wants to see you in his office.”

“For being late?” asked Stanley, getting into his white overalls. “I hope they won’t sack me if I keep on doing this.”

“Eh? Course not. Old Kitey wouldn’t let ’em. You should’ve ’eard ’im taking up old Perce Carter’s case. Old Perce was threatened with the tin-tack for persistent lateness once, eh, Perce?”

One of the drivers smoking by the door looked round.

“Talkin’ about me?”

“That’s right. When old Kitey took your case up.”

“Oh, yer,” nodded the driver, and resumed his
conversation
.

“Old Kitey went for the foreman, you know,” explained Knowlesy. “Oh, yes. Told ’im straight. ‘You can’t sack a man just because ’e’s incompetent,’ he said. ‘It’s
victimization
.’ Mind you, that’s because Perce is popular. Suppose ’e’d been a bit of a creep, well Old Kitey might’ve let Nature take its course.”

“Any idea what Mr Morris wants me for?” asked Stanley.

“——d if I know.”

Stanley went cautiously into Mr Morris’s cabin.

“You want me?”

“Oh yes; come in.”

Mr Morris seemed unconcerned.

“You’re the last one to come into the shop——” began Mr Morris.

“Oh, I can explain that,” put in Stanley. “You see …”

“I don’t know why you want to explain it,” said Mr Morris. “You just
are.
So you get last pick on the holiday roster for next summer.”

“Oh,” said Stanley relieved, “you mean I’m the last to be
employed.
”

“That’s what comes of having a college degree in English; you catch on. Well, when d’you want your fortnight? Four can go at a time. You can’t have August and you can’t have July or the last half of June. Otherwise you’re free to choose.”

“Well, I’d rather like February,” said Stanley, “if that’s all right?”

“
February?
What do you want February for?”

“Well, I’d like to go ski-ing next year, you see, now I’m making enough to afford it, and February’s about the best time for most places.”

“Don’t muck about. How about first half of June?”

“Oh no, that’d be quite hopeless,” said Stanley. “I wouldn’t know where to find any snow then.”

Mr Morris put down his pencil and the half-completed holiday roster.

“Are you taking the mickey?” he asked accusingly.

“Oh no, certainly not. The snow’s all gone by April, and you get avalanches after February. So is February all right?”

Mr Morris breathed hard.

“Don’t mind me,” he said, “I’ll put you down February.
February.
”

Stanley went back to Knowlesy, who was unplugging his truck.

“All right, Squire?”

“Yes. He just wanted to know when I wanted my holiday next year.”

“I hope you didn’t say August.”

“No, I told him February.”

“And he didn’t give you a thick ear? Very touchy sometimes, you know, if you try and take the mickey.”

“No. I explained I wanted to ski.”

“Well, you picked a dead stupid time.”

“Why? It’s the best time.”

“No, no. I mean a stupid time for a holiday. February’s about the cushiest time here. Either there’s a lot of power cuts and you get your basic for just ’anging about, or else we usually have a nice stoppage on account of it’s too cold to work some days. You miss the best part of the year if you go off then.”

“Well, perhaps I could make it March, but you’ve got to be careful of avalanches.”

“Never mind avalanches,” said Knowlesy. “You don’t want to go in March either. March is the time for a new wage-claim, and we usually work in a nice little stoppage while it’s being thrashed out. You’ll get a few days off, any’ow. No, you don’t want to go in March.”

“Well, it’s done now. Who’s this big man with a moustache coming this way?”

“Eh? Blimey, get a shift on. That’s old Creepy Crawley.”

Mr Knowles mounted his fork-lift truck and hummed busily away.

Stanley, with a nervous smile for Mr Crawley, made to follow suit, but the vehicle seemed to lack all power. He remembered once more that he had not plugged in to charge the batteries.

The truck bore down at snail’s pace on the foreman, who waved Stanley to a halt.

“May I make a suggestion?” said Mr Crawley. “Put that back where you got it and plug it in. Get another one. Only for Christ’s sake stop rushing about like that or you’ll drive me stark raving bonkers.”

Stanley reversed his vehicle interminably towards its plug. Mr Crawley watched the whole business with considerable impatience.

“You don’t want to look so worried,” he said. “I’m not stopwatching you, only have some consideration for my state of health. Gorblimey, I dunno.”

Mr Morris appeared from his cabin and stood eating a sandwich beside the foreman. He showed him a paper.

“February?” said Mr Crawley. “How can he have his leave in February? I doubt he’ll’ve got that truck back there by then.”

When Stanley finally arrived to help Knowlesy he asked: “Why couldn’t the mechanic have plugged my truck in if he saw the plug was out?”

“I told you,” said Knowlesy. “It’s not his job. It’s a question of demarcation. He daren’t touch it.”

“But I thought we workers were all solid together?”

“’Aven’t you ’ad no education? He’s in a different union, the Amalgamated, so we can go and take a running jump as far as he’s concerned, and so can he take a running jump as far as we’re concerned in the General. Otherwise someone might be out of a job and it might be me.”

“I see.”

“Any case, ’ow’d they go on for wage claims? If the Amalgamated gets a rise, the General press for a rise too, so’s to maintain parity. Otherwise we wouldn’t none of us get a rise.”

“You sound like an active union member.”

“Active? No, I leave that to people like Kitey who can talk the lingo. I never know what they’re on about half the time. Nor do most of the blokes. Suppose we want another fivepence an hour and the management say they can’t pay. You’d reckon that was simple enough, wouldn’t you? But no. You listen to the General Secretary when ’e’s on the telly next time, makin’ a statement. You can’t make ’ead or tail. They go on about referring the prior
recommendations
for discussion on joint procedure and all that there. No, Stan mate. You pay your dues on Friday and buy your raffle tickets and leave all that caper to Kitey and them. They understand it.”

“Oh, I thought it was just me who didn’t understand it.”

“Oh no, mate. There’s only Brother Kite understands it in this shop.”