“Isn’t it on?” The, Chairman looked enquiringly at the modest man, who looked worried and glanced behind him as if trying to pass the blame on to someone else.
His audience did not leave him unaware for long. “Turn it on, George!” yelled the side wall.
“Shut up!” said someone from the centre seats, “and give our Brother Chairman a chance.”
“Try another station,” shouted a hoarse man in a white scarf and bicycle clips, “you might get Sandy Macpherson!” Everyone laughed and the voice behind the scenes shouted something back. The Chairman waited patiently for the backchat between George and the side wall to subside, and when George said : “Try it again now, Mr. Wheelwright,” he tried again and was unperturbed by the bellow and squeak which he produced. The twinkling man and the fat man at opposite ends of the table were both enjoying themselves hugely, one to himself and the other in collaboration with has friends, who received many waves and salutes and raised handclaps. These two were and there was nothing I s.quite prepared to sit here all night and enjoy the fun, but some of the audience were beginning to think of their trains and buses and teas, and were telling each other it wasn’t good enough. Feet began to stamp and the heckling was not confined to the side wall.
Mr. Wheelwright, still bland, spoke to the modest man, who came round the table and removed the microphone to the side of the platform.
“All right, brothers and sisters,” he called in a voice which needed no amplifying anyway, “we’ll get on with it without the—bloody thing as you call it.” This happy flash of wit restored humour at once and the audience settled down to listen while he read the minutes. His spectacles dropped forward as he read and he paused every now and then to look up over them at his audience when he wanted to make a point.
Mr. Wheelwright had come to an intricate and rather dull question about income tax and was explaining how the Committee and the Management had settled it. The Committee had done this, the Committee had done that. Most of the women yawned and fidgeted. Wendy looked at her watch and hoped the meeting would not last too long. It would be awkward going out before the end with all these people between her and the door, but she must not be home more than three-quarters of an hour late at the most. She moistned her lips, cocked her head on one side and fixed a bright, dutiful gaze on the platform, trying to be interested.
Whenever the Chairman looked like winding up the subject of income tax, the pale man with the goitrous neck, who had raised the question at the last meeting, quickly resuscitated it with a further quibble. He and Mr. Wheelwright stood and talked at each other boringly across the rows of heads. There seemed no reason why either of them should ever stop. The modest man, who was the Union Secretary, was paying close attention, like a pupil in the front row under the teacher’s eye, the twinkling man was thinking his own thoughts, the fat man, who was the Union Treasurer and should have been attending, was half asleep, and the pugnacious young man was getting impatient at having to keep quiet for so long.
However, when Mr. Wheelwright and the income tax fiend stopped talking at last and sat down rather sour with each other, he was on his feet in a moment, combing back his hair with knobbly fingers.
“Brothers and sisters all!” He had a good platform voice. “Just a few minutes of your time, if you please! I’ve got something to say to you. You may not like it, but you’re going to get it.” He threw back his head and breathed round at them through distended nostrils.
Freda leaned forward. This was what she had come for. This young man was the mouthpiece of all her convictions ; it stirred her to hear him talk. If she had not sublimated her sex long ago in movements and enthusiasms, she might have been in love with him. Perhaps she was. She had once had a very alarming dream about going swimming with him : most disquieting in view of what Havelock-Ellis said about water in dreams.
“I’m speaking to you today,” her god was saying, “as a member of the Production Committee of Canning Kyle’s. Now you all know what this Production Committee is, don’t you? It’s a Committee formed as a common meeting ground between the workers and the Management to give every one of you——” he paused to rake them with his eyes——” every one of you the chance to speed up Production. If you have any ideas about how you could do your job quicker, or more efficiently, how metal could be saved or a bottleneck cleared up —anything like that—all you have tohe Ledward Strain. b do is tell the representative of your shop, and that idea of yours will get as much consideration from the Management—we’ve got ’em where we want ’em this time ; I’m telling you that—as if it came from the Managing Director himself.” People fidgeted. They knew all this. They had been sated with speeches and notices and pamphlets at the time when the Production Committee was being formed.
“But you know all that,” said the young man impatiently, as if he had read their thoughts. “‘Don’t come at us with all this pep talk,’ you say. ‘We know.’ That’s just the point. I might have forgiven you if you didn’t know, but you do know. You’ve grumbled enough, God knows, about the way this factory’s run, and now you’ve got the chance to have a say in the running of it, and you know you’ve got that chance——” His voice was rising—“You know you’ve got that chance, I say, and what have you done about it?” His voice was so accusing that even those who didn’t know what he was talking about tried to look innocent. “What have you done about it?” He shot out a pointing finger on the end of a long arm. “You, and you, and you?” He swung his arm round his audience, who cleared their throats and looked righteously at their neighbours. “Yes, and you, sir!” The arm spotlighted a heavy man in creaking shoes, who was sneaking out to catch his train. “You who are so keen to get back to your bloody tea!” Laughter, dying away uneasily as the young man swung back on them with that great knuckled forefinger. “I’ll tell you what you’ve done!” he roared, and even the creaking man. who had been pretending not to hear, was held in the doorway by that dramatic pause.
“I’ll tell you what you’ve done, you fine patriots—oh, you great-hearted British workers. You’ve done absolutely, God—damn—all —bloody nothing.” He dropped the words on to them with nods of his untidy head. “Three months this Committee’s been going and so far we’ve not had a single suggestion or hint of co-operation from any one of you. We’ve had complaints of course—you’ll always get those —that’s the only way we know you’re still alive.”
A spotty youth, with lips that looked as if they were turned inside out, jumped up and said : “All right, then, but what’s the Production Committee done? We elected you to—what d’you call it?—to whatsitsname Production and 1-1-look what’s happened.” He was not a very fluent speaker. “The output last week was lower than it’s been for months. We know that by our pay packets.”
“Thanks, Brother Collister,” said the man on the platform smiling triumphantly. “You’ve asked my question for me. What’s the Production Committee done? You’re the Production Committee! We’re only your mouth-pieces. If there’s been a drop in Production, it’s your fault.”
“Here, ’alf a mo,” said Brother Collister. “I don’t see what it’s got to do with me. I’m only in the Maintainance Department. I’ve got nothing to do with Production—fixing the plumbing and doing the lights and such. It’s higher you got to look. We’re doing our jobs and we’re being let down, that’s what I say. I’ve said that all along. We’re doing our jobs, I’ve said … can’t do more … fixing the plumbing … fifty-seven fuse boxes … “He became incoherent. His saliva glands seemed to work in conjunction the bad smell in the Redundant Stores startlyh with his vocal chords, so that the more he talked, the wetter and more unintelligible he became.
“What’s your worry then?” asked the young man on the platform. “If you’re satisfied you can’t do more at your own job, what’s the trouble?”
“I’ll tell you what the trouble is,” said Brother Collister, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and swallowing. “We know Production’s gone down
because of our pay packets. Ever since this what-d’you-call-it—P-Production Committee started, we’ve been taking less money, that’s what.”
“Ah, I thought so!” The speaker put his hands in his overalls pockets and added triumphantly. “That’s the only thing that brings some of you up here, isn’t it? Your pay packets!” He pronounced the words as if he wouldn’t be found dead with such a thing on him. “You haven’t got the guts or the courage of your own convictions to try and get this factory going all out, but as soon as your miserable little wages are affected, up you come running with : ‘It’s all the fault of the Committee.’” He squealed it in his nose. “I tell you we’ve. done our best. We’ve had meeting after meeting with the Management, but every time they’ve had the laugh on us because they know we haven’t any backing from the workers.”
“Well, how about electing a new Committee and see what they could do?” suggested a diffident voice which had not even the confidence to get to its feet.
“I’d like to see them do any better without co-operation,” said the young man on the platform, his hair all over the place. “I don’t care who you elect. I don’t care if you put Jesus Christ on the Committee, he couldn’t do anything without co-operation.” He passed his hand over his face and gave a tug at his collar. The spotty youth, who had been crouching, half sitting and half on his feet ready to protest at he knew not quite what, wiped his mouth and prepared to speak again. He knew something was wrong somewhere but he couldn’t put his finger on it, nor find the words to say what he wanted to say. That was the trouble, arguing against these fellows ; they got you down every time by the gift of the gab.
“And look here, all of you,” the other was saying. “I’ll resign with pleasure if you like. The sooner the better. I’m just about sick of toadying round the Management and sweating my guts out for a lousy lot of bastards like you.” He sat down amid general and comfortable laughter. His audience enjoyed being abused. It always got a laugh, and as for him resigning, well, everyone knew old Jack Spiller would never resign. That was only his joke. Good old Jack ; he certainly put some life into the meetings. Pretty good speech on the whole. He’s quite right about production. Someone should see about it, but what can I do? I’m a craftsman, that’s me ; I like to work with my hands. In any case, everyone knows this is the worst run aircraft factory in England.
Men and women were saying this in every factory in the country. It is the creed of the factory worker—or rather, his motto. A truism in which nobody believes can hardly be called a creed.
The Chairman had thanked Brother Spiller for his oratory and said that although he himself was not a member of the Production Committee, he was sure, etc., etc., everyone would do his utmost, etc., etc., these things took time, but where the cause was just and the heart was right, no matter how great the difficulties, like David over Goliath we should pre without looking at him p alongvail. He had lifted this last sentence from a speech he had recently made at a Lodge dinner and it evoked a certain amount of applause. A few people stamped their feet soberly and the modest man clapped his hands softly as if he had gloves on and made a judicial little purse of his mouth.
Freda had relaxed now and was making mental notes to tell the girls when she got home. She shared a flat with two friends, one of whom was a Council School teacher and the other an industrial chemist. They were all confirmed meeting-goers, and went to the kind of lectures advertised in the New Statesman and Nation as other people go to the cinema—for pleasure.
Reenie, who had been listening slow-eyed and wondering turned to Paddy. “Good, isn’t it?” she said.
“What is?” said Paddy.
“Well, I don’t know—Production and that. It’s just what my hubby always says, ‘We could win the war if we had more planes than the Jerries,’ he says.”
“Well, fancy that,” said Paddy. “Cigarette?” She lit one for Reenie, who smoked it hanging on her lower lip as her mouth would never stay shut, and offered one to Wendy on her other side.
“Oh, no, thank you,” whispered Wendy. “I don’t smoke. D’you know what the time is?
“Must be getting on for a quarter to.”
“Oh dear.” Wendy fidgeted with her bag and gloves and looked along the barrier of knees between her and the gangway. “I shall have to go in a minute.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Paddy. “Let’s just hear this next bit though ; it’s sometimes quite amusing.”
The meeting had now reached the time for miscellaneous questions. “I now invite any Brother or Sister who has a question to ask, to submit same to the Chair,” said Mr. Wheelwright, and sitting down with a bounce, spread his knees, leaned his elbows on the table and smiled encouragingly.
At least six people had popped up like celluloid dolls in different parts of the Canteen. One was an elderly female labourer from the Inspection Shop. She wore a pot hat and a long dirty coat of enormous checks over her black overall and she was waving a cracked and bulging patent leather handbag to attract attention. Mr. Wheelwright nodded at her.
“I think our Sister there was the first up,” he said. “Yes?”
“Well, it’s like this, Mr. Chairman,” she said, suddenly defiant at finding so many people listening to her. “What I want to know is when are they going to start a Day Nursery a bit nearer the factory, that’s what I’d like to know.” A lot of people appeared to want to know too and agreed audibly with this request.
The Chairman raised his hand. “Quiet please, and give our Sister a chance to finish. You’re not satisfied then, with the existing arrangements?”
“That I’m bloody well not.” The pot hat shook and the face below it grew red. “Look here, Mr. Chairman, how would you like to get up before five and get breakfast for your man and three kids and then go two miles out of your way to take two of them to the Day Nursery and then as like as not with the buses what they are be late in here into the bargain?”
“Yes, yes,” the Chairman nodded understanding, like a priest in the confessional. the bad smell in the Redundant Stores startlyh
“Not to mention,” continued the agitated pot hat, “having to do them same two miles out of your way on top of a day’s work, to fetch the kids and they so tired by that time they can’t hardly keep awake, let alone walk.” Some of the women made the cooing sounds that they made at the cinema when a dog came on to the screen.
“Excuse me, Mr. Chairman.” The fat man behind the table leant forward. “What’s your suggestion then, Sister?”
“Well, what I say is, and there’s a lot of others say it with me, I know——” She paused for murmurs of corroboration which came even before what she said was made plain. “What I say is, there ought to be a Nursery right here in the factory, and so I hope to see before we’re all in our graves, what with one thing and another.” The pot hat disappeared suddenly as she sat down and tried to recover from the shock of finding that she had actually said what she had been boiling up to say for weeks.
All this time, the modest man had been taking notes like mad, hunched in his chair with his scribbling block on his knee. Each winter he promised himself to learn shorthand by correspondence in the long evenings, but each spring came round without his having done a thing about it.
“Thank you, Sister,” said the Chairman, addressing the spot where the pot hat had disappeared.
“Regardin’ the question of the smell of drains in the Redundant Stores——” A little bald man with a big nose and sad eyes, darted from his seat into the gangway.
“Half a minute, Brother.” The Chairman flapped him down with his hand. “We haven’t yet finished with the question in vogue. I think we’re all aware of the difficulties our Sister has spoken of. I can assure all you ladies”—he distributed a debonair smile over his audience——” we all appreciate how hard it is for some of you to manage in these days. As a matter of a fact, we’ve been looking into this question of Day Nurseries for some time, and I think now, that the time has come——” A hefty girl
from the Machine Shop with untidy flaxen hair and a North Country voice jumped up.
“The time ’as come, Mr. Chairman, for less talk and more do! We don’t want any more promises. We want to know what you’re going to do about it!” she shouted, edged on by her mates, who tugged at her coat and said : “Give it ‘im, Win,” and “That’s right, tell ‘im straight.”
“Sit down, Sister Bellamy, you’re out of order,” said the Chairman unruffled. “I was just going to say,” he went on, “that the time has come to negotiate for a definite decision.”
“I’ll say the time has come,” said Sister Bellamy, standing her ground challengingly.
“That being the case, Brothers and Sisters, I suggest that a resolution be moved. If our Sister—where is she?” He searched for the pot hat, who was pushed to her feet, tongue-tied now that she had had her say. “Do you formally propose this motion, Sister, er——”
“Billings,” said someone for her. He repeated his question and she nodded and sank out of sight again.
“I second that,” said the North Country girl and a man in a plum man. “Thank you. What’s the name?”
“Brother Vernon,” he saidhe Ledward Strain. b, and lifting the skirts of the plum-coloured coat sat down again, satisfied with his bid for notoriety.
“Regardin’ the bad smell in the Redundant Stores——” It was the little bald man again, but five others were on their feet, thrusting up their arms like schoolchildren. One of them was waving something on the end of his arm, a brown paper bag, which caught the Chairman’s eye. He nodded at the sour-looking man who was waving it. “Go ahead, Brother.”
“It isn’t ’ealthy, Mr. Chairman, it isn’t right,” said the bald man, who was short-sighted and thought he meant him.
“Excuse me, Brother, I’m on my feet,” said the sour man, but the other, who was also slightly deaf was still piping away about typhoid. The Chairman played them both with his hands like a cricket captain arranging his field and also subdued an importunate woman who was trying to hark back to Day Nurseries.
The Fancy Page 6