‘You’re a fair way from the cracker compound,’ grated the Enforcer. Blue Hills tried not to puff, he didn’t want to show he was in need of air. They might work him towards the gate if they thought he was cracking up.
‘Following the crude-oil line,’ lamely.
‘Better follow it back again. This is as far as it goes,’ said the Enforcer. ‘I’ll let it go this time, but don’t let me catch you off the job again, night shift or no night shift. The Company has rules and I’m here to enforce them.’
Blue Hills slunk away, although he didn’t feel like slinking; he felt more like calling the Enforcer a pommy bastard. He didn’t. It was better to creep off with your tail between your legs.
‘Go on! Shake a leg!’ called the Enforcer.
Blue Hills hurried some more and bent his head forward in penitence. It was no joke to be forty-five with fifty not far away and them looking to get rid of the oldies. At that age it was much safer to be in chains than to be free.
‘Bloody colonial crap,’ muttered the Enforcer in a low voice. The word colonial was taboo, but you could still think it or say it quietly.
Next thing he was flying like a bird. His former assailants came from the shadows, came at a rush and bore him off his feet, bore him over the last few yards of solid ground, over the steel retaining wall into the river. He didn’t land with a splash, but with a thump on a small black barge which moved off immediately into deep water. Two other avengers with company rag round their heads were pulling on a rope from the end of the wharf and soon the barge was moving fast by the wharf, out into Clearwater Bay. At two in the morning the bay was a lonely place. He would be lucky if he got back by daylight.
Blue Hills looked back, but one of the assailants threw a piece of shale after him and he took the hint.
‘That’ll teach the Enforcer to come snooping around,’ said one.
‘The other barnacles on the bot of progress at least ring up to alert you before they come,’ said the other in a tone of grievance.
‘Not him. He carries the whole company on his shoulders.’
‘There was no barge pole on that thing, was there?’
‘No. The current’s got him now.’
‘Don’t go telling Blue Hills you saw him there. He’s learnt nothing from the Enforcer’s little lesson. He might put us in.
It was true. Blue Hills didn’t understand that some men are not swayed from their duty to the company by any amount of mercy, pity, humanity and helping hands, but will look for an opening to gain from the weakness of any man stupid enough to help them. Gratitude had no place in manuals of official conduct and was represented by no entries in the company’s books.
STILLSONS SAYS ALL RIGHT, MUM Poor Stillsons. They transferred him from the new plant to the old. He couldn’t believe it the first day. He had no wife or girl or men friends; the company was the sum of his expectations.
On the second day, returning to home and mother, he went to his bedroom and made a small model of the cracker in corks of different shapes, linking the columns with sharpened match sticks. When the main vessels were connected, he went to Mum’s sewing basket and took her little blue tin of pins, the one with black paper inside to keep the pins from rusting.
He carefully stabbed pins into the cork columns. The fat regenerator took most of them—it was a champagne cork: he picked it up in the street one day and wondered what it was. He’d never touched a drop, he had to ask Mum what it was for.
‘Your dinner’s on the stove, son,’ his mother called.
‘All right, Mum.’ Why was he nearly in tears?
‘There’s tea in the pot!’
‘All right, Mum.’ He hadn’t cried since he was a boy, since his father had given him a few licks with the old horse-whip.
‘I’ve set the alarm for the morning.’
‘All right, Mum.’ How could they do this? There was no more loyal staff man than Stillsons. He wished them every harm that terrified him on the job. He resolved to work and work and work, to atone for whatever wrong he had done. He had no idea what it was. Could it be for not putting up a sign about the sewage leak? Why didn’t they shift the Sumpsucker? They couldn’t imagine for a moment he was a better man.
A RISING LINE The Beautiful Twinkling Star had a failing: he found it too easy to see both sides of a question. ‘I can see where it must be very difficult for the company.’ This was his way of asking for moderation in Union claims. The industrial agreement was up for renewal. Men were letting their heads go, asking for more leave, less hours, more money to be written into the Union’s draft log of claims. ‘Just where do these concessions and rises end?’
‘Never,’ said the Samurai.
‘But look how bad things were. And how good now. What more do you want? This is our station in life, we can’t get everything we want.’
The Samurai drew a line on the floor with the toe of his boot. A line with a rising slope. ‘Here’s us now, on top of the slope. What about a hundred years time? Do the next hundred years carry on at this level? No. We go up, still.’ He continued the line. ‘We’re a long way short now of where we’ll be then. This isn’t the end of the world. Where’s your opposition to improvement?’
‘Improvement, from a company point of view, would be a decreased wages bill. I can see where it must be very difficult for the company.’
‘They’d have us work for naught if they could.’
A QUIET WEEKEND The Samurai went off night shift that Friday morning fairly tired, but pleased the plant was going. All that could happen, if the plant continued steady, was that the company would start to reduce the manning scale of the plant. They would do this just before the agreement, then with a great show of compromise restore the manning scale but strike out half a dozen items on the Union’s log of claims to balance their generosity. Then when the agreement was signed they’d reduce the manning anyway. Still, it hadn’t happened yet.
He decided to have a weekend in the country. At half past seven he rang several old friends, all young women, before they had gone off for work—all his friends were someone’s employees—and persuaded them to meet him that evening at seven, with the promise of an idyll in the country. That gave him time for ten hours’ sleep. Mrs Blue Hills would still be there when he got back. He felt he had to get away from Sydney and the smoke for a bit and get some dirty water off his chest.
He took three of them and got back to Sydney at ten o’clock Sunday night. He was completely shagged out and much quieter in his mind. Ready for the treadmill.
CONDITIONED One Eye worked a doubler that day, off night shift, and felt very seedy. His beard grew, his clothes commenced to stink, he was uncomfortable. At nine in the morning he had a visitor—didn’t know who it was. The sun blinded him after the pleasant dark of night shift, his cups of tea tasted bitter on the tongue.
‘Fine morning!’ called the Wandering Jew from out of the sun. He was a little startled, himself, to be confronted by this wreck of a man.
‘Go and get yourself well and truly upped!’ rasped One Eye, the whole weight of his fifty-one years, a long night shift and an extra eight hours on his back.
In a moment of rare understanding the Wandering Jew said, ‘Sorry, I can’t hear you,’ and turned and walked back to the blue Mercedes. What was the point of disciplining this poor devil? He would probably see who it was when he looked out of his hut window, then he’d be sorry enough. He went back to his office in the Termitary in time for morning tea and felt good. The cracker was going, the refinery was healthy.
One Eye looked from his window, it was just as well to see who you yelled at, just as the Wandering Jew slid behind the wheel of the glittering Mercedes.
‘Jesus wept,’ he said aloud and wondered if he would see his sixtieth birthday out on the refinery. Then he remembered his plan for the sack and was glad. Night shift must be getting me, he thought. For a moment there I was crap-scared of a boss.
YOU TALK LIKE BIG BROTHER The Good Shepherd was ask
ed by the Whispering Baritone about the men’s feeling on current issues in dispute between management and men. As he looked at this good man across his desk, he was filled with loathing. Here was a man who could be left posted on bad jobs with no complaints, a man who wouldn’t stick up for himself. These engineers and scientific bodies thought they could get ahead in this jungle by virtue of their master of specialties; he, the Whispering Baritone, was there to tell them they were fooling themselves. How had the Python got where he was? Not by Boy Scout actions that belonged to a world of childhood and dreams.
What could you do with a man like this, especially if you were one of the new, smooth class like the Whispering Baritone, neither an owner nor a prole, but constantly on the lookout for your own interests; not tied to fixed principles or doctrines, only to what will benefit yourself most, a man who had never suffered and was on the alert to see he never did?
The Good Shepherd had been trained from childhood not to be greedy for himself, trained so effectively that a certain selflessness had become part of his nature. His main mental hazard was his inability to see why others wanted to be selfish when he didn’t.
The Whispering Baritone’s funny feeling about nostrils bothered him again. Looking sideways at the Good Shepherd he could see certain hairs protruding from the man’s nose, hairs that should have been trimmed. It was true that nostrils seemed to be for breathing, but why did they have to be large and so dark inside? And hairy. The Baritone couldn’t bear to look at them. He worked away at the flaking tips of his fingers. The flesh under the flakes was new and clean, like a baby’s.
‘There are a few reclassifications we’ve decided on,’ he said casually, knowing a casual tone would pierce the Good Shepherd, who liked to think the greatest care and soul-searching had gone on before a man’s livelihood was taken from him. Reclassification was a euphemism for dismissal. This was usual. When the men made demands the company tried to scare them first. If they persisted, this meant they might mean business. They couldn’t possibly sack men out of hand. The time wasn’t right. The rest of the unions had to be crushed first and this hadn’t been achieved. The Good Shepherd was part of the hierarchy himself, he didn’t want it otherwise, but sometimes he wished either he had no part in it or that he had the entire authority, so that decisions would rest on him and if they had to burden some soul, it would be his. To think that it burdened no one—that was dreadful. He could never get it into his head that the threatened dismissals tactic was a try-on.
‘Don’t be so down in the mouth. You might ask me who they were,’ mocked the Whispering Baritone, using the past tense in speaking of bodies that he hardly recognized as human when they were employed at Puroil, but having gone or being under threat of going, ceased to exist.
‘Don’t forget that though the public looketh on the outward appearance, the employer looketh on the heart.’ He told the Good Shepherd some of the names.
‘Why One Eye?’
‘The Old Man didn’t want him sacked, but I thought it best; the person spoke in an insolent manner to him. It will be your job to tell him.’ The Baritone enjoyed this.
‘He’s the best man in the pump-house! You won’t replace him out of those available.’
‘Rubbish! There are replacements.’
‘You speak as if anyone could walk in there and do that job.’
‘An unskilled job? Of course.’
‘And I tell you it would take you as long to learn that job as it took One Eye. There’s equipment down there that needs to be personally known before it’s operable.’
The Whispering Baritone laughed. ‘That’s up to engineering. Don’t bother me with that.’
‘There’ll be trouble over this.’
‘Not unless you make it.’
‘Who are the others?’
The Baritone tossed the paper across the desk. ‘Read it.’ He went on, while the Good Shepherd gasped at the names on the paper, ‘There is in all civilizations a colour bar of mind. The people you take so much thought for are beyond education, they lack basic intelligence. Throughout the Greek and Roman civilizations it was universally assumed that a large slave population was required to perform services unworthy to engage the activities of a civilized man. In other words, a civilized community could not be self-sustaining. A comparatively barbarous substratum had to be interwoven in the social structure to sustain the civilized apex. Nothing has changed. The substratum is still required; a slave population is needed for supplying the mechanized manpower for the continual building and repetitive work. The submerged population is still submerged, modern conditions of industrial employment are not significantly different from those of ancient slavery. Why? Because the history we know is the history of kings and wars and movements of nations. Those slaves had a good life and enjoyed their diversions and were protected by the state. Bread and circuses the same as now. Show me the difference. The only efficient way to govern them is to actually reduce them to the status of a lower species. The ultimate aim is to make them animals—then ruling them is easy.’
‘Surely you’re one of them yourself!’
‘I was. But like some—some—slaves of those days, I have risen, and some day I will be a manager and walk calmly forward on the plateau of full citizenship—equal with the best!’
‘And what happens to the ones we can’t get at—the pensioners, the sick, the mentally retarded?’ the Good Shepherd asked bitterly.
‘Vermin. They have no place.’
‘You talk like Big Brother.’
‘Big Brother? Tell this to your slave friends: the man who does the work put before him need never worry about Big Brother.’
What a reasonable sentiment! How absurd it makes the fears of a few of us for the totalitarian future! The Good Shepherd passed over it easily; it reminded him of duty, honesty, obedience, loyalty. Solid Christian virtues.
Dear Reader, please read the sentence again. It is apparent we can’t rely on the Whispering Baritone or the Good Shepherd to comment further. The Baritone is shuffling papers as a sign he has finished talking; the Shepherd is taking his time, not going to be hurried. After all, he has to do the dirty work.
Did you read it? Isn’t it nicely put? The work put before him. Could be tending furnaces, early morning rifle practice, designing a new gas nozzle, making lampshades. Anything. And Big Brother will never bother you. But how is it that good Christian virtues are such a help to him?
GOTCHA To his great surprise, the Corpse was caught walking off the job early, going through the blue gates without ringing off, buying gasoline for his car and bulk detergent to cut and sell to his friends, then in again to ring off. This gave him a start getting out of the car park. It also broke company rules.
In the course of a casual conversation, the Enforcer alerted the Black Snake, who told Luxaflex, who mentioned it to the Brown Snake. The Corpse had been doing this for months before the Enforcer found out, and could have carried on till retirement before the pay office caught him, although he walked out past this office every day. There was a routine to detect late comers, but not early goers.
The two Snakes waited and caught him. He drew six months on day work. Vicious words flew round in the Corpse’s head, but he kept them in.
THE GLASS CANOE It’s all over. I thought of trying to stop the rot, but after a certain point you have to let them have their heads. Vote carried. Unanimous. Twenty-four-hour stoppage, only they haven’t decided when. Mind you, there’s no intimidation there, but you could back the wrong horse if you went against the mob.
The man that’s in command of himself all the time and knows what’s going on inside him has it all over these types; they don’t know what they think, they’ve had no training looking inside themselves. Like I had after the invigorating experience in hospital. Face it! That’s the secret, it’s the only way. Once I was in darkness about myself and bad things happened; now I’m in the clear and I know what I’m doing. You never think when you’re a kid the peculiar things tha
t are going to happen to you later on. That picture of me standing between the big guns on the deck of the old cruiser Weemala, I even had that on the dressing table at home when I castrated myself.
I remember thinking what a fine sailor I made in the old bellbottoms, and the tunic fitted tight over the chest. I was a big man then, none of this fat. Not many men would be game to face up to the truth about themselves and get to the root of the matter straight off. That’s the one thing the doctors criticized me for, and I still don’t agree with them. I was right to do it; I have no doubts about it any more. Even Rita understood. She didn’t say a word, a man was lucky to have a woman like that to stand beside him while he tried to get to the top in this jungle. There’s still time to make something of myself. Not that I have those stupid ambitions any more: a man’s aims must have a lot in common with the things he is capable of. Straight edge secateurs.
I’ve never told any of these people about it, not because I’m running away from the memory of it, but you have to keep something to yourself. Doctor Rosenblum agrees with me there.
Secateurs. Done a bit of pruning, Doc. Give us a few stitches and something to stop the bleeding, please. Too many people forget their manners with doctors; they don’t have to do a good job on you, it doesn’t hurt to speak to them as nicely as you would to a bank manager.
I thought the secateurs would act like the thing they castrate the sheep with, not breaking the skin but cutting the cord inside the scrotum. How is a lay person to know secateurs would cut off the whole scrotum? Stones and all. There was still a bit hanging. I would have to go and prove how much nerve I’ve got by finishing the job in front of the doc.
If I told these sort of people that work here, at least I’d get a laugh when I tell them I can’t ever be hurt by a knee in the groin. I might do that, just for the laugh, they know I like a bit of a joke sometimes.
The Unknown Industrial Prisoner Page 26