“That’s one way out of your difficulties,” said Oliver and went out, followed by Dumbo.
3
To get to the Quinn & Nicholson works you turned left in Elsfield Wood High Street, went for thirty yards down a side street, crossed a small waterway, turned left again into an unmade road, proceeded along that for fifty or sixty yards, recrossed the waterway again by a concrete slab bridge, and found yourself at the main entrance.
“Is this the only way in?” said Oliver.
“Access has always been a snag,” said Mr Williams. He had met them at the bridge, and seemed to be himself again. “We’ve got a right of way through the Strickland Engineering Works – that’s the big building there – and out on to the High Street, but we can’t load lorries that way. They have to come down here.”
“Pretty difficult in winter.”
“They do get bogged, sometimes. If it’s really wet we carry the cartons on hand trolleys to the corner and load there.”
“Quite an operation,” said Oliver, and led the way in.
The works was a roomy, one-storey construction, with a double row of skylights, partitioned down the middle.
“The offices are at the far end,” said Mr Williams. “We go through the packing to get to them. It isn’t a very convenient arrangement–”
He found he had lost his audience. Oliver had stopped to talk to the little girl operating the carton-stapling machine.
“I seem to have seen you before,” he said.
The girl grinned. “We had a dance together,” she said.
She had a nose like a little boot, and hair like a kitchen mop, but in spite of these drawbacks, or possibly because of them, looked just about as sexy as it is possible for a girl to look when she is wearing a utility smock and flannel trousers.
Oliver perched himself on the corner of the packing bench, and the other girls within earshot abandoned all pretence of work.
“The only dance I’ve been to, in the last five years,” he said, “was the Christmas Eve Sergeants’ Mess dance at Thetford in 1942.”
“That’s right. I was fifteen, and it was my first dance. I thought you danced beautifully.”
“I don’t expect your standards were so high then,” said Oliver. “Let me guess. You must be Sergeant Challen’s daughter.”
“Ten out of ten,” said the girl.
“What’s he doing now?”
“Dad? He’s doing a lorry run up to Covent Garden.”
“Does he like that?”
“It’s good money. But it means getting up at two o’clock in the morning.”
“Mmm,” said Oliver.
“Through here,” said Mr Williams. “We’ve got the distillation plant, and the refrigerators.”
“Be with you in a moment,” said Oliver. He turned back to the girl. “Let’s have your father’s address, will you? Telephone number too, if he’s got one. Jot it down here.”
“Most of the raw material we use has to be kept under refrigeration,” said Mr Williams.
When they had finished with the refrigeration plant and the sterilizers and the various mixing and pounding and cooking and steaming machines – “like a witches’ kitchen,” said Oliver – they repaired to the office. This was a jumble of filing cabinets, cupboards, box files, crates and cartons surrounding, and threatening at any moment to engulf an old wooden, roll-topped desk, all squashed together in a partitioned corner of the packing-room floor. A padlocked door led off it into a further and apparently even smaller apartment.
“That’s where we keep the restricted drugs,” said Mr Williams. “Morphine, cocaine.”
“Who’s got the keys?”
“There’s only one key,” said Mr Williams, “and I’ve got it.”
Oliver held out his hand. There was a moment’s hesitation before Mr Williams said, “Actually, it’s a bit difficult. I have to sign an undertaking to the local Inspector not to let the key out of my possession.”
“What’s his number?”
“Number?”
“The local Inspector. Where does he hang out? What’s his telephone number?”
“Why?”
“If you feel any scruples about handing over the key, I’ll ring him up and fix it quickly enough.”
“I shouldn’t think that’d be really necessary. I was just explaining the regulations. If you’re prepared to take the responsibility – ’’
“It won’t keep me awake at night,” said Oliver with a smile and held out his hand. Mr Williams passed across the key. “Now let’s have a look at some of these records. Can you find a chair for Mr Nicholson?”
The little office was like an oven. The afternoon sun shone directly through the skylight. A single electric fan barely disturbed the heat-laden air.
Oliver and Dumbo took off their jackets, and rolled up their sleeves. “Make yourself comfortable, Mr Williams,” said Oliver. “We’ve got a lot to do.”
“Fine,” said Mr Williams. “Where would you like to start?”
“You’d better start by explaining the filing system.”
By half past six, the last of the workers had departed. Dumbo had gone off on some errand of his own. Oliver was still asking questions.
“Do we have a nightwatchman?”
“We haven’t got one of our own,” said Mr Williams. The perspiration was running down his white forehead in great drops. He dabbed at them from time to time with a handkerchief. But he still hadn’t taken off his coat.
“Then what do we do about security?”
“Strickland’s man looks in on us from time to time. We pay a small part of his wages.”
“Which means he keeps a careful eye on their stuff, but doesn’t bother about ours. Who locks up at night?”
“Whoever’s last away. Usually me.”
“Has there been much pilfering?”
“There isn’t a lot here that anyone would want to steal, really.”
Oliver looked down the silent bays of the packing shop and works; at the row of machines, each tucked up for the night in its canvas jacket; at the piles of cartons, and containers, the boxes of labels, the rows of bottles and tins, stacked ready for the morning.
“I suppose not,” he said. “I shall be here some time yet. There’s no need for you to hang on if you don’t want to.”
“What about locking up?”
“I expect I can manage. Are those the keys on that hook?”
“That’s right. There’s a Yale on the outer door, and the big key’s the padlock on the gate over the bridge. Strickland’s man comes through the communicating door. He’s got his own key.”
“Fine,” said Oliver. “I’ll finish looking through these duplicate invoices before I go.”
Oliver was still there when Dumbo came back at half past seven. His heels were on the desk, and his chair was tilted back at an extreme angle. There was a faraway look in his eyes.
“Directors don’t get paid for overtime,” said Dumbo. “Come and have a drink. There’s a decent little local round the corner. Not like that ghastly Road House we had lunch in.”
“It’s fascinating,” said Oliver. He made no attempt to move. “So nearly dead, but not quite. Heart hardly fluttering, yet still alive. Like an old, old elephant, lying on its back in a jungle thicket. The vultures drop in and have a look at it. Is it all over? No! The tip of the trunk gives a tiny twitch. There’s life in the old pachyderm yet. Tomorrow, perhaps–”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about this firm.” Dumbo sat down, looking rather white. He said, “Is it as bad as that?”
“You remember, on the train coming down, telling me how you got into a spot, in 1939, by giving too much of your business to one outlet?” Oliver turned the pages of the ledger in front of him. “Do you realize how much of our turnover last year was War Office work? I haven’t worked it out accurately, but over ninety per cent. And the war’s over, Dumbo. It’s been over for a year. As soon as Stalin stops maki
ng faces, we’ll go back to a peacetime army. And a peacetime army isn’t going to have its medical supplies manufactured in a dump like this.”
“It is a bit disorganized at the moment.”
“You’ve got a gift for understatement. It isn’t disorganized, it’s a bloody shambles. No proper security arrangements. No quality control. Old man Williams talks about keeping his drugs in refrigerators. Have you looked inside them? One isn’t working, and another one looks as if someone’s been keeping his lunch in it. And as for the transport arrangements. Did you ever see anything so daft? The stuff has to be carried by hand out of that door. Then taken in job lots in a small handcart over the bridge.”
“It has to be a small cart. It’s a small bridge.”
“Naturally,” said Oliver. “And if the bridge wasn’t there at all, they could swim over with it in their mouths. After it gets across it has to be loaded on to a van, in an apology for a service road, which is so narrow that the van can’t even turn round, and so badly surfaced that the first shower of rain turns it into a quagmire and the vans can’t get down it at all. What they do then, I haven’t found out. Put it on pack-mules, I expect.”
“Loading has always been a problem,” said Dumbo. “We’ve managed to get through, in the past, and I expect we shall do it again.”
“You got through in the past because manpower wasn’t a problem. You could get a loader for thirty bob a week. Not now.”
“What do you suggest?”
“What we need is two big trolleys – preferably power-operated. Machines which will carry up to half a vanload at a time.”
“And how do you suggest we get them across the river.”
“We don’t. We take them out the front way, and load in the High Street.”
“That means going through Stricklands. They’d never let us.”
“We go through Stricklands already. Most of the staff walked out that way tonight. I saw them. We must have some sort of right.”
“Now you mention it,” said Dumbo, “I seem to remember that there is some sort of right of way. But I doubt if it entitles us to load stuff through it.”
“It might be a good idea to find out,” said Oliver. “It’s a minor part of the problem anyway.” He swung his chair, and pivoted forward on to his feet. “Let’s go and look at that pub of yours.”
He sounded remarkably cheerful for someone who was in danger of losing a gratuity earned by six years of military service.
Over their second drink Dumbo said to Oliver, “What do you make of Williams?”
“It’s too soon to be quite sure,” said Oliver.
“Quite sure about what?”
“About what’s wrong with him,” said Oliver. “Drink up. There’s time for another one. Then we’re going to sample the nightlife of Elsfield Wood. One long round of uninhibited debauchery, I shouldn’t wonder.” He pointed to the handprinted notice on the wall beside the bar, which said “Elsfield Wood Social Club. Partnership Bridge Evening in aid of the Club Restoration Fund. Entrance Fee 2s. Handsome prizes. Best Ladies’ Pair. Best Gentlemen’s Pair. Best Mixed Pair and Lowest Score. Refreshments.”
Dumbo shuddered. “I can imagine it,” he said.
“Why leave it to your imagination? Come and watch the mixed pairs of Elsfield Wood locked in internecine struggle for a handsome prize.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“A game of bridge would be the perfect ending to the day.”
“Not me,” said Dumbo. “I’m going home.”
A faded notice on the front of the Elsfield Wood Social Club said “Wardens’ Post”, and an arrow pointing down the passage-way beside the building promised a WVS canteen, a First-aid Post and a Gas-mask Distribution Centre; but these were mere fragments of old battledress. The Club was reverting to its peacetime function. As soon as sufficient Partnership Bridge Evenings, Whist Drives, Bring and Buy Sales and Informal Dances had been held, the decorators would come in and paint out these last scars of war.
A strongly constructed woman, with grey hair cut en brosse, accepted Oliver’s two shillings and said, “Are you alone?”
“I’m afraid so, yes.”
“Bit of luck. Serena!”
“Hullo?”
“I’ve got a pair for you.”
“Are you sure–?” said Oliver.
“You needn’t worry. She’s a good player.”
Serena was, Oliver judged, under thirty, but not by more than a year or two. She had brown eyes, a pleasant, serious brown face, but thick wiry hair of that shade of jet which looks plain black most of the time but can change, in certain cross lights, to chestnut brown. She had a good body, which she carried well. “Show ring, dressage, first class,” said Oliver to himself. “Wonder what she’s like over the jumps.” And to Serena, “It looks as if you’ve got lumbered with me. I hope you don’t mind.”
“It’s very kind of you to take me on. Francis – that’s my husband – was going to partner me, but he ratted at the last moment.”
“Better get cracking,” said the grey-haired woman. “There’s a table to make up in the corner. Mr and Mrs Stackpool. He’s our Chairman, incidentally. You play one rubber at each table. Losers go on. Winners stay put.”
Mr Stackpool was a stout, cheerful, talkative solicitor. He wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses which were so thick and heavy that they constantly threatened to pull his face down into his collar. Mrs Stackpool was smaller all round. She had a worried expression. It could easily have been caused by her husband’s bidding and play.
The last game of bridge that Oliver had played had been a week before. He had gone as a guest to the Portland Club, and had lost exactly four pounds, which he had considered a moderate price for a very good evening’s entertainment.
“One spade,” said Mr Stackpool. Oliver passed. Mrs Stackpool announced a poor spade fit by sighing audibly, and ventured two diamonds. Serena doubled. Mr Stackpool looked at her with loathing and said three diamonds.
Oliver pondered. If Serena was a reasonably good player her double almost certainly meant that she had a heart suit. Since he himself had four hearts to the ace, a singleton spade and the ace and queen of diamonds, a game was odds-on. He said “Four hearts”. Mrs Stackpool said “No bid” with the air of one who has done her duty in a difficult situation, and Serena said “Six hearts”.
Mr Stackpool was deeply offended. It was unheard of. He himself had opened the bidding. His partner had supported him, and then his opponents had not only contested the auction, had not only bid a game, but had now reached a slam. He weighed against each other the considerations that, as newcomers to the Social Club, they should be treated kindly, and that such irregular bidding must be punished. The bridge player came out top. He doubled. Mrs Stackpool, completely unnerved, led away with her king of diamonds, and Oliver made the slam without further difficulty.
Mr Stackpool was so busy telling his wife what he thought of her play that he allowed them to bid and make three no trumps on the next game.
“Poor woman,” said Serena as they removed themselves to the next table. “He’ll give her hell tonight.”
Oliver raised his left eyebrow very slightly, and saw the blood rushing up into her face. “Doctor and Mrs Gwynn,” she said, hastily. “This is – I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”
“Nugent,” said Oliver. “Oliver Nugent.”
As the evening progressed he was interested to discover two things. The first was that everyone was cheating. No one actually looked at their opponents’ cards, but every nuance of voice, gesture, mannerism, hesitation, soliloquy and riposte was employed to assist one’s partner and deceive the opposition. Most of the pairs were husband and wife, who had long learned to detect the precise tone of voice which their spouse employed when telling a lie, their exact manner when bluffing, and the reliability or otherwise of their assertions.
The second thing was that Serena was a good player. She wasn’t equipped with all the latest conventions but
she had a sound grasp of technique and an intuitive card sense. He found it agreeable to hand her a difficult contract and watch her play it.
He could feel her interest in him, too.
Neither of them had much thought to spare for the scorecard and were agreeably surprised to be presented with a bottle of English sherry (Mixed Pairs, Second Prize).
“You can keep it,” said Oliver, as they walked back to the main entrance. “It’ll be useful for staining the floors with.”
“I’ll put it in a decanter,” said Serena. “Francis never notices what he drinks. It’s been a lovely evening.”
“We’ve been so busy,” said Oliver, “that I never got as far as asking you your name.”
“It’s Strickland. Serena Strickland.”
“Would that be anything to do with the Strickland Engineering Works?”
“That’s right. My brother-in-law and my husband run it. They’re both keen bridge players. Would you care to come along and have a game one evening? This is the house.”
Oliver held the gate open for her.
“I’d like to very much,” he said.
As he walked back to Snyder’s garage to pick up his car, he thought that it had been a promising evening.
4
“For God’s sake,” said Dumbo, “can’t I go away for a fortnight to get married without coming back to find that you’ve sacked half the staff?”
“I’ve sacked two men and a girl,” said Oliver. “One man because he seemed to think this was a rest home and the girl because she was impertinent once too often.”
“I’m not talking about the man and the girl. I’m talking about Len Williams.”
“Yes,” said Oliver thoughtfully.
“Well, I mean to say, he was Managing Director. It was a pretty important decision. Couldn’t it have waited till I got back?”
“I thought about that,” said Oliver, “and I came to the conclusion that it’d be easier all round if I did it while you were away.”
“Easier,” said Dumbo. “Easier for you, you mean.” He was really angry.
“Another thing,” said Oliver, “it isn’t strictly accurate that I sacked him. He resigned, although it’s true that I don’t think he had much option.”
The Dust and the Heat Page 3