The Scheme for Full Employment

by Magnus Mills

  “Coming up the canteen?” asked George. “Game of cards?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ll go over to the cafe I think.”

  “OK, see you later.”

  “Yeah, see you.”

  At half past one I was back on the bay giving the van’s windscreen a polish. Then I slid open the roller door and looked inside. It was hardly what you would call a full load. Nearest me, about halfway back, was a single pallet stacked with medium crates. Beyond this, a number of empty pallets were piled up next to a pallet full of empty crates. With the aid of a trolley I could have unloaded the whole lot, on my own, in about ten minutes. But this wasn’t the way of things on The Scheme, so instead I sat on the concrete edge and waited. Actually, I quite liked being here at this time of day when all was quiet. There was no sign of Hoskins, and as far as I could see Watts’s office was deserted. My only company was the half-dozen UniVans that stood lined along the bay, waiting for their afternoon duties to begin. Beyond them the emergency fire hose lay coiled around its drum. I enjoyed the silent hiatus for a further ten minutes, and then at last heard feet returning.

  “I saw Steve Armstrong up in the darts room,” George announced. “Playing on his own.”

  “Was he winning?” I enquired.

  “Dunno, but he was being a bit funny, I thought.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I asked him how come he wasn’t out with Steve Moore today, and he just sort of looked at the dartboard and said, ‘I’ve been stood down’. You know, all abrupt like.”

  “Didn’t he give a reason?”

  “No, he didn’t, and then Jumo Williams came in and they started practising, so I came out.”

  “I expect there’s a simple explanation.”

  “I hope so,” said George. “I don’t like it when people are being funny.”

  2

  The honour of unloading our vehicle eventually fell to Kevin Jennings. He came from nowhere riding a forklift truck, at exactly the same time as Watts appeared on the stairway. Both were fifteen minutes late, but they were punctual in relation to one another. Watts entered his office and closed the door without engaging the latch, so that it slowly swung open again by about six inches.

  Kevin made a direct line for us.

  “Now then, what have we got here?” he said, entering the van and sliding his forks under the laden pallet.

  “Twenty-four mediums,” I replied.

  “That’s what it says on my sheet.” He raised the load and brought it out into the daylight. “Four sixes are twenty-four. Yep, that’s right.”

  “Hold it a minute!” Watts had suddenly come out of his office and was advancing upon us. “Let me have a quick look at those labels.”

  Kevin, George and I watched as he walked around the stack of crates, squinting at each one in turn. Then he peered at me. “What are these?”

  “Should be rear offside winker attachments.”

  “Should be,” he said. “But aren’t. According to the labels they’re all rear nearside.”

  “Doesn’t make any difference, does it?”

  “Course it does. They wink differently. Who loaded you?”

  “Er … well, what does it say on the docket?”

  “Name’s indecipherable. As usual.”

  “Oh, right,” I said, gazing at George. “Let’s see. Er … Martin, wasn’t it?”

  “No,” said George. “It was Chris, I think.”

  “Or it could have been the other Chris.”

  “Yes, it possibly could. Or maybe …”

  “Alright, alright!” interrupted Watts. “It’s not a hanging offence. No one’s going to get hanged. But this is the second time in a fortnight we’ve had the wrong crates come in from Long Reach. Last week it was front nearside winker attachments.”

  “Do they wink differently as well?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, giving me an unblinking stare. “Fortunately, they don’t.”

  It was hard to tell just how seriously Watts took his work, but he didn’t question me further, nor me him. At that moment the external telephone bells began ringing. “Righto,” he said, casting a glance at Kevin. “Mark ’em up and park ’em up. I think I’ll have to have a word with that lot and wake their ideas up a little bit.”

  “What’s he talking about them winking differently?” said George, as soon as Watts was back in his office.

  “Oh, take no notice of him,” replied Kevin. “He hasn’t got anything better to do, that’s all.”

  From his pocket he produced a piece of yellow wax crayon and marked each crate with the letters LR. Also the day’s date. Then he boarded his forklift and ferried the load into the depths of the storage area. He came back a short time later with a full-size crate.

  “This for Blackwell?” I asked.

  “Yep,” he said. “Roller Guides. Four Dozen.”

  “Ah, that’s what I love about this job,” remarked George. “The variety.”

  “Anything for Merry Park?”

  “Not today,” replied Kevin.

  “That’s handy.”

  I spoke too soon, because next thing I noticed Watts emerging once again from his hideaway.

  “Just a minute,” he said, walking up. “Looks like we might have something else for you as well. I’ve just had a phone call from Bob Little at Long Reach. Merry Park have been onto him for a pallet trolley. There’s nothing available at his end, so he wanted to know if we could spare one from here.”

  “I hope you told him no.”

  “As a matter of fact, I didn’t,” replied Watts. “We’ve got an idle one out the back, haven’t we Kevin?”

  “Yep,” came the answer. “Hasn’t been used for a while though.”

  “That’s alright,” said Watts. “Probably only needs a drop of grease. Pop and get it can you?”

  “OK.”

  As Kevin wandered towards the gloomy rear of the building I turned to Watts and said, “Does that mean we’ve got to go to Merry Park?”

  “Course you’ve got to go to Merry Park,” he announced, producing the schedules book from his pocket and finding the relevant page. “Yes, it’s your last call.”

  “But we were hoping to miss it out today,” I said.

  “Miss it out?”

  “Cos there’s been nothing to go there all week.”

  “And nothing to pick up,” added George. “We’ve been running the last leg empty.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a movement, and in the same instant realized that Hoskins had joined us. He’d been out in the yard all morning, and was wearing his complete outfit, including black coat and black peaked cap. Watts, meanwhile, was clad in the standard indoor black jacket. Mutually reinforced, the two officials looked at me with apparent disbelief.

  “How long you been on The Scheme?” Watts asked.

  “About five years,” I replied.

  “Well then,” he said. “You should know very well you can’t go missing out ports of call just because it takes your fancy.”

  “But I thought someone might sign the card for us, as it’s quiet.”

  “Who do you mean by ‘someone’?”

  “Dunno really.”

  “Mr Gosling, for example?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Well, who then?”

  “It depends.”

  A long silence followed, during which Watts stood slowly shaking his head as if reminded of some unbearable tragedy of long ago. Meanwhile, Hoskins took a half-turn away, for no apparent reason other than to gaze across the yard with a mournful expression on his face.

  “Look,” said Watts at last. “They need a spare trolley at Merry Park and you’re the only van going from here to there. If you’re looking for an early swerve you can forget about it.”

  “Alright,” I answered, with a shrug. “It was worth a try though, wasn’t it?”

  “Not in our book,” said Hoskins, finally breaking his authoritative silence. “Definitely not in our book.”


  Without a further word, the pair walked slowly and deliberately back to their den. Hoskins went inside first, followed by Watts, who gave us a last significant look before closing the door.

  “They think they’re so superior sometimes, don’t they?” murmured George.

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  “It’s different when they want a favour doing, of course.”

  These last words were drowned out by a dreadful squealing noise from deep within the building. It was Kevin returning with the spare pallet trolley.

  “They’re going to have some fun with this up the Park,” he said. “I don’t think it’s been used for about a year.”

  “What do they need a trolley for anyway?” I asked. “They’ve got plenty of forklifts there.”

  “Emergency back-up,” explained Kevin. “There’s a memo been round saying there has to be at least one manual trolley on hand at each depot, just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “It didn’t say.”

  “Alright,” I said. “I suppose if we’ve got to take it we’ve got to take it. Do you want me to sign for this one?”

  “You’d better, yes. Otherwise it won’t have gone anywhere, officially.”

  So I signed Kevin’s docket, then we got the trolley into the van, secured it to the bulkhead, and closed the roller door. In another minute George and I were pulling out of Cotton Town, the two of us feeling quite irritated. Watts’s interference had effectively transformed a pleasant afternoon’s cruise into a race against time, and what made it worse was that it could have been so easily avoided. There was obviously no pressing demand for a spare trolley up at Merry Park. All Watts needed to have done when Bob Little rang was fob him off until the following day, or maybe even the following week. Instead, he had to go and insist that we took one up there straightaway, which meant that all our careful plans were laid to waste. We’d been pacing ourselves nicely since dinner time, not getting loaded too quickly and having a bit of a chat with Kevin. Then we were going to have a gentle meander over to Blackwell, arriving just in time for a cup of tea. This unforeseen delay over the pallet trolley now meant that we were going to have to rush about all afternoon just to keep on schedule!

  “Typical!” I said, as we sped out past the gatehouse and onto the road. “Flaming typical!”

  “Don’t forget I’ve still got to have a word with Osgood,” said George.

  “Well, you’ll have to be quick about it. We can’t hang about there for long if we want to finish on time,”

  I sensed that he was about to raise a voice in protest, but instead he fell silent and sat gazing at the lone cake box, still sitting on top of the dashboard.

  And so it was that we began our return run back towards Blackwell depot. I hated being late, unless it was pre-planned, of course, and so I gunned that poor UniVan through half a dozen sets of amber lights and onto the Ring Road. From here it was due west in a stream of traffic that fortunately turned out to be quite light. By the time we passed Sandro’s Bakery, now closed up for the day, we were more or less back on schedule, although I was still having to shove along at a fair old rate.

  “They’ve got no power, these things!” I complained, shouting above the tortured engine. “Second gear’s too low and third’s too high!”

  “And they’re too noisy!” said George.

  “Pardon?”

  I was feeling in a slightly better mood when we finally arrived at Blackwell, pausing at the end of the yard for George to jump out with his cake. Over on the bay I could see Len talking to Bill Harper. They looked like they’d just finished loading Bill’s van. As I reversed in next to it I noticed a stranger sitting in the dummy seat, busily writing something down. He glanced at me momentarily when I got out and walked round to the steps, then he continued writing. I joined Bill on the bay, Len having disappeared for the time being.

  “Hello, mate,” I said. “Who’s that in your cab?”

  “It’s a new bloke learning the run,” Bill replied. “Doing it by the book, he is, noting down all the turnings and depot names. I keep telling him he’ll know it off by heart after a week or two, but he won’t listen.”

  “Might as well let him get on with it then.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’s he going to be based?”

  “Long Reach.”

  “Oh, lucky him.”

  “Lucky all of us.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Lucky all of us.”

  Bill smiled and glanced towards the office. “Right, I’d better get moving. Osgood’s peeping out. Is that George in there with him?”

  “Yeah, he’s gone to ask a favour.”

  “Cakes?”

  “You guessed it.”

  After Bill had gone I opened the roller door and looked in at the single crate I’d brought from Cotton Town. It then occurred to me that Len must have forgotten I had something for him. I was just about to go upstairs and seek him out when Gosling came sauntering along the bay.

  “Something the matter?” he asked.

  “Well,” I replied. “I could do with getting going fairly smartish, but there’s no sign of Len.”

  “That’s unlike him,” Gosling remarked. “He’s usually very scrupulous about unloading people straightaway. What have you got for us?”

  “Just one full-sizer.”

  “Tell you what then,” he said. “I’ll unload you myself. I could do with a little bit of practice.”

  There was a forklift truck standing a few yards away, and the moment Gosling boarded it and started up I understood exactly what he meant. Obviously he hadn’t operated such equipment for a long time, no doubt due to Len’s strict monopoly of the loading bay. I quickly stepped clear as the truck lurched towards me and then stopped again.

  “Bit light on the throttle,” announced Gosling as he moved forward once more. This time he seemed to have gained a degree of control. I watched as he manoeuvred carefully behind our UniVan, and drove the forklift inside. Then its motor fell silent. A few seconds later Gosling emerged on foot.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Battery’s flat,” he replied.

  “Stuck is it?”

  “Well and truly.”

  “What are you doing?!” roared a voice from the back of the bay. It was Len returning on board another forklift. His face was like thunder as he sped up and stopped beside us. “What are you doing?!”

  “I was just getting this van unloaded,” said Gosling. “Since you seemed to have disappeared.”

  “Don’t give me that!” snapped Len. “I’ve been to get the other truck! That one in there’s got a dodgy battery!”

  “Yes, I’ve just found out.”

  “Didn’t you notice the warning light was on?!”

  “No, I didn’t. Sorry.”

  This exchange was interesting to observe because Gosling was supposed to be in charge of Len, not the other way round. Here was a superintendent apologizing for his actions while a mere warehouseman sat on top of a forklift truck and shouted at him. It would have been quite unheard of at some depots. In one sense I felt sorry for Gosling because he had meant well. At the same time I firmly believed that supers should never meddle with the smooth running of things. Already this afternoon I’d had to put up with Watts’s intervention over the pallet trolley, and now there was this episode. Len clearly had everything under control before Gosling came along and put a spanner in the works. The result was that I was going to be stuck at Blackwell for another half-hour while the problem was sorted out. A stalled forklift truck couldn’t be moved when the power failed, so with a look of disgust on his face Len marched over to the workshops in search of a mechanic. George, meanwhile, had returned from his dealings with Osgood. He took one look at the situation and understood it in an instant.

  “Back in a minute,” he said, heading towards the canteen stairs.

  While these minor events were unfolding, I’d noticed Gosling glance once or twice in the dire
ction of the office. This made me wonder whether he was seeking support from Osgood, or simply hoping that his humiliation hadn’t been witnessed by a fellow super. For humiliation it most certainly was. When Len finally came back with the mechanic, Bob Smith, they both practically ignored Gosling. He stood and watched awkwardly as Bob removed the engine cover and examined the battery. Then the verdict was given.

  “Drained beyond recovery,” Bob announced. “I’ll have to put a new one in.”

  This meant a visit to the stores. Gosling signed the necessary requisition docket, and then Bob wandered away, slowly shaking his head and asking if people thought he had nothing better to do than run around repairing forklifts.

  The stairwell door swung open, and George came through it backwards with a tray bearing five cups.

  “Tea up!” he called. “There’s one for you as well, Bob! I’ll leave it by the steps!”

  Now I had to admit George was very good at this kind of thing. He possessed a fine grasp of human sensitivities, and the way he went about presenting the cups of tea was a lesson in diplomacy. First of all he approached Len, who accepted his with quiet grace, having been told there were two sugars in it, of course. Then George put the other drinks aside before going over to Gosling, who was gazing along the bay with a forlorn expression on his face.

  “Here you are, Mr Gosling. Thought you might like one too.”

  It wasn’t the usual practice to buy teas for superintendents, and Gosling certainly wouldn’t have been expecting such a gesture. Therefore he showed both surprise and gratitude when the cup was offered to him.

  “Thank you, George,” he said. “That’s most kind.”

  3

  As the minutes passed there was a chance that Osgood would suddenly decide to leave his office and come to find out what was causing the delay. Technically he and Gosling were of equal rank, since both wore silver badges, but there was no doubt that Osgood was higher in the pecking order. If he had turned up at that moment then subsequent events might have taken a completely different course. As it was, he must have decided that Gosling was quite capable of sorting out whatever problem there may be, and so remained at his desk.