The Scheme for Full Employment

by Magnus Mills

  “Sees everything, John does,” I said. “Hears all the rumours. Says nothing unless you ask him. Well worth keeping in with.”

  To demonstrate my point I bibbed the horn as we passed, hoping John would emerge and exchange some pleasantry for Jonathan’s benefit. On this occasion, however, he merely inclined his head by the slightest fraction, and continued reading. Such was the prerogative of a gatekeeper.

  “So you’re well in with him then, are you?” asked Jonathan.

  “Sort of,” I replied.

  One advantage of our wasted journey to Merry Park was that we didn’t have to worry about getting back to Long Reach prematurely. While other drivers had to scratch around to pass the time, I was able to put my foot down and bomb all the way home along the Ring Road. We enjoyed a good run, rolling through the gates at four fifteen exactly. Naturally the yard was quite busy by this time, with more than a dozen UniVans already backed onto the bay, and the remainder parked opposite. I stopped at the end of the rank, wrote down the daily mileage, and locked up the van. Then Jonathan and I went over to join Ron Curtain, whom I’d noticed standing by his vehicle. There was a large group of drivers, assistant drivers and warehousemen gathered near the super’s office, all within striking distance of the clock, but none too close to be obvious.

  At eighteen minutes past, however, Bryan Tovey strode forward and clanged the punch bell.

  “Goodnight!” he called.

  Up in the office, Horsefall was sitting with his back to the door. When he heard the bell he glanced casually at his wristwatch, but otherwise gave no response.

  Bryan clanged the bell again.

  “Goodnight!”

  No response.

  The clock ticked round to nineteen minutes past.

  Clang.

  “Goodnight!”

  No response.

  Ron shook his head at Bryan’s antics. “You’d think he could come up with something else for a change, wouldn’t you?” he remarked. “We get this performance almost every evening.”

  Now Pete Fentiman joined in, clanging the bell and saying “Goodnight” alternately with Bryan. A buzz of anticipation passed amongst the crowd of spectators, but still the clock seemed reluctant to move beyond four nineteen.

  Another clang at last brought Horsefall to the door.

  “That’ll do!” he rasped, from the top of the steps. “Four twenty you finish, and not a minute sooner!”

  “Sorry,” said Bryan. “I was just saying goodnight, that’s all.”

  He now took the liberty of placing his duty card in the punch, and stood with his hand in readiness above the bell.

  “Come on, clock,” he said. “Get a move on.”

  There was a tick, and a cheer rose across the bay.

  “Alright,” said Horsefall. “Off you go.”

  A frenzy of activity followed as almost fifty men clocked off for the duty’s end. Despite the numbers this was done in a fairly orderly manner because everyone knew who’d got back before them, and who after. There were some cards already in the rack, of course, placed there by the lucky individuals who’d managed to get signed off early. Most of us had to wait our turn, though, and I didn’t punch my card until half past four.

  “That’s why we’re allowed our ten-off-the-eight,” I explained to Jonathan. “Officially it’s supposed to be locking-up time, but really it’s for clocking off.”

  “Is ten-off-the-eight the same as an early bath?” he asked.

  “You mean early swerve.”

  “Oh yes, sorry. Early swerve.”

  “No. It’s different. Clocking off’s when you have to clock out. Early swerve’s when you don’t.”

  “But I can’t clock out anyway,” he said. “I haven’t got a card.”

  “No,” I said. “You’re on the same duty as me so we share the card. Once you know what you’ve got to do we can take turns nicking off at the start of the ten.”

  “Oh, I see,” he murmured, a perplexed look on his face. “I think.”

  As Jonathan wandered towards the main gates I realized he’d had to take quite a lot on board during his first day, what with learning the run and getting to know the various depots, each with their own characteristics. At the same time I knew it wouldn’t be long before he got into the swing of things, and that after a few days of going over the same routine he’d begin to get used to it.

  Nonetheless, I was quite surprised when I arrived the following morning and found our UniVan waiting on the bay with the engine already running. A quick look in the cab told me that the heater had been switched on and was warming up nicely. Then Jonathan appeared.

  “I’ve seen Arthur for the keys,” he announced. “So I thought I might as well start her up and park her up.”

  “Oh … er … well done,” I said. “He gave you the keys alright then, did he?”

  “Yes,” said Jonathan. “No problem. Had quite a nice chat with him actually.”

  “What, with Arthur?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about?”

  “All sorts. He’s been on The Scheme since it first started apparently. Says he can tell who’s doing what duty by the times the keys come back.”

  “That sounds like Arthur.”

  “Takes a very dim view of the early swervers, from what I gather.”

  “Yes,” I said. “He’s very much a flat-day man.”

  “Talking of which,” said Jonathan, flourishing the duty card. “I’ve clocked on to save you doing it.”

  “Thanks.” I took the card, which he’d partially filled in. “Do you want to drive the van all day as well?”

  The moment I uttered this remark I decided it was churlish and unnecessary. Fortunately Jonathan didn’t hear it, because at that moment Chris Darling arrived with a forklift truck.

  “Six pallets for you today,” he announced. “All going to Blackwell.”

  “Righto,” answered Jonathan, before I could get a word in. “That’ll keep Len nice and busy.”

  Next thing he’d raised the roller door and was supervising Chris as he got the first pallet inside. Feeling slightly surplus to requirements, I went over to the cafe for tea and doughnuts. Sitting at one of the tables, enjoying a full breakfast, was Steve Moore.

  “You’re cutting it fine, aren’t you?” I said. “You know it’s gone eight?”

  “That’s alright,” Steve replied. “I’ve got plenty of time. Care to join me?”

  “No thanks. I’ll have to go in a sec.”

  I glanced at his table. Laid upon it was not only a plate of sausages, eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, black pudding, baked beans and fried slice, but also bread and butter on a separate plate, a jar of marmalade, toast, tea in a pot, cup-and-saucer, milk, sugar and three different newspapers. Steve looked as if he was there for the duration.

  “Alright for some,” I said. “First I see you coasting up and down the minor roads without a worry in the world, and now here you are with your own private trough, digesting national affairs.”

  Steve smiled and stretched himself. “Well,” he said, with a yawn. “When you’ve been on The Scheme as long as I have you deserve the odd privilege now and again.”

  “What you doing then?”

  “Oh, you know. Bit of this. Bit of that. Making myself useful.”

  The self-satisfied way Steve said this made me realize he had no intention of revealing the details of whatever caper he was involved in. For it undoubtedly was a caper. No drivers could sit idly in cafes at eight o’clock in the morning unless they had a legitimate excuse. Steve obviously did have one, but he was giving nothing away. And as for his claim to have earned some privilege through long service, well I knew for a fact that he’d only joined The Scheme about six months before me! I didn’t bother saying anything, though, and instead collected my doughnuts and left Steve sitting at the table with a smug expression on his face.

  Back on the loading bay, Jonathan was now engaged talking to Horsefall, who’d apparently left the confi
nes of his office and come for one of his “wanders”. These generally consisted of a nose around the depot, peering into the backs of UniVans and anywhere else that caught his fancy. Remembering we still had the pallet trolley from last week on board, I instinctively went to pull down the roller door, only to discover that Jonathan had already done it.

  I looked at the two of them, standing some twenty feet away, and wondered what they could be discussing. Nothing of importance, probably, but it struck me that Jonathan might be one of those new recruits who thought it an advantage to be “in” with the supers. If so, then he was bound to be disappointed. Oh, I admit Horsefall was a reasonable man, as were many of his colleagues. All the same, I could never understand what drove them to apply for their posts in the first place. I mean to say, they’d only started out as drivers and warehousemen, just like the rest of us. A few of them had even originated in the engineering section, yet they’d chosen to give up their trades in order to preside over others. Put simply, I was of the firm belief that superintendents had different motivations to ordinary employees on The Scheme, and therefore needed to be handled with care.

  Having said that, there were occasions when it was important to maintain good relations with them. Before leaving Long Reach I discovered another note from George reminding me about his cakes, which meant that the first thing I had to do when we arrived at Blackwell was to get clearance from Osgood.

  “OK to drop off the one cake this afternoon?” I enquired, putting my head round his door.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Should be alright. Stick it under the desk if I’m not here.”

  “Righto. Thanks.”

  By now, Jonathan’s natural inquisitiveness had caused him to become quite interested in the cakes.

  “It’s just a little sideline of my regular assistant,” I explained, as we got going towards Cotton Town. “Completely harmless. Just a matter of transferring a few boxes here and there.”

  As on the previous day, a dozen cakes needed to be dropped off at Sandro’s Bakery, and on our arrival there I was pleased when Jonathan offered to help carry them all in. For his part, Sandro was friendliness itself, insisting that we stayed a few minutes for a cup of tea.

  “So, my friend,” he said. “You’ve enrolled in our great Scheme for Full Employment?”

  “Yes,” replied Jonathan. “This is my first proper week.”

  “Well you have glorious days ahead of you,” declared Sandro. “Glorious, glorious days.”

  As he spoke I was again reminded of the high regard in which The Scheme was held by the public at large. Sandro was the most hard-working man I’d ever met. Every day he spent long hours labouring over hot ovens, along with his three devoted helpers, while we lived a life of ease, cruising around in our vans. Yet he addressed us as if we belonged to some higher order of existence, and had been especially chosen for our destinies.

  “Yes,” I remarked. “We’ve got nothing to complain about really.”

  “Alright, my friends,” said Sandro. “See you tomorrow.”

  He handed me the cake for the onward journey and we said goodbye. For some reason his kitchen had seemed particularly hot this morning, so it was pleasant getting outside again. I paused for a moment to enjoy the cool breeze, and then felt a chill run right through me. Standing by the UniVan was a figure in a black coat, and wearing a black peaked cap.

  “Oh no,” I murmured. “It’s Nesbitt.”

  “Who’s that then?” asked Jonathan, obviously aware of my guarded tone.

  “Gold Badge,” I said. “Let me do the talking.”

  Nesbitt wasn’t looking in our direction, but I had no doubt he was fully aware of our approach. He stood staring at the van’s front nearside wheel, motionless as we walked up.

  “Morning, Mr Nesbitt,” I ventured.

  “Morning,” he replied, without raising his eyes. “Glad you’ve come back. It’s a bit parky waiting here.”

  “Yes, I suppose it must be.”

  “So let’s all get in the cab, shall we?”

  “Right.”

  With the cake box seeming very conspicuous under my arm, I fumbled for the keys in my pocket. Then I unlocked the door, put the cake inside, and turned to find Nesbitt’s gaze upon me.

  “That’s a funny blue.”

  5

  “ What is?” I asked.

  “Your shirt.”

  “But it’s regulation blue collar.”

  Nesbitt tucked his chin into his neck and regarded me from beneath his peak.

  “It may be blue collar,” he said. “But it’s not regulation.”

  “It used to be.”

  “Yes, well I used to be a babe-in-arms. That shirt belongs to last year, so get rid of it and remove a fresh one from its nice cellophane wrapper. You received your new issue, I take it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right then. I’ll expect you to be wearing it next time I see you.”

  “OK.”

  “I won’t take the matter any further, considering it’s the season of goodwill.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Now let’s get in out of the cold.”

  In one movement, Nesbitt stepped towards the UniVan and swung up into the dummy seat, closing the door behind him. I walked round to the driver’s side, followed by Jonathan.

  “Season of goodwill?” I said, lowering my voice. “What’s he talking about? That was weeks ago.”

  Nesbitt wasn’t a particularly large man, but when I opened my door and looked in he seemed to fill the far side of the cab with his presence. Still wearing his peaked cap, complete with glinting Gold Badge, he sat gazing through the windscreen, waiting for us to join him. There was barely room for Jonathan, but he had to get in all the same, scrambling across behind the wheel and ending up perched on the metal cowling in the middle. He was in for an uncomfortable journey. Then I got in beside him and shut my door.

  “Thought I’d have a little ride round with you,” Nesbitt announced. “It’s a while since I’ve visited these parts, so I want to refresh my memory. Just carry on as if I wasn’t here please.”

  “We’re going to Cotton Town next,” I said, trying to sound helpful.

  “Yes,” he replied. “I’m quite aware of that.”

  I started up and pulled the UniVan out into the traffic, hoping the noise of the engine would save us from having to hold a conversation with Nesbitt. For the time being it did, and all three of us sat in mute silence as we sped along the Ring Road. Now and again I glanced at the cake box, lying on top of the dashboard immediately in front of Nesbitt and partially blocking his line of vision. As Jonathan had mentioned on his first day, it was prohibited to carry goods in the cab, but so far nothing had been said. I tried not to think about this too much, and concentrated my mind on getting to Cotton Town at the scheduled time. This I achieved, rolling through the main gates at twelve forty-five exactly.

  It was interesting to see the effect that our arrival had on the depot staff. As we entered the yard Hoskins was standing in his favourite spot, timing everyone in for dinner. He nodded casually as our vehicle passed him by, then practically stood to attention when he saw who was sitting in the dummy seat. Similarly, activity on the loading bay seemed to double when I reversed in and Nesbitt opened his door. Kevin Jennings appeared in an instant, whistling heartily as he manoeuvred his forklift into a ready position behind the UV. Kevin’s strident tunelessness alerted Cliff Clifford, who entered the scene moments later pushing an extra-wide broom in front of him. It also brought Watts to his office door. He emerged as Nesbitt came up the steps from the yard.

  “Ah, hello, Cyril,” he said, clearly taken by surprise. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

  “Curiosity,” replied Nesbitt. “Got a lift from these gentlemen.”

  Thus thrown into the spotlight Jonathan and I both made ourselves look busy. I’d brought with me the latest batch of dockets, so I began leafing through them to find one headed Cotton Town. Meanwhile, Jon
athan undid the catch and slid open the roller door, revealing the pallet trolley we’d been carrying around for almost a week.

  A moment passed during which I looked up to see Jonathan glance at me, then back at the trolley. Kevin looked at the trolley, then at me. Watts looked at Kevin, then the trolley, then me. No one looked at Nesbitt.

  “Something the matter?” he asked.

  “Er … no, no,” replied Watts. “Quite a light loading today, isn’t there?”

  “Yes,” I answered, taking up the cue. “We had quite a lot for Blackwell, though.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “But nothing for us?”

  “No. That trolley’s on its way to Merry Park.”

  “Oh,” said Watts, giving me a long look. “I see.”

  Our leaden exchange of words ceased when Nesbitt suddenly stepped inside the UniVan. We watched as he ran a familiar hand over the trolley’s brake bar.

  “This reminds me of the old days,” he said. “Before we went electric”

  Needless to say, Nesbitt’s pronouncement wasn’t a signal for a cosy chat about some former golden age. Instead its purpose was to remind all present of his seniority, and therefore his authority, over the rest of us. Not that we needed such a reminder. Kevin, Cliff and myself were fully aware of his reputation, and we knew that even Watts, a mere Silver Badge official, needed to watch his p’s and q’s when Nesbitt was around. Addressing him as “Cyril”, for example, had been a calculated risk. Hoskins, meanwhile, maintained a polite silence. Jonathan was the only person who had no idea of the importance of a Gold Badge, but nonetheless he appeared to be overawed by the man in the black peaked cap.

  After several moments of staring at the trolley in quiet contemplation, Nesbitt turned to Kevin.

  “Got anything for Blackwell?” he asked.

  “Just two pallets,” Kevin replied.

  Nesbitt glanced at his wristwatch.