by Magnus Mills
When eventually I arrived at Eden Lacy, it was twenty to three in the afternoon. I’d usually departed by this time, but I had no reason to expect anything to be different from the easy-going atmosphere of the mornings. I was a little disconcerted, therefore, when Harold and the others virtually ignored me. Apart from a brief glance in my direction as I pulled into the yard, their attention seemed mainly to be on a UniVan already parked on the bay. This was identified by the letters CT, and while the three of them busied themselves getting several pallets loaded, its crew stood some distance away, watching in silence. As I came up the steps there was none of the friendly banter going on that I normally associated with Eden Lacy: no playing cards or promising mugs of tea lay on the table, nor was there any sign of Jim, who generally wandered over from his workshop on the slightest pretext. Even so, I went and joined the driver and his assistant in an attempt to establish some kind of rapport. As I approached they gazed at me, but offered no form of greeting.
“Alright?” I said.
“Alright,” one of them replied.
The other turned away slightly, and seemed to be watching Harold as he fussed around with a pallet trolley. This in itself was a rare sight. Normally, Eric took charge of loading operations while Harold kept his hands firmly in his pocket. Today, though, things were being done differently.
“Nice depot this, isn’t it?” I ventured.
The man who’d been watching Harold now turned and regarded me with incredulity.
“Nice?”
“Yes.”
“What are you talking about? It’s useless here.”
“But it’s really friendly.”
He shook his head. “How long have you been on The Scheme?”
“About five years.”
“Well, you must be mad then.”
“Why?”
“Cos you can’t get a swerve here, can you?!” he snapped. “There’s no supers to sign your card!”
“No, but …”
“There’s no buts about it,” said his companion. “This is the most useless depot in the region.”
I didn’t really like the way this conversation was going, yet I could hardly just walk away from the pair, so I changed the subject instead.
“I’ve been driving out here daily from Long Reach,” I said. “Been doing some timing runs.”
“What for?”
“Our circuit’s being extended. There’s going to be new schedules and everything, so we’ll be coming here regularly.”
At this the two men laughed out loud. “Well,” said one of them. “Lucky you.”
By now Harold and his team had finished loading the UniVan and begun sweeping the bay at the far end. Their action caused me to glance at my watch, and I suddenly realized it was gone three o’clock!
“Right,” I announced. “Better go. Nice talking to you.”
“Yeah,” they murmured.
I gave a wave to the others as I descended the steps, but they didn’t seem to notice, so I got back into my cab and departed.
The circumstances of my trip to Eden Lacy had left me with an odd feeling of disquiet. Suddenly I wondered if I’d become isolated from the mainsteam of opinion in The Scheme. Certainly I’d been taken aback by the remarks of the crew from CT depot, wherever that was. Judging by the way they spoke, anyone would have assumed that the early swervers were a churlish bunch, interested in nothing but getting their cards signed. Yet when I thought of Keith and Rodney, who were both avowed swervers, I realized you couldn’t label a whole group by the behaviour of a minority. Those two liked nothing better than a trip to Eden Lacy, and only began to think of early swerves as their day drew to a close. All the same, it was becoming clear that attitudes were hardening, and I realized I’d been blissfully unaware of the situation. All this I considered on my journey back to Long Reach. Traffic had built up, and by the time I arrived it was almost a quarter to five. There was no one around except Collis, who stood inside the gates waiting to lock up. (The gatekeepers themselves finished work at four thirty.)
“Haven’t you got a home to go to?” he asked, as I drove slowly past him. I didn’t bother to answer.
All this set the tone for my remaining few days on the timing runs. When I returned to Eden Lacy next morning everything had gone back to normal, and I enjoyed a nice game of cards round the table with the others. Nevertheless, I was conscious that the novelty of these journeys was beginning to wear off. On the way out I’d passed the Harper brothers on the Ring Road, only for my flashed greeting to be ignored once more. I really needed to be back on my normal duties so I could have a proper talk with Bill. As if to emphasize this point, travelling home the same afternoon I saw UV55, my usual vehicle, being driven by George, with Jonathan in the dummy seat! How George had wangled this I had no idea, but I knew his intentions alright. Our rostered duty included a trip between Blackwell and Rudgeway depots, which meant going straight past Sandro’s Bakery. George had evidently grown impatient with being stood down, and persuaded someone to let him take over the duty on a temporary basis. As an assistant driver he was qualified to do this (just about), but a few rules must have been bent to allow it actually to happen. Seeing him behind the wheel of our UniVan only added to my sense of detachment.
Those last few trips went by pleasantly enough, however, and it didn’t seem long before I was back in Ray Coppin’s office with my list of timings.
“Get on alright, did you?” he asked, as he sat scanning the figures.
“Yes, thanks.”
“That’s good.” He opened a drawer and placed the list inside. “I’ll have to get these off to Merry Park sometime, when I’ve got a minute.”
“Any idea when the new schedules will start?” I enquired.
“Ooh, not for a while yet,” he replied. “It’s all got to be reviewed first.”
“Er … oh.”
“Can’t see any changes for the time being.”
Next morning I resumed my normal duty, clocking on at ten to eight. I think George was a bit disappointed to be relinquishing command of our vehicle, but he returned to the dummy seat without much complaint. The run was triangular, calling at Merry Park, Blackwell and Rudgeway, and hence ideal for George’s purposes. He’d managed to clear his backlog of cakes over the past few days, but there were always new ones to deal with. Today we had four boxes to drop off at Sandro’s. Arriving at Blackwell around dinner time, I was alarmed to discover that Gosling was still under suspension. I didn’t bother asking Osgood what would become of him because supers were never forthcoming on such matters, but amongst the depot staff all manner of speculation was offered. Charlie Green, for example, told me that “Mr” Gosling was being greatly missed, and that the management would be “mistaken” not to reinstate him at the earliest opportunity. Mick Dalston agreed with this to an extent, but pointed out that Gosling wasn’t the only super who’d signed people’s cards with such generosity.
“Surely there’ll be others to take his place,” he conjectured.
“Maybe so,” said Charlie. “But there’ll never be another like him.”
Len Walker, meanwhile, talked in high moral tones about “just deserts” coming to the early swervers and their benefactors. It was Len, of course, who’d been first to voice concern about the way standards were slipping on The Scheme, and he now seemed to be regarded as a kind of sage, especially by the flat-dayers. George told me how, on one occasion during my absence, Len had sat on his forklift truck holding forth about the sanctity of the eight-hour day, while a small group of drivers and their assistants listened closely.
“If you ask me,” commented George, “those flat-dayers are too self-righteous. They seem to think they’re the only ones who do any work.”
“Well, they are, aren’t they?” I said.
“Not really,” he replied. “They might think they are, but in truth, the early swervers just manage their time better.”
“Does that make you a swerver then?”
“I’m not anything,” George announced. “I’m only interested in delivering my cakes.”
With this in mind we headed off for Rudgeway, calling at Sandro’s place en route. George went in with the usual stack of boxes, and when he emerged I thought he had a rather sheepish look about him.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing really,” he said. “Except that I could really do with getting back to Long Reach by four o’clock at the latest. There’s a kiddies’ party, you see.” By way of explanation, he showed me the single cake box he’d just collected.
“But you didn’t bother mentioning it till now.”
“No,” said George. “I mean yes. Correct.”
“Well, I suppose we could try and get a swerve from Rudgeway,” I suggested. “And leave there a bit sharp.”
He sighed. “Trouble is, I’ve already made tentative enquiries in that quarter. The supers are getting quite cagey about signing anything after what happened to Gosling.”
“What do you propose then?”
“Can’t we just go early and risk it?”
“You’re joking.”
“Oh, come on,” pleaded George. “Just this once.”
I considered his desperate request. Needless to say, there was no such thing as “just this once” where George was concerned, but I thought I could see a solution to the current problem.
“Tell you what,” I said. “Horsefall’s seen me returning early for the past ten days. He probably won’t even notice if we slip in quietly.”
“What about Collis?”
“He shouldn’t be a problem.”
So it was agreed we would risk it. Once again, I thought, I’d gone out of my way to accommodate George, or more accurately his girlfriend, and all I’d get out of the arrangement would be a returned favour at some unspecified future date. Still, that was the way things were on The Scheme, so I cooperated. As it happened, we hadn’t been to Rudgeway depot for quite some while prior to starting this duty, so we weren’t very well known there. Consequently, it seemed OK to leave as soon as we’d been loaded, some fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. By the time we got to Long Reach I’d gained another five simply by putting my foot down.
I stopped outside the gates. “Go on then,” I said. “Off you go.”
“No, it’s alright,” George replied. “I’ll come in with you. I need to see Ken Scanlon for a sec”
“Suit yourself.”
I pulled into the yard as casually as I could, hoping no one would notice. For a moment this seemed highly likely, since there was no sign of Horsefall, Gosling, or any of the other usual supers. Our hopes faded, however, when we were confronted by an individual in a black peaked cap, black jacket and medium-length black skirt.
“Blimey,” said George. “It’s a woman.”
9
There was no avoiding her attentions. We were the only vehicle in the yard, and the instant we appeared she glanced at her wristwatch. Then she observed us with a cool expression while I reversed onto the bay. I applied the handbrake and sat behind the wheel as she strode purposefully in our direction. To tell the truth, her unexpected presence had caught me by surprise, and I think the same went for George. Obviously, we were used to seeing women on The Scheme because many were employed in the canteens and offices. We’d even heard that some depots had recently taken a few on as drivers and assistant drivers. Never before, though, had we seen a woman wearing the uniform of a superintendent, and I knew at once that the situation would require extra care.
“Leave this to me,” I murmured. “I’ll handle it.”
Opening the door, I got out of the cab to meet her. She’d stopped about six feet away from the van, and was perusing her schedules book. Then she glanced up.
“Afternoon,” I said, giving her my best smile. “Welcome to Long Reach.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “Can I see your duty card please?”
“Er … oh, yes. Here you are.”
I handed the card over and she stood peering at it in a knowledgeable manner. From the corner of my eye I noticed George get out of the cab, and begin walking towards the workshop. Wedged under his arm was the cake box.
“Haven’t seen you in these quarters before,” I said, adopting a conversational tone.
“No, you won’t have,” replied the super. “I’ve been transferred from Royal Pond depot.”
“That temporary, is it?”
“Permanent.”
“Oh.”
Now she looked across at George, her eyes focusing directly on the box.
“Essential components,” he announced, by way of explanation, and continued walking. He’d covered about a third of the distance to the workshop when she spoke again, in a voice clear and terse.
“Stop.”
George stopped.
“Come back.”
He traipsed back and stood before her.
“What sort of ‘essential components’?”
“Well,” said George. “It’s a mixture.”
“Really?” she said. “Let’s have a look then.”
With the colour draining from his face, he prepared to remove the lid.
“That for me?!” called a voice from the workshop door. It was Ken Scanlon.
“Could be!” George called back.
“Bring it over then! I haven’t got all day!”
The super gave George a suspicious glance as he shrugged and resumed his journey across the yard. Her gaze was then transferred to Ken, who quickly slipped inside the doorway, after which it settled on me.
I smiled again. “Expect you meet a lot of interesting people in your line of work, don’t you?”
“Not so far, no,” she replied. “But I suppose there’s always a chance.”
In the awkward silence that followed, she again examined our duty card.
“How long have you been on The Scheme?” she asked at length.
“About five years.”
“Well,” she said, handing me the card. “You should know not to come back early without getting a signature.”
And to my astonishment she took the matter no further.
The time had now ticked round to four fifteen, and one or two vans were beginning to make tentative approaches through the gate. With another glance at her watch, the new superintendent gave me a curt nod, and then began checking off the returning vehicles. At the far end of the workshop I saw George emerge from a different door, still carrying his cake box, and make a hurried escape. A third UniVan rumbled into the yard, and headed straight for the automatic wash. It was being driven by Bill Harper, with Richard sitting beside him in the dummy seat.
Here was my chance to make peace with Bill, so after locking up and getting rid of the keys I wandered over to see him. He was now parked inside the wash mechanism, but for some reason neither he nor Richard had got out of their cab. Instead, they remained seated inside, and as I drew nearer I saw that they were involved in a heated discussion about something. I stopped in my tracks and watched as they gesticulated at one another, their voices raised in a muffled hubbub. Then all of a sudden Bill threw open his door, jumped out, and slammed it behind him. As he marched off towards the loading bay I called his name, but he totally ignored me.
“Bill!” I tried again. “Bill!”
But it was no good. Next thing he’d gone up the steps and disappeared into the depot’s interior, leaving me wondering what the argument could have been about. This entire scene had been witnessed by Ron Curtain, newly-arrived, whose vehicle was next in line for the wash. When he saw my bewildered look he got out and came over.
“Don’t think Bill’s talking to me,” I remarked.
“He’s not talking to anybody,” said Ron. “Just spends all his time quarrelling with Richard.”
“What about?”
“Well, let’s say they have ideological differences.”
We watched as Richard got out of the cab, switched on the machinery, and then stood back as the great rol
lers began to turn. Seconds later the UniVan was engulfed in foamy water.
“Differences?” I repeated. “Surely they’re both flat-dayers.”
“Course they are,” Ron answered. “But Bill insists on claiming his ten-off-the-eight, whereas Richard wants to forgo it. They’ve been squabbling for days.”
“Have they?”
“Like a couple of old hens. You’d know that if you came up the canteen a bit more often, instead of spending every dinner time with your van.”
“Who does?”
“You do.”
“Well, only because it’s so noisy up there,” I protested. “You can’t hear yourself think sometimes!”
Ron shook his head. “You don’t have to make excuses to me. All I’m saying is there’s some momentous debates going on and you’re missing out on them all.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “I didn’t realize.”
“Maybe it’s time you got a bit more involved.”
“Yeah … maybe.”
As the minutes passed by, more and more UniVans were coming into the yard to park up for the evening. Soon we were joined by Bryan Tovey, whose usually jovial manner had been replaced by a look of acute disgruntlement.
“Yet another swerveless day,” he sighed.
“Well don’t come here for sympathy,” Ron answered.
This rather abrupt outburst surprised me, but I was equally taken aback when Bryan snapped, “Don’t worry, mate, I won’t!”, before turning and walking away.
“Good grief,” I said, after he’d gone. “That was a bit harsh, wasn’t it?”
“Not really, no,” said Ron. “To tell you the truth I’ve had it up to my neck with the swervers.”
Jangling his keys he stepped over to his UniVan to lock up. Which was when I noticed something drawn on the door in yellow crayon: a figure eight enclosed in a square.
“But I thought you of all people would be neutral.”
“Neutral’s not an option,” he replied. “These days you’re either a flat-dayer or a swerver. There’s nothing else.”