by Magnus Mills
The new superintendent’s name, apparently, was Joyce. I got this information the following morning from Collis, who’d seen me talking to her from his office window. He joined me on the bay while the van was being loaded, and gave me the benefit of his opinion.
“One to watch, she is,” he announced. “Very ambitious.”
“Thought she might be.”
“Book you soon as look at you.”
“Well, she seemed alright last night,” I said. “Firm but fair, sort of thing.”
“Oh, she’s always gentle the first time,” said Collis. “While she’s still getting your measure.”
At this moment Joyce came into view at the far end of the bay, having emerged from between two stacks of crates. Her sudden appearance caused Collis instantly to flip open his schedules book and begin leafing through its pages. Then he looked at his watch.
“Come on,” he ordered, in an authoritarian tone. “It’s time you were loaded and away.”
“Alright, alright!” I answered. “It’s all in hand. George has taken charge of loading this morning.”
“That’s OK then,” he said, lowering his voice. “But look lively or you’ll have her on your tail.”
And with that he retreated to the sanctuary of his office, forgetting, no doubt, that she was free to join him there if she so wished. At present, though, she seemed content overseeing the general activity on the loading bay. She strolled casually from van to van, nodding at warehousemen and drivers as they bent to their work. George, I noticed, was making a great show of helping Chris Peachment move some particularly large crates onto our vehicle. (They were large because our cargo today consisted of UniVan side panels.) Joyce paused for a while to watch them get the forklift into position, then glanced thoughtfully around the depot’s interior. She had a proprietorial air about her, and appeared to be estimating the cubic capacity of the building.
“Isn’t it marvellous?” I said, walking over. “How much can be squeezed under one roof.”
“Well, there doesn’t seem to be much squeezing going on here,” she replied. “It’s half empty most of the week.”
“Yes, but it’s handy having all that spare room to play with.”
“Handy’s not the word I’d have used. Wasteful more like. I’m sure this space could serve a much better purpose.”
“Do you mean ergonomically?”
“No,” said Joyce. “I mean usefully.”
Unable to grasp the exact gist of what she was saying, I decided the best solution was to change the subject.
“I’m just going over to get some teas before we leave. Can I buy you one?”
“No thanks,” she said. “I don’t drink tea. Or coffee.”
“How do you pass the time then?”
“Quite easily really. For example, I check to see if people are wearing the correct uniform.”
“Ah.”
“Didn’t you receive a new issue of shirts this year?”
“Yes, but I prefer the old ones. They’re more comfortable.”
“Comfortable doesn’t come into it,” said Joyce. “You get new ones annually to give the Drapery Department something to do. I’d have thought a man of your intellect would know that.”
Whether this last remark was intended as a compliment or an insult I couldn’t tell. Fortunately, I was spared the rigours of further conversation by a loud slamming noise as George closed the roller door. This was the signal that we were ready to leave, so after promising Joyce I would indeed wear a new shirt tomorrow, I went over the road, got the teas, and then joined my assistant on the bay.
“I saw you,” he said. “Do you fancy her, or something?”
“Course not,” I replied. “We were just talking, that’s all. As a matter of fact she’s got some very interesting points of view.”
“Well, don’t forget she’s still a super at the end of the day.”
“No,” I assured him. “I won’t forget that.”
We watched as Joyce strode towards the office in sensible, black shoes. Then we climbed into the van and headed first to Merry Park, then on to Blackwell, and finally Rudgeway. As I said before, this was a depot we hadn’t visited regularly for quite some while, simply because of the way the duty rota was worked out. The only person we knew at all well there was a warehouseman called Reg Pippett, a committed early swerver if ever there was one. As the crates were being unloaded from our van, Reg mentioned the recent dearth of signatures.
“Whatever happened to our precious swerves?” he asked. “They’ve vanished without trace.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “They appear to have gone right out of fashion.”
“Well, I hope they come back in again,” he said, with a grin. “They were the only thing that kept me going.”
It was quite refreshing talking to Reg, who displayed none of the gloom and doom that I’d come across just lately. Instead, he seemed to accept that the clamp-down was an unavoidable reality, worth little more than a resigned shrug. When I asked him what he thought of the flat-dayers he told me he regarded them as a joke, rather than a threat. True, he said, they were overweening and sanctimonious, but they were also completely harmless, and he was sure the glorious times would return very soon. At four o’clock George and I resumed our journey with Reg’s positive words still ringing in our ears. Their resonance was lost, though, when we passed beneath the railway bridge at Fiveways Junction.
“Look at that,” said George, peering upwards.
For a moment I thought he’d only just noticed the gigantic figure eight that I’d spotted the week before. However, when I looked up I saw it had been completely painted over. Now, in its place, was a huge letter g with a long extended tail.
“Where’ve we seen that before?”
“It’s Gosling’s signature,” I said. “The swervers must have adopted it for their campaign.”
“They can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I think they are. Very serious indeed.”
Clearly, Reg Pippett’s moderate stance wasn’t shared by some of his associates, but I had to admit that whoever had climbed up there had made an excellent job. The stylized letter g was an exact copy of the signature we all knew so well. Also, it was much more flamboyant than the flat-dayers’ bland figure eight, which appeared rather puritanical by comparison. And, of course, once we’d become aware of the new device we began seeing it everywhere, most notably on the sides of UniVans. By the end of the duty we’d counted more than half a dozen examples, all done in the same ubiquitous yellow crayon.
Over the next few days the rival insignias became such a common sight that our own vehicle began to be conspicuous for its lack of decoration. We weren’t completely alone, as there were still a few other unmarked vans around, but each time we journeyed along the Ring Road I was aware of being part of a shrinking minority. I assumed this was the reason John Jones gave us a prolonged look as we passed beneath his gatehouse at Merry Park one morning. I gave him a cheery wave, for which I received no response, and then headed into the yard. A minute later we were parked on the bay, waiting for someone to come and unload us. We expected the usual delay, but to our surprise Billy Barker surfaced almost immediately, fully equipped with a forklift truck. He got the day’s shipment taken off very quickly (for him), before giving us some “important news”.
“We’re holding a mass meeting tomorrow dinner time,” he announced. “In the light of the present difficulties.”
“Are we invited?” enquired George.
“Certainly you are,” said Billy. “It should be quite a good turnout. We’ve invited Les Prentice to address the gathering.”
The way he uttered the name “Les Prentice” suggested that I was supposed to have heard of him, which I hadn’t. There was no doubt, however, that Billy was a swerver, and so I assumed the guest speaker was also from that fraternity.
“OK,” I promised. “We’ll be there.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “We need a few stalwarts in th
e ranks.”
“Here’s Dawson,” said George, with a glance towards the office.
“Right,” said Billy. “See you tomorrow.”
Quickly he turned on his heels and left us. Next thing we’d been joined by Dawson, who had a completely different agenda on his mind.
“Glad I’ve caught you,” he said. “You brought a pallet trolley here the other week, didn’t you?”
“Well, not me personally,” I replied. “It was someone covering my duty.”
“That’s good enough for me. Can you take it back again?”
“But I thought you were crying out for a manual trolley.”
“Yes, we were.”
“So what’s wrong with it then?”
“Nothing,” Dawson sighed. “We only wanted it because we’d heard Scapens was coming to inspect the premises. You know of him, do you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Senior Gold Badge, isn’t he?”
“Correct. Top of the league, and a very dogged customer.”
“What, worse than Nesbitt?”
“Oh yes, much worse. And when we realized we hadn’t got a trolley there was total panic. A big call went out to all the depots for a spare one, but it wasn’t coordinated properly.”
“What happened then?”
“We got too many, didn’t we? When Scapens carried out his inspection he found three manual trolleys scattered about the place. Then he put in a report saying the equipment wasn’t distributed evenly, and the upshot is you’ve got to take it back.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere,” said Dawson. “As long as it’s out of here.”
He broke off, marched over to the corner, and returned pushing a pallet trolley. The one with the bent handle. We put it in the rear of the van and secured it to the bulkhead. Then Dawson gave me back the docket I’d signed three weeks earlier, and left us alone.
“We’re like the Ancient Mariner,” remarked George, as we made preparations to leave. “Doomed for ever to carry that trolley around.”
While all this was happening, other UniVans had been busily coming and going from Merry Park. The frenetic late-morning activity had brought John Jones to his gatehouse door, and he now stood motionless at the top of the steps, surveying the yard below. This was John’s favoured position when the weather allowed. As usual, his hands were resting on the safety rail and he appeared to be gazing at nothing in particular. When we headed for the gateway, however, I saw him raise one finger, ever so slightly. Then he put his hands in his pockets and went back inside.
“Hello,” I said. “John wants me for something.”
I stopped the van, got out, and went up the steps. John was now sitting on the edge of his desk, staring at the lino.
“A word in your shell-like,” he said. “Close the door, will you?”
10
It was an isolated world that John Jones occupied here, high up above the yard, but nonetheless it had its advantages. At his fingertips were all the requisites for his daily vigil: kettle, toaster and teapot, as well as a good selection of newspapers. The gatehouse was an airy structure, rather like a signal box without any levers. From the windows he had a commanding view of not only the depot, but also the leafy park on the one side, and the sports field on the other. The light that streamed in during the summer months was so intense that it would have been easy for John to grow tomatoes, or even orchids, if he so desired, though for reasons of his own he’d chosen not to. He lived a peaceful existence, undisturbed by casual visitors, and, as far as I knew, he was answerable to no one. The job of a gatekeeper was to ensure that the only vehicles entering or leaving the premises were UniVans, and it allowed him some degree of autonomy. Yet despite his apparent aloofness, John was always first to hear any news or rumours that were circulating around The Scheme. This was partly due to the internal telephone system, which linked him directly to every other gatehouse in the network. It was a common sight to see John standing at his window, holding the phone to his ear as he absorbed the latest piece of information. He also received gossip first-hand by inviting select individuals into his domain. The signal for such an invitation was the discreetly raised ringer I’d seen a little earlier. There would then follow a brief conversation during which John would learn a lot, and reveal a little. When I came up the steps I expected our meeting to take the same form, so I was surprised to discover that the prime purpose of my visit was for him to tell me something.
“It’s about our friend Mr Gosling,” he announced.
“Oh, yes?”
“I’ve heard from a certain quarter that it was your duty card that led to his recent downfall.”
“Well, yes,” I said. “But it wasn’t my fault. Nesbitt got hold of the card and saw all those signatures on it.”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Is there a problem then?”
“Not if we’re careful, no.”
John took a step towards the window, and stood looking out. Down below, in the yard, groups of men were gathered around their vans discussing the matters of the day.
“Our friend Mr Gosling,” he continued, “seems to have stirred up a lot of sentiment in the ranks, one way or the other. Expect you’ve heard the talk. Some parties see him as a munificent benefactor, while others regard him as an agent of sloth. I’ve got a feeling the whole issue is going to erupt very soon, and if that duty card comes to light people might jump to the wrong conclusion.”
“Blimey,” I murmured. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Well, you ought to,” said John, turning at last to face me. “You could be stuck right in the middle of it all.”
“Yes.”
He lowered his voice. “Fortunately, the card in question appears to have gone missing, so there’s no written evidence.”
“That’s a relief.”
“You might find it useful to have a look behind the fire hose at Long Reach, if you get my drift.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “Thanks, John. That’s one I owe you.”
“My pleasure,” he replied. “Perhaps you could get our friend George to drop off one of his cakes sometime.”
“Of course. Er … any idea what’s going to become of Gosling?”
As soon as I’d asked the question I knew I shouldn’t have. John gave a long sigh and shook his head.
“Don’t ask me things like that,” he said. “It’s more than my job’s worth.”
Next moment I was being shown the door. Again I thanked him for his advice and he told me to think nothing of it. Then, as John settled into his swivel chair, I went back down the steps to rejoin George.
“What was all that about?” he enquired, when I got into the van.
“Don’t ask,” I said. “Just drop him off a cake sometime, can you?”
“OK then.”
Luckily George wasn’t the prying kind, so he pursued the matter no further. On the subject of cakes, his main concern was fitting tomorrow’s arrangements around the mass meeting at Merry Park. His life was a constant logistical puzzle to which he had to adjust daily. Now, as we continued our journey, he sat in the dummy seat with a notebook and pencil, working out the best solution.
“I think we’ll have to give Sandro a miss for the next day or two,” he declared at length. “Spread the load so we don’t get a backlog building up again. While we’re at Blackwell I’ll speak to Osgood and find out if he can hold a couple of boxes overnight. Oh, and that reminds me: I need to get in touch with Pete Giggs to see what his next few duties are …”
And so it went on. George had only been on The Scheme for two years, but in that short time he’d built up a system within a system, an entire structure whose sole purpose was to facilitate the distribution of cakes. I often wondered why he hadn’t gone into business, instead of just riding round with me all day long.
When we returned to Long Reach that evening I asked Horsefall what I should do with the pallet trolley we’d picked up earlier.
“Don’t ask me,
” he said helpfully.
“Can’t I leave it here?”
“No you can’t. We’ve already got one. Where did it come from originally?”
“Cotton Town.”
“So take it back there.”
“But we won’t be going that way for weeks,” I said. “We’ve only just started a new duty.”
“Well, leave it in your van for the time being,” he suggested. “It’s not getting in the way is it?”
“No, suppose not.”
“There you are then. Problem solved.”
With a self-satisfied look on his face, Horsefall strolled over to his office and began preparing to close up for the night. During the few minutes I’d been talking to him most of the other staff had clocked out. George had already gone, and now there was practically no one around. I remained on the loading bay a little longer. Then, when I was completely alone, I went to the fire hose and looked behind it. Lodged between the housing and the wall was a duty card. I retrieved it, cast my eye over the myriad of signatures, and tore it into tiny little pieces.
The Scheme had never witnessed a mass meeting before, simply because there’d been no need for one. Not once in its history had there been any cause for dissatisfaction: we were well paid; we were immune to commercial fluctuation; and the job itself was a cinch. We merely had to drive a van between A, B and C, and our continued employment was guaranteed. It had been like that for almost three decades, without one word of complaint. Now, however, discontent had arisen, and I was curious to find out what would be the outcome.
As we approached Merry Park next day, the first thing we noticed was the huge number of UniVans lined along the approach road. They were nose to tail on the kerbside, right up to the gate, and most of them bore the letter g insignia. Many more were crammed into the yard, although the loading bay had been left clear, presumably to allow for scheduled vehicles to operate as normal. I backed in and switched off the engine, aware of the sheer volume of people milling around everywhere. We waited a while in case anyone offered to unload us, but as the minutes ticked by this seemed increasingly unlikely, so eventually we gave up and joined the throng. There appeared to be a general movement towards a point at the far side of the yard, where I could see Billy Barker standing on some kind of platform, along with a man I hadn’t seen before. As a matter of fact, I only recognized about a third of the total number present, these being workers from the depots we visited regularly. The rest, I presumed, were from outlying parts of the region, and I had to admit that the large turnout was most impressive.