by Timothy Lea
‘I can see what Mrs Rightberk sees in him,’ says Jean wistfully. ‘His revolutionary fervour gets me going.’
‘You mean Umbrage?’ I say. It really does take me a minute to realise who she is talking about.
‘Of course. He sat next to me on the coach once.’
‘Listen,’ I say, taking a quick shufti at the corrugated iron shack to see that it is still standing. ‘Why don’t you and I pop over to the Cuddle Chamber and get better acquainted?’ Now that Umbrage has got her going it seems a pity not to take advantage of it.
‘Are you mad?’ she says. ‘This is my lunch hour.’
Another washer rolls out of my trouser leg and I kick it savagely in the direction of the canteen.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘How’s it going then?’ I say. It is a few days after the union meeting and I am having a drink with Sid in the Highwayman. I have hardly clapped eyes on him at the factory.
‘Not bad,’ he says. ‘My approach shots are all right but I’m dead ropey off the tee.’
It takes me a few moments to realise what he is on about. ‘Golf?’ I say. ‘Is that where you’ve been?’
‘It gets a grip of you,’ says Sid earnestly. ‘Even if I wasn’t doing it for the firm I’d still be dead keen. The other day — it was funny, really — I’d just sliced my drive into this little wood —’
‘Copse,’ I say.
‘Where?’ Sid looks round nervously.
‘I was referring to the little wood, not the fuzz,’ I say derisively. ‘Gordon Bennett. What are you wasting your time playing golf for? Why aren’t you back at the factory? That’s where you’re needed. The whole place is about to collapse.’
‘First things first,’ says Sid. ‘I appreciate that there are some aspects of the business that require attention but you have to remember that for better or worse I represent the management echelon. Golf is the language of management just as Froggy is the language of diplomacy. Why do you think all the Nippons are so dead keen on golf?’
‘Because the ball looks much bigger to them?’
‘No, Timmo. It’s so they can sell lots of transistor radios. They trot round the course talking business and having a swing at the ball occasionally. Incidentally, did you know that washer just fell out of your trouser leg?’
‘I don’t notice them any more, Sid.’
Oh well. Please yourself. Where was I? Oh yes — I’d just sliced my first drive into the trees, hadn’t I?’
‘No, Sid,’ I say wearily. ‘You were trying to justify learning to play golf while the firm fell apart.’
‘Fell apart!’ snorts Sid. ‘You do exaggerate, Timmo. You’re like all those articles in the posh Sundays. Always knocking British management. Well, let me tell you, my lad. We’ve taught the world a few things in our time.’
‘Such as?’ I say.
Sid thinks for a few minutes. ‘Well, there’s golf, for a start,’ he says.
‘You’re being ridiculous, Sid,’ I tell him. ‘There’s no system, there’s no planning!’
Sid bashes his hand down on a Dr Barnardo’s box which falls apart. ‘You can’t say that,’ he says. ‘That’s totally unfair. You’re dealing with men of foresight and integrity.’ He sifts through the change in the Dr Barnardo’s box and shakes his head. ‘Look at that. Disgusting, isn’t it? Three buttons, an old penny and a suspender. There’s hardly enough here for a couple of pints.’ He looks round the room and pockets the money. ‘I’ll keep my eyes open for another box,’ he says.
‘I’ll buy you a jemmy for Christmas,’ I tell him.
Sid ignores my generosity. ‘Where you’re so wrong is to imagine that the firm doesn’t have a plan. This is totally untrue. Surely you’ve heard of built-in obsolescence?’
Now Sid comes to mention it, it does ring a bell. ‘Refresh my memory, Sid.’
‘What is the biggest problem with selling beds, Timmo?’
‘Getting them up the stairs?’
‘No, Timmo. That’s the customer’s problem. The big problem is that they last too long. How many times have you heard your mum say, “Oh dear me, Walter. We must get a new bed. This one is falling apart”? Never, right?’
‘That’s right, Sid.’
‘If you’re lucky, you can sell one bed in the course of a lifetime. What we’re planning to do is to manufacture beds that fall apart after a few years so the customer has to buy a new one. We have two ways of doing this. First of all we use specially treated materials which have a limited life. Secondly, we have our secret plus — inferior workmanship.’
When Sid rabbits on like this I wonder how I could ever have doubted him. It all makes such good sense, doesn’t it?
‘In order to make the customer receptive to the idea of buying a new bed we’re going to mount an advertising campaign showing a constant stream of new, different and exciting beds. That way, the prospect should get so fed up with his old bed that he’ll attack it with an axe before it collapses under him.’
‘This is where the professor comes in, I suppose,’ I say.
‘Exactly, Timmo. We don’t expect to sell a lot of the beds he produces. They’re just there to create interest and dissatisfaction. We want people to think that new developments are taking place all the time and that you have to change your bed to keep abreast of them.’
I am forced to shake my head in admiration. ‘That sounds wonderful, Sid, I wish Umbrage and his lot could have heard you. There’s a large body of opinion that thinks of the management as being a bunch of ignorant, parasitic twits.’
Sidney flinches. ‘That’s so untrue. The board of directors — or the Rightberk family, it comes to the same thing — are a wonderful bunch of people, and they have very low handicaps.’
‘You mean, golf handicaps, Sid?’
‘No, I mean that only three of them can’t read and write. That’s much better than the average for the country. I checked with the Institute of Directors.’ Sid looks thoughtful. ‘Tell you what. It might be a good idea if you came to our next meeting. Then you could pass the word around.’
‘Why can’t the directors keep in touch with the workers themselves, Sid? I thought you were dead keen on that kind of thing?’
Sid nods. ‘I was, Timmo. But I didn’t realise how complex it all was. Did you know that Ascot, Wimbledon and Henley come one after the other? You’ve hardly got time to change your clobber and wipe the strawberries and cream off your mush. And these blokes aren’t just directors of one company, you know. Their specialist management skills are at a premium. Their razor-sharp minds are at the beck and call of a number of business consortiums.’
‘I never knew that, Sid.’
‘Of course you didn’t. Neither did I until I got amongst it. It’s not all beer and skittles, you know — or champagne and backgammon as we call it in the trade.’
‘When is your next meeting?’ I say, overcome by a new eagerness to see these giant intellects in full grapple.
Sid produces a small leatherbound booklet trimmed with gold. I note that it has “Director’s Appointment Book” engraved on the cover. ‘Tomorrow,’ he says.
‘At the factory?’
‘No. At the A.C.D.C.’
‘The A.C.D.C.? They’re not all bent, are they?’
‘Not all of them,’ says Sid. ‘Blimey. You do get some funny ideas sometimes. A.C.D.C. stands for Artisan Controllers’ Dining Club. It’s in Berkeley Square.’
‘Why do they meet there?’
Sid clenches his teeth irritably before replying. ‘It helps to put things in a clearer perspective if you can get away from the scene of immediate involvement. Also there’s the question of noise.’
‘You mean, the factory is too noisy?’
‘No, it’s the eerie silence that disturbs some of the directors. They think better against a background of clinking glasses and rattling knives and forks.’
‘It sounds very grand, Sid.’
‘It is, Timmo. Don’t let me down by eating your peas off
the side of your knife. Mash them up with your spuds if you’re having problems.’
It is with a feeling of rare excitement that I repair to the A.C.D.C. The more so when I discover that we are eating in a private room — “The De Slurp Room”. I get there a bit late because my bus is held up in Knightsbridge and when I enter the room, full of gilt and mirrors, all the seats round the table except one are taken.
I recognise Sid and Rightberk but the other four geezers are unknown to me. They all look like Rightberk in an advanced stage of decay so it is no problem spotting the family resemblance.
‘Here at last,’ says Sid irritably. ‘Gentlemen, this is Timothy Lea. The one what I have been a telling you of.’ I can hardly understand his voice it sounds so posh and affected. Maybe he has been having elocution lessons — Dad wanted him to have electrocution lessons but that is another story.
‘The worker chappy, what? I say, let’s have a look at him. Jolly droll wheeze. He, he, he!’
‘Control yourself, Henry. You’ve seen a member of the so called working classes before.’
‘Have I, Plantagenet? Oh well, if you say so, old bean. Give the champers a fair wind, will you?’ The skinny one with the wispy yellow hair drooping over his nut gives another high-pitched giggle and snaps his fingers a couple of times. His neighbour of the surly expression and dewlapped mug continues to glare at me. ‘Shoot the lot of them,’ he says. ‘Total automation, that’s the only answer.’
‘Come, come, Plantagenet,’ says his brother. ‘Machines can’t raise pheasants, can they?’
‘Mother pheasants can,’ says Plantagenet.
Damn me,’ says Henry. ‘I never thought of that. I always wondered how the heat got to the eggs through those thick serge uniforms Pater used to make the keepers wear. No wonder you were the finest brain of your decade at Oxford, Plantagenet. What say you, Crispin?’
The geezer sitting next to him has his head resting on the table and it does not move.
‘Crispin is not feeling himself this morning,’ says Jeremy Rightberk.
‘That makes a change,’ sneers Plantagenet. ‘Usually his antics quite put me off my devilled kidneys. Now, what the deuce has happened to those serving wenches?’
So far, I have not been conscious of Slumbernog overtaxing the minds of those sitting round the table but the fifth member of the Rightberk family present touches upon the subject. ‘Is that swine Umbrage still alive?’ he asks. ‘I’d horsewhip him within an inch of his life and then set the hounds on him if I had my way.’
Plantagenet shakes his head. ‘Your sensitive nature was always the undoing of you, Maitland. You’re as soft as a retriever’s mouth to be sure. The only answer with the like of that Trotskyist agitator is instant extermination.’
‘God damn it!’ says Jeremy. ‘You’re hopelessly out of touch, you fools. Don’t you know that we’re living in the nineteenth century?’
‘Er — twentieth century,’ says Sid.
‘Well, twentieth century, then,’ says Jeremy. ‘Can’t be bothered with hair-splitting myself.’
‘Don’t mind cleaving the odd coney, though, do you, eh, what?’ says Henry and they all fall about laughing. All except Crispin who continues to lie with his head on the table. I have no idea what they are talking about most of the time but they do seem a very funny load of blokes. I can understand why Sid isn’t saying much.
‘The old ways are no longer viable,’ says Jeremy. ‘You must remember that. Why do you think I’ve recruited this vulgar little oik to the board?’
‘So you can separate him from all his money, I suppose,’ says Plantagenet. ‘What other reason could there be for having to rub shoulders with such an odious pip squeak?’
It has only just occurred to me that they are talking about Sid.
‘The unions,’ says Jeremy as if delivering a great truth. ‘He talks their language, haven’t you noticed? He doesn’t sound the ends of his words and he calls supper tea. With him on the board our passage will be eased.’
‘My passage will certainly not be eased,’ snorts Plantagenet. ‘Not by that peasant. Now where — ah, here they are.’
I follow his glance and — by the cringe! — three luscious pieces of frippet are approaching our table with their naked bristols at the full flaunt. Topless waitresses, no less. I never thought I was letting myself in for this when I put on a clean pair of Y-fronts.
‘You ordered more champagne, gentlemen?’
‘Half an hour ago,’ snaps Plantagenet.
‘And how would you have it served?’
‘Leave the bottles here and go about your business.’
The bird opposite me bends over and her bristols flop on to Crispin’s nut like they are trying to hatch it. I have not seen a bigger pair outside those magazines Dad keeps hidden in the hallstand. She bobs a curtsey and then disappears underneath the table. At first I do not think anything of it but when a second bird goes down I wake up to what is happening. Why are they vanishing beneath the voluminous napery? I have not seen anyone drop anything.
‘The trouble with this damn country is that there has been a complete collapse of moral values,’ says Plantagenet bitterly. ‘Decent human standards just don’t prevail any more.’ He empties a glass of champagne down his throat and hurls the glass at a distant waiter.
Next to him, Maitland’s eyes glaze over and he grips the table with both hands before letting out a low croaking sound. Y-e-e-e-s!’ he gasps.
‘What do you say, Henry?’
Henry’s behaviour is even more strange than Maitland’s. He bounces up and down giggling hysterically and eventually plunges his hand into the ice bucket and shoves a handful of ice cubes into his cakehole. While he splutters and squeaks, Crispin slides slowly beneath the table like a ship being launched. It is the first time he has moved since I came into the room.
‘Do you think we should call a waiter, Sid?’ I say. ‘Sid?’
My brother-in-law is slowly rising from his seat and his mouth is opening wider and wider without any sound coming from it. His minces, too, are glazing over as if nipped by frost. I look beyond him to one of the mirrors that line the walls and see a comely arse sticking out from beneath the table. It is moving backwards and forwards like a rounded piston head. What is going on beneath the table? I am about to take a shufti when soft fingers pluck open my fly with practised skill and a tousled female head rises momentarily above table level.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, sir,’ it says. ‘We’re a bit short handed today.’
CHAPTER FIVE
When I leave the De Slurp Room it is four o’clock in the afternoon and Plantagenet has called for more champagne and a change of waitresses. I have just disappeared under the table for the third time and I take the chance to crawl away on my hands and knees with the girls. I don’t know how they manage to do it and keep their minds fresh for business. The subject has hardly been mentioned so I imagine that they will be discussing the firm’s affairs later. There was talk of going on to the Nutcracker Suite for what Maitland described as ‘more substantial fare’. I could not keep it up myself — which is certainly something you could not say for Crispin. Though short on words he was a demon when it came to dishing it out at crotch level. Three hours he was at it without stopping. You forgot he was there until his hand appeared above the table groping for another bottle of champagne.
The rest of them didn’t seem so keen on straightforward humping. Probably because it interfered with the speed at which they could pour champagne down their throats. I think, too, that the upper classes go a bit more on the kinky stuff. Something to do with strict pot training and greater powers of imagination. Poor old Sid didn’t seem to know whether he was coming or going and his posh accent kept slipping every time he made a grab for the table cloth. I think he may have bitten off more than he can chew — which again is not something that can be said about the birds who were performing so valiantly at knee level. As a bunch of nunga nibblers they were in a class by themselv
es and I will not soon forget the little lady who helped herself to a gobful of ice cubes and gave me my first arctic blow job. Blimey! Talk about ‘Tooti Frutti All Rooti!’ I was practically shouting ‘Mush! Mush!’ as she glided over the frozen wastes.
After the A.C.D.C. the factory seems pretty bleak when I roll up at eight the next morning and notice that a sign saying ‘Slumbernog’ has appeared over the front gate. At least Sid has got something for all the money he must have lashed out. I clock in and trudge over to the cafe where Lenny and Harry are staring into space over their empty tea cups.
‘Fancy another one?’ I say.
‘No thanks, mate.’ They both put their hands over their cups as if another drop of cha would be a wicked indulgence. ‘Have a nice time yesterday, did you?’
‘Very interesting,’ I say. I am in a bit of a quandary because I know that Sid wants me to crack up the management as being shit-hot but, in the circumstances, I feel ill-equipped to do so. The only time they mentioned the firm was when saying that Umbrage ought to be shot. It is a point of view, but certainly not one that is likely to get the lads on the shop floor launching an instant increased productivity drive.
‘We thought about you when we were having our sandwiches,’ says Lenny. ‘Didn’t we, Harry?’
‘That’s right. We had a bit of a blitz on it while you were away. I think I’ve done my back, mind you, but there you go. It’s probably no worse than your hernia, is it, Lenny?’
‘Give or take a few spasms of excruciating agony, no, Harry.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I hope you didn’t overdo it because I wasn’t there?’
Lenny shakes his head and then stops and feels his neck. ‘No — ooh!’
‘One of your spasms?’ says Harry sympathetically.
‘Just a twinge,’ says Lenny. ‘It should pass in a few days.’
‘I’ll make up for it today,’ I say. ‘I had a blow — er, yes, yesterday, so I’ll have a go today. You relax and I’ll do it by myself.’