I'm All Right Jack

by Alan Hackney

  “Mm. He certainly appears to. Oh well, one must think of something else. Ah, here’s Stanley. Well, Stanley, how do you find it as a working man?”

  “Oh, a bit dull. Hullo, Aunt. Mind you, I think I’m in the right job, and they all look after your interests, just as you said. I wonder everyone doesn’t do it. It was a lot duller at the Foreign Office and I wouldn’t have got as much money in management.”

  “Good. Nice and restful, eh?”

  “Well, I’ve got to think of the future and getting married sometime.”

  “Oh,” said Great-Aunt Dolly, “was that why you brought that young girl here? I must say she looked very nice. What’s her father?”

  “Oh, she is. I told you about her father; he’s Mr Kite at the factory. Her name’s Cynthia.”

  “Tell me, Stanley,” asked Uncle Bertram, “I hadn’t thought of your getting married. Can you earn enough?”

  “Oh, I dare say, if I really get cracking. I’m used to the fork-lift now. I could speed up a good deal.”

  “Well, be careful with the unions,” advised Dolly.

  “And I shouldn’t start till you’re pretty sure she’ll have you,” said Bertram.

  “Yes, well, I don’t know yet. I expect I’ll be out at these dancing sessions a good deal with her.”

  “She sounds very gay,” sighed Dolly.

  “Not as gay as her mother.”

  Uncle Bertram looked very thoughtful.

  *

  Later, Uncle Bertram made a telephone call.

  “Hullo, I want to speak to Mr Cox.”

  “Cox speaking.”

  “Hullo, Cox. Bertie Tracepurcel here.”

  “Well, well. Fancy. How’s it going?”

  “Tolerably. Long time since we met. I’ve been thinking, it might be rather interesting to have a drink, eh?”

  “You’re not still up to your larks in the world of art, are you? That last caper was a bit dodgy.”

  “Oh no no. Not art, though the market’s never been better. No, this is just a little idea I’m beginning to have. I’ll tell you what; I’ll see you at the Siamese Cat, say about nine.”

  *

  “Knowlesy,” asked Stanley, “I’m beginning to find this work awfully dull, even though one gets a lot of money for it. Is that because we’re working for capitalists or what?”

  “——d if I know why,” said Knowlesy. “I never worked for anyone else bar capitalists. Personally, I get cheesed off at home, never mind here.”

  “Really? Is that what comes of being married?”

  “Course it is. Are you thinking of getting married, then?”

  “Well, I had rather thought about it. Old Kitey’s daughter. She seems an interesting girl, rather.”

  “Is she? Doesn’t take after her old man, then, or she’d be telling you all about Russia all night.”

  “Oh no. She doesn’t say anything much at all. And she seems very energetic in the evenings.”

  “Well, at that rate I’d say you was on to a good thing. Why don’t you ask her?”

  “Yes, I think I’ll have a shot at it.”

  “You do. You never know your luck. A friend of mine, Bernie Jenkins over the lathe shop, used to go out with a girl in Lewisham and he never used to say much. He never was much of a talker and one night when he’d finally sorted out how to ask her to marry him he couldn’t get the words out properly, so when he’d got as far as ‘Will you? Shall we?’ she says ‘All right, Bernie’ and takes him up to her bed-sitter, with old Bernie all tongue-tied, and the offence took place, as they say in the papers. Course, old Bernie wasn’t going to say no to a free offer, and it went on for months. Lucky he never did ask her, either, she’d only have said no.”

  “Oh, why?”

  “Well, because of her husband. Stoker, he was, on the New Zealand run. Frozen meat and all that.”

  *

  In the evening Stanley called at Kitey’s house.

  “Ah, evening,” said Kitey. “I’m glad you called. I got a bit of a problem here in something I’m writing, and you’ve got a college degree in English.”

  “Well, I’d be glad to help. Is it a book you’re writing?”

  “No, the union bulletin. Just on the branch’s activities, you know. Must keep everyone informed, that’s essential for democracy. Come in the front room. Here’s the bit. I can’t decide. Which do you think is better? ‘Toadying flunkey of the capitalist class’ or ‘Crawling lackey of the bosses.’”

  “Who does it refer to?”

  “That’s the Personnel Manager, Mr Hitchcock.”

  “Oh. Well, I suppose ‘Crawling Lackey’ is more logical.”

  “Thanks very much. I was inclined to think so too. Oh, by the way, I meant to bring in this book for you, A Churchman Looks Left. By the Dean. He’s very descriptive about the Soviet Union.”

  “Oh, splendid. And when can I read the union bulletin?”

  “It’ll be out next Thursday. I see you’ve got some flowers. For young Cynthia, I expect.”

  “Yes. Is she in?”

  “I’ll call her,” said Kitey, and going to the door he called up the stairs: “Cynth! Young Stanley’s here, duck.”

  An answering cry floated down.

  “Oh, just having a wash,” said Kitey genteelly, at the obvious sound of a lavatory flushing. “Won’t be long. Have a sit down while I get on with this writing job.”

  He settled down again, humming at his work.

  “Kitey,” said Stanley after a while, “I’ve been wondering. What do we have to have a union for?”

  “For? Oh, come on, comrade. You know about the struggles of the masses.”

  “Yes, but I don’t mean a hundred years ago, I mean now. No one gets chucked out of a job. At least, I have, but I got another, at more money. Suppose you didn’t have to do all this committee work and writing. What difference would it make to us?”

  “Ten bob a week this year,” said Kitey, without looking up, “and four and eleven last year, for a start.”

  “Well, I wasn’t here last year, but Knowlesy says they lost four weeks’ money striking, and we’re worse off anyway, because prices have gone up again.”

  “That’s right. The bosses passed the price increase on to the consumer. That’s why we got another claim in. Who’d do that except the union, and us Party members on the committee who was freely elected to look after your interests? Mind you, there’s not the same need in the Soviet Union.”

  “I suppose not. You mean because the workers have got a cushy billet there already?”

  “No, no. Not cushy billet. Human dignity. What the railways are striking about this week. Now, they don’t have to do that on the Russian railways. Incidentally, with prices keep going up we’re very near the point when our human dignity’s in whatsaname—jeopardy. Then it’s a case of more money or out. But Missiles can pay all right.”

  “I see. Do you think this railway strike’ll go on a long time? If it does I think I’ll buy a small car, now I can afford it.”

  “Oh, bound to.”

  “Bad luck on the public.”

  “Ah, no. Subjectively it might seem like it, but not objectively in the long run, because when the railwaymen get more money they’ll be more efficient, when they get their human dignity. So that’s why you need unions, to look after your dignity.”

  “Dad’s always on about his dignity,” said Cynthia, down at last after her wash. “Nice flowers, Stan, thanks. We going up the Speedway?”

  “Certainly, if you like, Cynthia.”

  “You know why I’m always on about human dignity, as you put it?” demanded Kitey peevishly.

  “Yes, because of you being under Mum’s thumb,” said Cynthia. “Do come on, Stan. We’ll miss all the races.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “MR MAHOMMED,” said Uncle Bertram, “I want you to meet an old friend of mine, Mr Cox.”

  “Mister Cox. ’Ow are you?”

  “Mustn’t grumble, taking it all round. Mr Maho
mmed got a drink, has he, Bertie?”

  “Yes, he’s nicely fixed, thank you. I wanted you to have a chat with Mr Cox, sir, because he has a rather interesting scheme I thought you might like to hear.”

  They had met in the neutral ground of the Siamese Cat, and Cox had joined them after their expensive, well-lubricated meal.

  “I think it might appeal to you because of its subtlety,” went on Uncle Bertram. “Let’s start with this big order my firm, Missiles, is doing for your government.”

  “An urgent order, I must point out,” said Mr Mahommed.

  “Exactly,” said Uncle Bertram. “One that, how shall I put it? That brooks no delay.”

  “Certainly. Vitally important. As we all know, your government gives licences for supply of arms both to my government and to the Solomonians. Equal supplies. So we cannot fight each other.”

  “Precisely. We call it Maintaining the Balance of Power.”

  “And this shipment of rockets must be done quickly or the Solomonians will have superiority and may strike at us.”

  “Exactly. Now let us suppose,” said Uncle Bertram, “that my firm could not for some reason supply the order. What would be your reaction?”

  Mr Mahommed scowled.

  “I must ask you, please don’t joke.”

  “No no‚ sir. I’m not joking, but perhaps you might then be interested in what Mr Cox has to say.”

  Cox put down his cigar, looked over his shoulder, leaned forward and said: “There’s a little company I happen to have got—Shipshape Harpoons; you won’t’ve heard of it, I bought it up for tax losses a few months ago. It’s not doing much business at the moment, but it’s got the equipment.”

  “Mr Cox,” said Mr Mahommed, “no doubt it would be very nice for you to have an order from my government, but Mr Tracepurcel’s firm has already got the order, you see.”

  “Very nice too,” observed Cox. “Only let me make a prophecy. Now what I prophesy is, in a couple of weeks, there’s going to be some reason Bertie’s firm can’t do the job, and then you’ll want a really rush order, and you’ll get a tender in from Shipshape Harpoons to do the job straight away, only it’ll cost you a bit more. At least it’ll cost your government a bit more, about sixty thousand nicker more, which is a nice easy amount to divide into three. Eeny, meany, miney.” He pointed daintily round the table.

  Mr Mahommed took a cautious pull at his cigar.

  “Very interesting,” he conceded. “And we would get them by the same date? Mm. But I am not quite clear why Mr Tracepurcel’s firm would not be able to fulfil the order.”

  “I think I can promise you that,” said Uncle Bertram. “We’ve got one chap who’s a potential troublemaker.” He shook his head sadly. “If he goes on the way he’s going, I can see we’re going to have a strike on our hands.”

  “Very sad,” said Cox. “Young Stan always was like that. You got any more of this Five Star, waiter? Good boy.”

  *

  “What you got there, then?” asked Knowlesy, as Stanley lifted the lid of his new bubble-car to push it into the cycle shed. “It seems to get you here on time, any old how.”

  “I’m beating the rail strike,” said Stanley. “It’s very good, really. It does about a million miles a gallon and I can park it under a shelf in my aunts’ shed. These people used to make fighter aircraft for Hitler and as they had a few of these lids over they make these instead. At least I think that’s what the man said.”

  “How much they rush you?” asked Knowlesy.

  Stanley told him.

  “They saw you coming,” said Knowlesy automatically. “Don’t forget to clock, now you’ve got here. I see you got a second seat behind,” he went on, as Stanley came back from clocking.

  “Yes, I’ll be able to take Cynthia out as well.”

  “Oh yer. You got as far as asking her to marry you yet?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Well, have you got as far as old Bernie Jenkins got?”

  “No, certainly not.”

  “Well, you’ll get your chance on the works outing.”

  “Oh, where to? I hadn’t been going to go.”

  “Ramstairs. They go there every year.”

  “Oh, the seaside. Yes, I’ll go.”

  “Righto. Only I never seen the actual sea yet on these trips. Really speaking, it’s more of a booze-up.”

  Dear Stanley [wrote his father],

  You appear to be settling down at the rather curious employment you have chosen. From what you say the money appears remarkably good, though this is such an obvious contributory cause of the inflation from which all the rest of us are continuously suffering that I shall make no further comment. In a discussion we had in our circle here one of the members expressed your situation in the national income structure in words which I am afraid require paraphrase: ‘I am not interested in you Jack; I am all right.’

  Several members of the party were late down because of the rail strike, now fortunately ended, though several others were delayed on their homeward journey by the current bus stoppage. Living continuously here as I do, one is not troubled by considerations of this sort. I am thinking of resuming work on ‘The Uncluttered Spirit’ now that the evenings are beginning to draw in.

  I was interested to hear that you were thinking of proposing marriage to one of the working classes. This would appear quite suitable if you intend to remain in your present job. I am sorry that, for social reasons, you will not be able to bring her down here. Perhaps the enclosed book, ‘How to be Happy Though Married’ by the Rev. E. J. Hardy, deserves your attention. I cannot claim that it affected my own affairs, but you may find it helpful.

  Mr Mahommed spent a day down here last week and oddly enough brought your Uncle Bertram with him. I still don’t trust that fellow and was surprised to see Mahommed continuously in his company. They spent most of the day talking in the woods.

  My regards to your great-aunts and to yourself.

  Your affectionate,

  Father

  People seemed determined to recommend books to Stanley. But while he had left Kitey’s Collective Childhood and A Churchman Looks Left so far unopened, How to be Happy Though Married seemed more to the point, and he began searching it unsuccessfully for any mention of sex. The Rev. Hardy was wholly silent on this subject, filling his book for the most part with curious and largely unimproving anecdotes. Stanley read one out to Knowlesy.

  “What do you think of this, Knowlesy? ‘It is far better for married people to take a pride in their children than to be like an old lady who had brought up a family of children near a river. A gentleman once said to her: “You must have lived in constant fear that some of them would get drowned.” “Oh no,” replied the old lady. “We only lost three or four that way.”’”

  Knowlesy received this in silence.

  “Well, go on,” he said at last. “I want to get on with my tea.”

  “That’s the lot,” said Stanley. “What do you think of it?”

  “I think it’s dead stupid,” said Knowlesy frankly. “Though, mind you, these kids certainly do pile up. You take old Charlie Walton. When he come back from the Army his missus was on at him to have a baby and he reckoned they couldn’t afford it. Well, she kept on at him and in the end he said, OK, just one. So they started one and stone me if she didn’t produce triplets. Well, when old Charlie had been on this gun-site in the Midlands it seems he’d got some girl into trouble and it turned out she ’ad triplets too, and when the case come up in court the magistrate said there wasn’t any doubt about them being Charlie’s in view of the fact his wife had had the same thing happen to her, and as she was a kindhearted bint she insisted on taking over the other nippers too, so Charlie had a round half dozen to look after just from two what you might call indiscretions. You don’t want to ask him about it, though; he’s a bit sensitive. Don’t let me stop you working, Squire; it looks as if you’re going to have to save up.”

  *

  “Well,”
exclaimed Mrs Kite. “What’ve you got there, Stanley? Isn’t it lovely?” She had come out to the pavement to look at the bubble car. “You going to take us all out in it, dear?”

  “If you like, certainly. One at a time though.”

  “Oh, lovely. What d’you think of this, Dad?”

  “It’s all right,” said Mr Kite dubiously. “Wouldn’t like to be in it with buses around, though.”

  “Oh, go on. You’re always niggling. Anyway, there aren’t any buses around. They’re all striking; you ought to know that.”

  “I see you know it all,” said Kitey darkly. “Good job everyone isn’t a traitor to their class.”

  “Oh, dry up, you silly old basket,” advised Mrs Kite cheerfully. “Never mind him, Stanley. How about a run round?”

  “Go on, Mum,” said Cynthia. “I’ll wait while you have a ride. If it can take you it’ll be safe for me.”

  “Sauce,” said Mrs Kite, not minding a bit. “Here goes. Oops.” She raised a leg over the edge of the cockpit and subsided fatly into the rear seat. “Very comfy,” she pronounced, settling down. “Five pounds, cabby, if you catch the one in front.”

  And with such jollities they set off on a little tour of the district.

  “There’s Mrs Jordan,” she said, spying a drinking and cinema companion of hers, and tapping on the perspex. “Sound your hooter, Stanley dear. Oo-oo!”

  Stanley was a little embarrassed by his passenger, but her cheery manner was infectious.

  “I don’t know that I feel safe locked in here with you,” she guffawed, giving him a dig from behind that stunned him. “Good job it’s broad daylight.”

  When they got back Cynthia was standing waiting, though Kitey had gone in.

  “Well, that was lovely, Stanley, thanks very much,” said Mrs Kite. “Give us a hand out, ducks. Erp.” She stood on the pavement and patted her chest. “Like a little aeroplane; ever such a good view all round. Oo, look at the time. I’ve got to see Mrs Jordan and get round the Palace for that Joan Crawford film about psychiatrists. Off you go, then. Have a good time. Mind how you go.”