by Alan Hackney
“You must be dead stupid,” said Perce Carter. “Of course he wasn’t going to tell you.”
“You done it now,” said Knowlesy.
“Done what?”
“You’ll see soon enough,” said Kitey. “They’ll publish a stopwatch report tomorrow, with new rates for these jobs. That’s what you’ve done. And you actually speeded up for him. I dunno.”
A groan, more of despair than hostility, rose from the drivers.
“You going to make a protest to Creepy?” asked Ted Baker, a driver of diminutive proportions. “We wasn’t any of us consulted about this lark.”
“Lofty’s right,” said another driver. “You want to get on to him straight away.”
“Don’t you worry,” said Kitey. “I’ll be there, I can tell you. Typical bosses’ trick.”
“I’m sorry about all this business,” said Stanley. “I had no idea, but honestly, it wasn’t harder and it got it done in half the time.”
“Oh yes,” said Kitey. “They’d only need half the drivers at that rate. You want your head seen to.”
“I don’t suppose it matters to you,” said Perce Carter. “But we need the money, mate.”
“Oh, but so do I,” protested Stanley. “In fact I could do with a good bit more.”
“You’re going the right bleeding way to get it, and no mistake,” said Perce Carter. “They’ll be cutting the rate to about half. Why don’t you abide by the terms of the agreement? We got on all right a couple of years the way it was.”
“Oh, I don’t expect they’ll alter the rate, Perce,” said Knowlesy. “Not if old Kitey tells ’em we’ll walk out. Eh, Kitey?”
“You don’t want to be too sure,” said Kitey. “You heard what Tracepurcel was saying on the outing.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Knowlesy. “I was out in the Gents.”
“Well, it looks to me as if they’re reckoning to get a bit tough, talking about inflation and more efficiency and getting prices down by harder work.”
“Oh, I wasn’t working hard‚” protested Stanley. “Just quicker.”
“You was working like a bloody black,” said Perce Carter.
“That’s it!” cried Kitey. “You remember those black chaps coming round. You know what I reckon, brothers? I reckon they think they can get away with a lower rate on these trucks because they can get coloured blokes to do it if we won’t. Like the railways. And you remember what old Tracepurcel said about working with anyone no matter what their creed or colour? I’m off to see Creepy Crawley.”
“Well, of all the rotten lousy tricks,” said Perce Carter.
“Oh, I don’t think it was anything like that,” said Stanley. “Those black men who came round were only from the Coloured Conference. I know because a friend of mine showed them round.”
“A friend of yours?” asked Kitey, suspiciously. “What friend?”
“Well, he’s called Wallace Hardy-Freeman. At the Foreign Office. Oh, good morning, Mr Hitchcock.”
The Personnel Manager had appeared in the doorway behind the drivers, who all turned round to look at him.
Mr Hitchcock came in, with a suspicious look at Stanley.
“What’s the trouble, Mr Kite?” he asked. “This chap Windrush letting you down or something?”
“Was it you put the management on to stopwatching these trucks?” asked Kitey.
“Stopwatching? Oh believe me no,” said Mr Hitchcock. “Without consulting the union? You know me better than that. What exactly have you been up to, Windrush?”
“Funny you turning up like this, then,” said Kitey, before Stanley could reply. “I’m getting on to Mr Crawley straight away.”
“Look here, Kite,” said Mr Hitchcock, “I came here to have a chat to Windrush. I don’t know what Mr Waters is up to. Damn it, I’m Personnel Manager here, aren’t I? I don’t have to apply to the Branch Committee of the General before I talk to a blasted member, do I? I just happen to know Windrush personally, that’s all.”
“Another friend of yours?” asked Perce Carter sarcastically of Stanley. “Creep.”
“Don’t pretend you wasn’t aware what was going on,” cried Kitey, in some heat. “Don’t think I don’t know what way the wind’s blowing.” The provocations of the last twenty-four hours were rapidly coming to a climax with Kitey, “I’m reporting the entire episode to the Branch Committee.”
“You do that, by all means,” recommended Mr Hitchcock. “Then perhaps they’ll send someone to tell me what’s going on.”
“I know the way management policy’s going,” cried Kitey, “just as well as you do. But I warn you, we’re not going to step aside for any black men as easily as you think. Come on, brothers.”
He led the drivers dramatically out, leaving Mr Hitchcock facing Stanley.
“Black men?” said Mr Hitchcock. “What on earth’s this? Windrush, what the hell have you done? I warn you, Windrush, you can’t play silly-buggers with industry.”
With a menacing look he hurried back to his office.
CHAPTER 16
“WHY HAVE you come home to lunch, Stanley?” asked Great-Aunt Dolly. “Surely you won’t get back in time?”
“We aren’t working this afternoon, Aunt,” said Stanley. “Mr Kite called a stoppage.”
“You’re on strike? Oh, Stanley. How could you?”
“I knew it,” said Great-Aunt Mildred. “I knew it would come to this, getting mixed up with trade unions. Don’t you realize you’re letting the country down, not to mention your Uncle Bertram? Always wanting more money. Suppose you had to live on a fixed income like us?”
“But, Aunt, it’s not a strike, it’s just today, to protest against being stopwatched, and anyway I wish my income were fixed, if they fixed it as high as yours.”
“Who was stopwatched?” asked Dolly.
“Me. I didn’t know about it at the time, but it caused a dickens of a row, and we walked out. I didn’t want to, because I’m saving up, as you know, but I had to. Is there anything to eat?”
“Mildred got some chops. But Stanley, if you drivers don’t cart things about, won’t it bring the whole factory to a standstill?”
“Oh no, they’ll just pile up this afternoon.”
*
News of the stoppage by the fork-lift drivers quickly reached the Mayfair headquarters of Missiles. Bertram’s reaction was to drive down to the factory at once to fan the flames, but he called in at Eaton Square on his way.
“Hullo, Stanley. Letting us down, I see. What’s it all about?”
“Well, a man came and talked to me and it appears he stopwatched me while I was sprinting about a bit with my truck. Then the union man Mr Kite turned up and kicked up a fuss with the management. He’s going to see the Branch Committee, and we’re all out till tomorrow while the management makes up its mind what they’re going to do.”
“Bad luck, Stanley. I’d better drop in there and sort it all out. But I dare say you’ll be for it with the Branch.”
“Do you really think so? Oh.”
“Never mind, my dear chap. I’ll see what I can do.”
“With the union?”
“Oh dear no. Can’t interfere there.”
*
“Now, Mr Waters, tell me how it started,” said Bertram.
“Well, sir,” said Mr Waters. “I went across at about half past ten and engaged this chap in conversation while he was stacking….”
“Yes, yes. You timed several movements a number of times, I understand. Quite right. You’d decided to pick on mechanical handling, I gather, as a key item in efficiency?”
“Oh yes, rather, sir. I regard greatly increased productivity as the key to our salvation. I’ve got the report sheet here….”
“But damn it,” interrupted Mr Hitchcock, “I know those drivers are appalling, a complete shower it’s true, but it was fantastic not to consult the union first. We’ve had no trouble for a full two years now because I’ve personally supervised any nonsense of this sort, b
ut now look at it.”
“My dear Hitchcock,” said Bertram smoothly, “we must face up to economic facts. What was good enough yesterday won’t do today. The reason we’ve had no trouble so far has been that the firm has always given in and paid up every time there’s been a wage-claim, and raised its prices to cover it.”
“Oh, absolutely,” said Mr Hitchcock. “But this isn’t a wage-claim. If that report goes through it’ll mean cutting the rates, so that they have to work at more than their natural rhythm to get the same money.”
“You mean they’ll have to cut out their restrictive practices and use the equipment properly? Why not?”
“Well, quite frankly, you won’t get them to do it.”
“All right, my dear Hitchcock, let ’em go. If we regrade the job downwards, and they won’t touch it, let’s get someone that will.”
“And who might that be?”
“My dear Hitchcock, there’s a tremendous unemployment problem among coloured immigrants to this country; our black brothers after all, if I may say so. Oh, you may protest, but it would be an excellent way to get our prices down and keep our customers.”
“But my God, you’ll never get GEEUPWOA and ANTEGS to agree to that! At least, it would strengthen Charlie Prince’s position, but old Kitey wouldn’t wear it.”
“My dear Hitchcock,” pointed out Bertram, “we haven’t tried yet.”
*
In the evening Stanley called for Cynthia.
“Oh, there’s no one in but me, ducks,” announced Mrs Kite. “Dad’s gone to a meeting of the Branch Committee and Cynthia went out with the gentleman who called for her. She told me to tell you. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“I don’t think so, thanks. Who did Cynthia go out with?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t know him. A gentleman called Mr Cox. I met him the other night and I mentioned Cynthia and how keen she was on dancing and he said he thought he might be able to get her an audition for the Television Toppers.”
“A Mr Who?”
“Mr Cox. I didn’t know he had anything to do with television, but it seems he knows a lot of people. Friend of Mr Tracepurcel’s, he is. Got a nice car.”
“I see. And what does Dad think of all this?”
“Oh, he doesn’t know. It was after he left. But what’s all this I hear about you in trouble with the union?”
“Well, I’m not sure I am.”
“Well, you will be after tonight. Dad’s gone to this special meeting of the Branch to get a ruling on you.”
*
Stanley, deprived of Cynthia’s company, fell back on that of Wallace Hardy-Freeman at the Hyde Park Hotel.
“Great news, Stanley,” said Wallace, “I’m off to Bangkok again next week, all being well. Have a drink with me.”
“Good for you, Wallace,” said Stanley. “How did you manage that? I thought they swore never to have you back.”
“Actually they’ve become very short-staffed. A couple of the chaps have been invalided home with DTs, and another one’s been declared non grata for shooting some policemen. Not badly, of course. So the cry goes up for young Wallace. And how are you in that sweat-shop of yours?”
“Well, I seem to be rather non grata just at present. Old Kitey’s getting a ruling on me at this very moment.”
“Too bad. Why don’t you try and get your old job back at the Foreign Office? They’ll be short now I’m going. Of course, it’d be very much a second best after the money you’ve been getting. You could try appealing against them throwing you out for being a Commie.”
“No, I don’t think they’d fancy me now, somehow.”
*
In the morning, Stanley was met outside the Stores Block by Kitey.
“Communication addressed to you from the Branch Committee,” said Kitey, handing Stanley an envelope. “We heard your case last night.”
“Heard my case? But I wasn’t there.”
“No need for that. We were in possession of all the facts of the matter. I can tell you, they seriously discussed suspension, but in view of other aspects they finally decided on a week’s disassociation.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Sent to Coventry. It’s all in the letter.”
“You mean no one’ll talk to me for a week?”
“That’s right. In view of your careless jeopardizing of the terms of the negotiated agreement.”
“Well, why are you talking to me now?”
“Merely to inform you of the nature of the Branch Committee’s decision democratically arrived at. And I might add that this is a temporary judgement pending whatever emerges in negotiations with the management over the terms of the new settlement they propose for rating operations involving members of the General engaged in driving these trucks. Their proposals are to be the subject of a consultation between the management and unions later this morning.”
Having delivered himself of this, Kitey walked off. Stanley could readily understand why Knowlesy and the other lads could so rarely make head or tail of union business, wrapped up as it always seemed to be in prose of this sort. He went inside, but there was no response to his good morning, although everyone watched him come in. One or two indirect remarks made it clear that the union’s directive was going to be obeyed.
“A certain party will just have to keep his eyes open in the future,” announced Perce Carter. “Otherwise people might get the impression he’s a bit of a creep.”
Stanley went despondently about his tasks, deprived of his usual little chats with Knowlesy and the others. Mr Morris had considerately altered his schedule for the morning, allocating him to picking up loads for the scrap compound.
After an hour of this Stanley, advancing slowly with a great container of metal shavings down the main road through the factory, was tooted from behind, and Uncle Bertram got out of a car.
“Morning, Stanley!” he hailed cheerfully. “Back this morning again, I see.”
Several passing employees shot Stanley curious looks at his being addressed by one of the directors.
“I’m in Coventry,” said Stanley. “But I suppose you can talk to me as you’re not in the union.”
“Bad luck,” said Bertram. “But never mind. You’ll soon be the hero of the hour. If they accept the new schedules you’ll all be getting another ten bob for a standard week. I’m just off to attend a meeting with the union now.”
“Well, that seems a bit better,” admitted Stanley, brightening. “When do you suppose you’ll have it settled?”
“Well before lunch, I hope. Must go. Goodbye to you.”
This little episode cheered Stanley considerably and when he saw Kitey walking across to him he waved a greeting.
“Just a minute,” said Kitey stiffly. “I’m not communicating with you except in an official capacity, but I should like to know why a member of the Board of Directors should address you so affable.”
“Oh, it’s quite all right,” Stanley assured him. “He was just saying the new schedules should bring us more money. So it appears it’s all right after all.”
“And why should he communicate with you about it?”
“Oh, I happen to know him, that’s all.”
“Oh, you know him, do you? I suppose it was Mrs Kite introduced you, was it?” Kitey was becoming annoyed. “Is everyone I know getting to be pals with the bosses or what? What’s the idea, deliberately crawling to a sworn enemy of the economic interests of your mates?”
“But I can’t help knowing him, Kitey; he’s my uncle.”
“He’s what?”
“My uncle. I mean, why not? It doesn’t make any difference.”
“Difference? Oh, doesn’t it? I can see it makes a good deal of difference. Oh yes, I can see it all now, false pretences and all. I can see it makes you an agent pervockatoor.”
“But why should I tell you if I was trying to provoke you? I’d keep quiet about it.”
“Subjectively you may think you’re not, but objectively tha
t’s how you’re placed, act in good faith though you might,” said Kitey, always ready to explain the dialectic. “I’ll sort this out later, when we’ve had this meeting.”
*
At twelve o’clock the representatives of GEEUPWOA walked out of the meeting. They had heard, they decided unanimously, quite enough. By twelve-thirty Kitey, a duplicated copy of the proposed schedules in his hand, was addressing an emergency mass meeting of members of the General, on a bomb site in front of the main gates of Missiles.
The meeting, hurriedly assembled by the General stewards from their various shops, had not yet had its dinner.
“Come on then, Kitey,” called a voice from the crowd, “let’s ’ave it.”
Kitey, on the roof of the van belonging to the General’s Clyde Street branch, tapped the microphone. A loud ‘Pock, pock, pock’ came from the loudspeaker.
“This meeting has been convened, brothers,” boomed an electronically magnified Kitey, “to discover your views on proposals by the management to reduce their costs by cutting down the rates paid to fork-lift drivers, members of this union.
“This morning the union’s special committee met the employer’s representatives, where they were shown these proposals.” He waved the sheaf of papers. “Your committee protested at the proposed reduced rates, but I have to report to you, brothers, the employers refused point blank to make any alteration.”
There were several cries of “Shame” and “Lousy bastards.”
“On the grounds,” went on Kitey, “on the grounds that on their reckoning, a normal week’s work as scheduled would mean an extra ten shillings for each man.”
“What’s up, then?” asked a voice. “Don’t you want it?”
“Shurrup,” called a number of other members.
“You ask what’s up,” continued Kitey.
(“Yes,” said the voice.)
“Well, I’ll tell you.”
(“Good,” said the voice.)
“Sharrup, will you?” called several others.
“What’s up is this,” said Kitey, “the figures and times in their schedules” (“Let’s ’ave a copy,” said the voice) “a copy of which you should all receive by tomorrow, these times and rates they quote are based on unrealistic times outside normal human capacity which were taken from stopwatch records made yesterday without the knowledge and consent of the union or man concerned and which it would be impossible, I repeat, impossible, for an average man in average health to keep up with for any length of time.”