I'm All Right Jack

by Alan Hackney

  Stanley, on the edge of the crowd, thought this last contention very shaky, but he held his peace.

  “Furthermore,” continued Kitey, “these proposals introduce loads on these vehicles far in excess of what had been agreed two years ago between union and employers to be safe limits. This just shows you, brothers, what the feeling of the management is to safety factors of long-standing experience.

  “I’ll give you one example,” he went on, “of a time your committee considers completely unreasonable.” He flipped several of the sheets of paper over and appeared momentarily to have lost his place.

  “Never mind the details, Kitey,” called the interrupter. “What does it all mount up to?”

  “What it mounts up to,” said Kitey, still fumbling for a moment, but then abandoning it, “what it boils down to is, your committee calculates that average earnings on the proposed schedules would go down” (cries of “Eh?”) “yes, down, from anything up to ninepence an hour, excluding bonus.”

  There were whistles of surprise, and a cry of “Bleeding liberty.”

  “Ninepence an hour down,” repeated Kitey, “and they have the cheek to claim it would mean a rise of ten shillings! And they weren’t prepared to alter a line of it. So what I propose is, a vote of confidence by you in your workmates who the bosses are proposing to victimize by this savage cut in their standard of living.

  “I propose an immediate stoppage by the entire membership until such time as the employers listen to the voice of reason and justice and withdraw.”

  “Seconded,” called a throaty-voiced person beside Kitey on the van.

  A third member of the committee on the van now spoke rapidly over the loudspeaker: “The motion is an immediate stoppage of all work by members of the General, employed by Missiles, until further recommendation let’s have a showervandsplease. In favour?”

  An obvious majority of hands was raised.

  “Against?”

  Stanley, anxious to lose no more paid time, began to raise his hand until prudence checked him and he looked round instead. There was a meagre showing against the stoppage.

  “Carried by showervands,” announced the third committee member.

  As they proceeded to the business of electing a strike committee, Stanley felt a strong nudge.

  “Come on, Squire,” said Knowlesy. “Might as well go home.”

  And so the strike began. None of the members of GEEUPWOA reported back to their shops, but collected their bicycles from the sheds and left.

  Bertram Tracepurcel also left, a little later, by car. His face did not show any visible signs of the satisfaction he felt.

  CHAPTER 17

  CYNTHIA WAS in the Amalgamated and was at work in the afternoon. Stanley went home to lunch, to the repeated surprise of his great-aunts, and hung about the place till five o’clock, when he set off for the works in the bubble car to catch Cynthia coming out.

  The stoppage by the General was not particularly popular with the Amalgamated, many of whose members were finding their earning capacity reduced by the partial dislocation of work, but no feeling had as yet arisen. Standing by the main gate and watching the cars of a number of the executive staff coming out (Missiles was not run on the same lines as Spindley’s and Bumper Bars, and the management grades tended to leave early), Stanley was hailed from the emerging car of Mr Hitchcock.

  “Windrush!” called Mr Hitchcock, pulling into the kerb and getting out. “I’ve something to say to you.”

  “Sir?” said Stanley.

  “You can see what you’ve done, Windrush,” said Mr Hitchcock accusingly. “You’ve let everyone down. What the devil are you doing employed here, anyway?”

  “It’s the money,” said Stanley, “and everyone looking after one’s interests instead of one being responsible.”

  “But damn it, Windrush, look what you’ve been responsible for. The whole blasted place on the verge of chaos, and the Agyppian Embassy threatening to cancel its contract if it’s not started tomorrow. And what’s all this about black men?”

  “I don’t know. Mr Kite seems to have got it in his head that they’re going to make our jobs so unattractive only black men would do them. Of course, he didn’t say so at the meeting this morning because of what progressive opinion might say.”

  “Yes, well that’s all balls,” said Mr Hitchcock, confident that Bertram would be made to see sense over this point. “But let me give you a tip, Windrush. You’re not going to be very popular round here, one way and another. You’ve been sent to Coventry by the union, and you’ve got me in a bloody awful spot. But there’s something you can do that’d be an enormous help.”

  “Oh, what?”

  “Resign on grounds of ill-health,” said Mr Hitchcock in a wheedling tone. “Overstrain brought on by exertion. You can count on that getting publicity and if that happens the firm will have to cancel these proposals and do a proper time study in the usual way. They tell the union beforehand, the whole thing is supervised, and the chaps go through the motions like a slow bicycle race. How’s that? Otherwise you’ll lose the country a million quid’s worth of exports.”

  “I can’t do it,” said Stanley. “I don’t care about the export drive. I’ve got my standard of living to consider.” He caught sight of Cynthia, coming out of the gate with the first batch of Amalgamated workers. “Excuse me: I’ve just got to see someone.”

  He dashed away to catch Cynthia.

  “But you won’t be able to marry her on strike pay, blast you!” Mr Hitchcock called desperately after him.

  *

  Cynthia was walking to the bus stop with her friend Brenda and Brenda’s friend, Baz. In response to Stanley’s urgent calls she turned round and the three of them waited for him.

  “Hullo,” said Stanley. “Cynthia, can I see you alone?”

  “This creep’s been hobnobbing with the bosses again,” observed Baz. “Supposed to be on strike and nattering away to Itchy like old pals.”

  “Oh, come on, Baz,” urged Brenda. “Tara, Cynth.”

  “Cynthia,” said Stanley, “I must talk to you.”

  “Well?”

  “You were out last night when I called.”

  “I’ve got to hurry, Stanley. I’m arranging about an audition.”

  “With Cox?”

  “Yes, Mr Cox arranged it. Why?”

  “Well, you’ve got to be careful with old Coxy. You never know what you’ll get mixed up with. I know him. Let me run you home.”

  Cynthia got reluctantly into the bubble car.

  “I knew Cox ages ago when I was in the Army,” Stanley went on, “and if I were you I wouldn’t get involved.”

  “I don’t know why you should object,” said Cynthia. “It’s not as if we were engaged.”

  “Yes, but we almost are and I’m saving up.”

  “You’re a long way behind Mr Cox,” said Cynthia. “That’s his car, outside our house.”

  Stanley pulled up in front of Cox’s Daimler and opened the lid for them to get out.

  “Well! Old Stan!” exclaimed Cox through his car window. “Won’t be long changing, will you, dear?” he asked Cynthia. “Dad wouldn’t let me in the house, me being a capitalist hyena, I think it was.”

  “Oh never mind Dad‚” said Cynthia. “Won’t be long.” And she went inside.

  “Look here, Cox,” protested Stanley, “I don’t like what you’re up to with Cynthia. What are you up to?”

  “Don’t worry, Stan boy,” soothed Cox. “You’re interested in her welfare, aren’t you? Well, then. It’s just I think she’s got a bit of a talent for dancing and I promised her Mum I’d do what I could for her, that’s all. You’re as bad as her Dad, fussing. And how are you, Stan? Well in at this factory, are you?”

  “No, not exactly. I’m in Coventry and on strike.”

  “Oh dear. Course, you’re approaching industry from the wrong end, my old Stan.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yerse. The mistake you make is actuall
y doing anything in industry. You want to be sort of, well, associated with it, like me. Still, you know your own mind best, of course. And how’s that Uncle of yours? Herbert was it? Used to be a Brigadier.”

  “Bertram.”

  “That’s it. Bertie. Haven’t seen him for a long, long time.”

  “But Mrs Kite said she was with both of you only the other night.”

  “Oh yes, so she was. How time flies. Well, look, my old Stan, I can’t explain anything at the moment. You know how it is in business, china, or perhaps you don’t. Now don’t you worry about young Cynthia. She’s going to make a lot of money on television. Just between you and me, I’m only doing this to oblige Mrs Kite, and make her Dad wild. Don’t let on. Ah, here we are. In you get, dear.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Stanley,” suggested Cynthia. “Oh no I won’t: you’re out on strike.”

  “Perhaps you’ll be on picket, eh, Stan?” suggested Cox. And with a broad wink he drove Cynthia away.

  Stanley saw Mr Kite watching this departure sourly from an upstairs window and called up to him: “Can I speak to you a minute, Mr Kite?”

  But Kitey raised his nose, lowered the window ostentatiously, and turned away.

  *

  Stanley spent the evening disconsolately watching the television with Great-Aunt Dolly.

  “I do adore that fat man that does that amusing programme on Mondays,” she said. “You know, the one that’s off all the summer.”

  “Oh, I know the one. And they sometimes have that other fat chap with glasses. The one they send anywhere there’s any trouble, and they throw stones at him.”

  “Oh look, they’re talking about this strike of yours on the news.”

  “The strike of twenty fork-lift truck drivers at a London factory spread today, when all the members of GEEUPWOA, the General and Electrical United Projectile Workers and Operatives’ Alliance, walked out in protest. The strike is already affecting exports as the Agyppian government this evening cancelled the firm’s contract to supply them with two million rockets. To find out the views of men and employers we sent our reporter, Henry Forearm.”

  “Oh, that’s interesting,” said Dolly. “Where’s this? Not the factory, surely?”

  “No, that’s GEEUPWOA’s branch office. Good God, there’s Kitey.”

  “Mr Kite: As President of the Strike Committee, will you tell the viewers why the strike was called?”

  “Yes. The workers at Missiles voted democratically to resist attempts which were being made to threaten the wage rates of certain members in flagrant repudiation of the agreement drawn up two years previously and currently in operation.”

  “You mean the new proposals would mean smaller wage-packets?”

  “That is correct, yes.”

  “The employers say the new arrangements would mean increased productivity?”

  “Yes, that is what they say. But having given the new schedules proposed close study and attention the committee recommended that the prior agreement gave greater scope for increases in productivity‚ coupled with proportionate remuneration to those employed in implementing them, and advised our members to resist any alterations of the nature proposed.”

  “You mean you’re better off as you are?”

  “That is correct, yes.”

  “That interviewer man’s very helpful when you try to follow this, isn’t he?” said Dolly.

  “Oh yes. It’s a special jargon. Only Kitey and the committee understand it.”

  “Forearm then interviewed a representative of the employers, who had this to say.”

  “Oh look, it’s Bertie.”

  “Now, Mr Tracepurcel, what comments have you to make?”

  Bertram looked unconcerned, but was trying hard to give an impression of gravity.

  “Well, the management proposed a reorganization of the work done by the drivers, on more modern lines. We showed the union figures proving it would mean an average increase of ten bob a week per man, but they said it couldn’t be done.”

  “And can it be done?”

  “Oh, certainly. It was done. One of the drivers was timed doing work at rather more than the speed of working we propose.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “I thought Bertie spoke very well,” said Dolly.

  “Oh yes, but you don’t get the whole story like this. No one’s mentioned the black men yet.”

  *

  Next morning Stanley went down unhurriedly in his dressing-gown to get the newspapers and the letters. There was no hurry, for there was obviously no chance of work having been already resumed. Stanley was about to open a letter from his father when the bell rang and he popped his head out. A series of blinding flashes prevented him from making out who was there, but his vision cleared and he became aware of a dozen reporters and photographers. Some of the latter continued to photograph him as he peered out at them all.

  “Any statement to make, Mr Windrush?” they clamoured.

  “Comments on the situation? What do you say about the strike? What about the effect on the general public?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t seen the papers yet,” admitted Stanley. “Here, you might have waited till I’d done my hair.”

  “What’s it like in Coventry?”

  “Are they talking to you yet?”

  “Why aren’t they talking to you, anyway?”

  “No comment,” said Stanley, the phrase coming suddenly to mind.

  “Turn it up. You can’t do that yet; you haven’t been built up yet. Let’s have your version.”

  “Well, it was something of a misunderstanding, really——”

  “Did you actually work at this rate they say isn’t possible?”

  “Yes, I——”

  “How long you been in the job?”

  “A fortnight. I——”

  “Why’re you doing a manual job?”

  “It’s the money. I——”

  “What do you think of the people you work with?”

  “Oh, first-class. I——”

  “No ill feeling?”

  “Oh no, I——”

  “Any plans?”

  “Not specially. I had been thinking of getting married——”

  “Anyone we know? Lady in Society?”

  “Only the Amalgamated National Technical and Engineering Guilds Society.”

  “How’s that again?”

  “ANTEGS. Now may I have my breakfast?”

  He withdrew his head and leaned exhaustedly on the door, ignoring the ringing, which after a minute or so ceased.

  He opened and read his father’s letter.

  My dear Stanley,

  I note from this morning’ s newspapers that there appears to be some industrial unrest at the factory where you are employed. No doubt this is the work of Communist infiltrators in the unions, and I hope you will continue to do your duty to your country and not have anything to do with it.

  Every working day lost is another nail in the coffin of freedom, and those responsible for stoppages of this kind must bear the guilt of their treachery.

  It is up to people like yourself to show a good example by resisting pressure for higher pay, and by working harder, thus bringing down prices to consumers, particularly consumers like myself on fixed incomes.

  The declining quota of sunlight normal for the time of year means an increase in our indoor activities, and I shall have less time to write.

  Kindly give my regards to your aunts.

  Your affectionate,

  Father

  “Stanley,” said Great-Aunt Mildred confidentially, “there’s something I want you to do for me. I’ve got to go out today: I’m taking two of the canaries to Cheam to look at another stud and as you’re home I’d like you to take Dolly out in your car. I don’t want the dogs anywhere near the breeding pens, and you know what Dolly’s like.”

  “Where shall I take her? Kew Gardens?”

  “That should do admirably. You both need fresh air and
exercise.”

  When they got back from Kew, some men from the BBC were waiting.

  “Now, Mr Windrush,” said one with the microphone, “they tell me at the factory you were the driver all the trouble’s about. Are you prepared to work to the new schedule?”

  “Oh, it all depends.”

  “Do you want to go back to work?”

  “Oh rather. It’s rather a bore doing nothing and I need the money.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr Windrush.”

  “How nice. Perhaps you’ll be on the news,” said Dolly.

  *

  In the evening they listened to a talk on the Third Programme in the series ‘A Thousand Years of the Dignity of Labour’, and switched on the television for the news.

  “A new development occurred today in the London factory strike. Proposals were made by ANTEGS, the Amalgamated National Technical and Engineering Guilds Society, who supply the mechanics who maintain the fork-lift trucks which are the cause of the dispute, that the work might be reorganized by the mechanics becoming driver-mechanics responsible for the trucks at all times, instead of just when they are not in operation. To find out reactions to this we sent our reporter, Godfrey Whyte-Peanut.”

  “Oh, there’s Charlie Prince,” said Stanley. “He’s the ANTEGS man.”

  “Now, Mr Prince. These proposals of yours have caused quite a stir. Is this just union rivalry?”

  “No,” said Charlie Prince. “It raises a matter of demarcation which is a matter between the two unions involved. However, I am confident a settlement can be reached.”

  “Favourable to ANTEGS?”

  “Well, favourable to GEEUPWOA as well, naturally.”

  “How would that be?”

  “I am not at the moment disposed to comment in detail on matters still under discussion by the various committees, but more satisfactory demarcation arrangements than at present should be arrived at. The arrangement we propose should simplify procedure and lead to greater efficiency, but that is a matter under democratic discussion.”