by Alan Hackney
“Your union is not out on strike, is it?”
“That is correct, no.”
“Will that be the case tomorrow?”
“I am not prepared to make predictions. Thank you.”
“Well, that’s a fine thing, if they come out too,” remarked Stanley. “I wonder what Uncle Bertram thinks of all this.”
“Questioned by our reporter, one of the directors of the firm‚ Mr Tracepurcel, made the following comments:
“As to this proposal by Mr Prince of ANTEGS,” said Bertram, “I’m all for any suggestion that might help end the dispute. If the members of ANTEGS can show they could do the job better—and perhaps they could—well, that’s a matter for the two unions to decide. As it is, their members are going rather short of work because of the strike by GEEUPWOA.”
“And you’ve lost the big export order?”
“I’m afraid so. But our hands are tied, particularly if the unions start squabbling among themselves.”
The scene now shifted to the branch headquarters of the General, where Godfrey Whyte-Peanut asked Kitey:
“Will this proposal mean a clash between your union and ANTEGS?”
“It will be a matter for study and discussion. I would not go further.”
“If both unions come out to fight over this issue, then the public will suffer?”
“No, that is a fallacy. The public will benefit, in view of the clarification of demarcation arrangements, resulting from the friendly discussion that will ensue, thereby decreasing the industrial tension otherwise inevitable under a system of private ownership and profit.”
“Well, I imagine only Kitey can understand that,” said Stanley. “And here’s me.”
His image, looking strangely eager, told the countless viewers of his keenness to get back to work.
“The contract which Missiles were to have done for the Agyppian government will not after all be lost to this country,” resumed the news reader. “It has been secured by another British firm with the spare capacity to undertake the work.”
“Oh, good,” said Stanley. “I haven’t messed up the export drive.”
CHAPTER 18
“MY GOD,” exploded Mr Hitchcock. “Have you seen this?”
The newspapers were full of the strike, treating it in their different ways. The pictorial ones had large human interest photographs of the pickets. One showed a striker stroking a cat and was captioned PUSSY WAS ON PICKET TOO, another showed a baby born to Perce Carter and his wife under the heading DAD STRUCK LUCKY—HELPED AT HOME INSTEAD, but what had annoyed Mr Hitchcock was a paragraph in the Daily Rapid’s editorial column, and it was this he took in to Mr Waters.
“Salute Stanley Windrush!” [read Mr Waters.] “Why? Because this man did in one hour what his workmates did in two. What did the union do? They sent him to Coventry. Was he working too hard? No. He was working more efficiently. What a reward. Does he forgive them? Yes, he does. ‘They are first-class chaps,’ he told us. Here is an example to us all. BUT—THIS FOLLY MUST END.”
“An example to us all!” echoed Hitchcock bitterly. “The man’s a sheer lunatic. Absolute Charlie. The General are out and the Amalgamated’ll be out after this morning. Look at the rest of it.”
“What has Windrush done wrong? Nothing. He is saving to get married. But what a world for him to bring his children into. For he is trapped. Trapped between two great unions squabbling over his job. Listen to them: see them on TV. Stanley Windrush is between the upper and nether millstones, and his freedom will be crushed.”
(The proprietor of the Rapid approved of Biblical allusions, and of individual enterprise except in matters of prose style. All the leading articles were written in this special way.)
“You see what you’ve started with your damn-fool ideas about efficiency? Of course, anyone who wasn’t such a Charlie as Windrush would’ve spotted you right away. God knows, I’ve kept those two unions apart for years, and now you and Windrush have got them at each others’ throats.”
“I’ve been a bit worried about it,” admitted the Time and Motion man.
“You’re as big a clown as Windrush,” said Mr Hitchcock. “A bit worried! I’m going to reorganize this place.”
*
“There’s a Mr Knowles on the telephone for you, Stanley,” said Great-Aunt Mildred.
“Oh? Good. Hullo, Knowlesy.”
“Hullo, Squire. Seen you on the telly last night.”
“Yes. Kitey too.”
“All the boys was looking at the telly; they always look in a lot when there’s a stoppage.”
“So Mrs Kite told me. How’s things?”
“Mussengrumble. You’re in all the papers this morning, Squire.”
“I know. Where are you speaking from?”
“Near the works. Charlie Prince is just holding a bit of a parliament. Looks as if they’ll be out too, like the papers say.”
“Oh good. That means Cynthia’ll be free for the day. I’ll come down.”
“Young Cynthia? No, Squire. Kitey was saying she give her cards in yesterday. Got a new job, dancing.”
“On television?”
“——d if I know. Old Kitey seemed very narked about it, though. You corning to draw your strike pay, Friday?”
“Do I get any, in Coventry?”
“Course you do. I shouldn’t worry about that Coventry lark, Squire. They most likely forgotten about that already, now we’re trying our strength with the Amalgamated. Seen that about Perce Carter’s baby? Not a word in the papers about Taff Griffiths, you’ll notice.”
“Who’s Taff Griffiths?”
“Lives with them. Course, it may be all right, but Perce was away last December, so there you are. Well, I’ll go and have another look at Bonny Charlie’s meeting. See you.”
*
Uncle Bertram hummed a little tune to himself. Things were developing nicely, with the Amalgamated out now. Except for a tiny minority belonging to minute unions like MICE and WUWU (Mechanical Instrument Constructing Engineers and the World Union of Women Udometricians, who tested moisture-recorders), all the employees of Missiles were at home or picketing the main gates. Bertram had gone to the Board Meeting that morning, taking full responsibility for the failure of the policy of toughness he had advocated, and offering his resignation as the only honourable course. The Board, despite their troubles, had been impressed by his taking the full blame without excuse, even inventing excuses for him, and brushing aside the idea of his resigning.
None the less, another director was given the task of coming to terms with the unions.
The prospect of this coming about within any reasonable time was unlikely enough for Bertram to feel private satisfaction. Nor would it ruin the company: it was quite strong enough to survive setbacks of this sort. Bertram did not propose to sell his shares—he would not have to. He thought, too, that he had cut exactly the right sort of figure on the television interview; poised, polite, on good enough grounds not to have to appear self-righteous, a man in whom the public at large would see sense and have confidence. And in the course of the week, a tax-free twenty thousand each for himself and Cox and Mr Mahommed.
In the suburbs, at Shipshape Harpoons Ltd, the production run for the Agyppian rockets was getting fairly smoothly under way. After the small-batch production of harpoons, javelins for Olympic teams and seasonal runs of fireworks in the autumn months, it was a pleasurable challenge to the management to have a good steady month’s run at full capacity, and the prospect of further orders from a satisfied foreign customer, supposing this run went according to plan. New life blood had been injected into the firm at just the right time. It had been very enterprising of the Managing Director to grab the rocket order at precisely the right moment. The Works Manager’s former suspicions of Mr Cox had clearly been groundless. The shares had rocketed up on the Exchange.
*
Cox, too, was very pleased with himself. The Kite-baiting policy of Bertram and himself had paid off handsomely
; the contract for Shipshape Harpoons was secure and the first payment would be arranged in the next day or two; the strike at Missiles had hogged the publicity so that the contract to Shipshape had received only a suitable bare mention. He had even been able to do young Stanley a good turn: if Cynthia wanted to marry him she would be bringing him a nice income from her engagement with the Toppers. It was useful knowing people—it hadn’t been too difficult getting her in.
*
The following day Stanley received a further letter from his father.
My dear Stanley,
My attention has been drawn to a number of pictures and articles in several of today’s newspapers which concern your part in the unpatriotic stoppage of work by the staff of Missiles. I fail to understand why you should have sought this publicity, or at least not avoided it. It has brought me endless inconvenience here, where I have been unremittingly questioned by a number of our members, some of whom are of the opinion that you are playing a mischievous double game with two trade unions.
Please make your position clear.
Thank Heaven we are well clear here of the internecine strife which for years has been sapping the vital strength of our country. It is far different here, working harmoniously as we all are for the promotion of healthy physical and mental repose.
Your affectionate,
Father
His father’s contention that it was different at Sunny-glades was reminiscent of Wallace Hardy-Freeman’s ‘It’s different in Bangkok’ and Kitey’s ‘It’s different in the Soviet Union’. The only difference—though a significant one—was that Mr Windrush’s was not a vision of a far country: he was actually there. Stanley had just sat down to write, making his position clear, when the telephone summoned him.
“Mr Windrush? This is the Features Editor of the Daily Rapid.”
“Oh yes. Yours is the paper that’s saluting me. What can I do for you?”
“Well, Mr Windrush, the proprietor’s very keen on running a series on strikes and how they affect the ordinary worker in industry. A rush job, starting tomorrow, and what we’d like is an article by you—human interest—just as the common man struggling to get on and work your way up but kept down by restrictive practices and so forth. You with me?”
“I think so.”
“Right. Now, I dare say you haven’t done any writing and we’ll send a man along to help you get straight on with it. OK? I take it you’re quite free at the moment?”
“Yes. Pretty well, but——”
“To be finished this evening and trimmed up a bit so we can put it in tomorrow while the thing’s still hot. OK?”
“We-e-ell, I——”
“Say a hundred pounds?”
“Oh. Well, I’m a bit short of money, so——”
“Two hundred and fifty, then. Six hundred words, certainly not more than eight, and signed by you. I’ll send a man down straight away to help you on with it.”
“Well, I’ll certainly accept that,” said Stanley. “Only I’d rather do it myself and get it to you by when? Six?”
“Five. And come straight up to sign the usual agreement. That’s just a line or two, allowing us to make necessary alterations. All right?”
“Very much all right. Expect me at five, then.”
“Right you are, Mr Windrush. But we must have it by five, remember.”
Stanley got straight on with his article. He sorted out one or two back numbers of the Daily Rapid to get the hang of their quaint prose style, and with Dolly’s dogs gnawing with quiet persistence at his ankle, and Mildred’s birds shrieking uninterruptedly in their breeding cages, he wrote out a rambling and quite unsuitable description of his happy times at Missiles.
“Fine,” said the Features Editor, when he took it to the Rapid building in the bubble car. “I’ll get one of the Editorial to go straight over it.”
“Oh good; my spelling’s not awfully strong,” said Stanley. “Let me know if you ever want any more articles.”
“I’ll do that. Excuse me now, will you?” The Features Editor curled his neck and right shoulder into a clamp to hold a telephone, lit a cigarette, and gave Stanley a curious crooked nod of farewell as he withdrew.
“In here a minute, Roger,” he said down the telephone, “and bring in that article you wrote for Windrush. I’ve got his here so you can put in a bit or two from it.”
*
Stanley went straight off to do something he had had to put off all day because of the article. He drove to the Kites’ house to resume his suit with Cynthia.
Mr Kite opened the door. When he saw it was Stanley he said: “The only thing I want to say to you is, I want those books back I lent you.”
“Yes, of course. Tell me, can I see Cynthia?”
“That’s all I’m saying.”
The voice of Mrs Kite came from inside.
“Who’s that at the door, Dad? Don’t keep them on the step.”
“It’s nobody.”
“Oh, look here, surely you can say if she’s in?”
There were somewhat testy noises from within and Mrs Kite appeared in the hall.
“What d’you mean, nobody?” she asked. “Stanley, take no notice of Dad; getting a bit above himself. Cynthia, was it, you wanted?”
“Oh, hullo, Mrs Kite. Yes. I’ve not managed to see her for a day or two.”
“Oh, what a shame; she’s not in, Stan ducks. One of the girls was sick and she’s standing in for her, dancing. Comes on at nine on the BBC. You got a telly at home or’d you like to look at ours?”
“He’s not coming in this house,” came the muffled tones of Kitey from the front room. “I’ve got me self-respect.”
“Oh, we’ve got one. If she comes in late, will you tell her I’ve got enough money for what I had in mind? I had thought of taking on another job while the strike’s on, but of course the firm’s got my cards.” (An outraged noise came from Kitey.) “But anyway, I wrote a thing for the Daily Rapid and they’ll be sending me quite a lot of money when it’s published, so will you tell her I’ve got enough now?”
Mrs Kite smiled delightedly.
“Of course, duck,” she said, “soon as she comes in. It’ll be late, I expect, but I won’t forget. ’Bye.”
When she closed the door Kitey came out of the front room and said angrily: “Taking on another job! And writing for that capitalist rag, the Rapid. To think I nearly had him along to a meeting of the Party.”
“Oh, don’t be such a drip,” advised Mrs Kite. “Fat lot of good your blessed Party’s done, getting the Amalgamated out as well and all over nothing.”
“It’s a matter of principle,” said Kitey. “Demarcation’s something you got to be vigilant over or the boss-class get it all their own way, and that’s nothing to do with the Party.”
“Don’t tell me, I know,” said Mrs Kite. “It’s different in the Soviet Union. Well, you going to be out or in?”
“Out,” said Kitey bitterly.
CHAPTER 19
My Dear Father [Stanley had written],
I was going to write to you and make my position clear, but I’ve done it in detail for the Daily Rapid. See tomorrow’s paper.
Both Stanley in London and his father in Surrey scanned the following day’s paper for any sign of the article. For some reason it was not there.
Sorry try tomorrow’s (telegraphed Stanley).
Where is article (telegraphed his father).
The next day was Sunday, which passed uneventfully‚ apart from two rival protest meetings in Trafalgar Square. However, on the Monday there was no missing the article, which appeared in the middle pages under the large heading A WORKER PROTESTS. STOP THIS FOLLY by STANLEY WINDRUSH. Near the top of the page there was one of the pictures taken at the door some days previously, made composite by using Stanley’s head and neck with the chest of a pair of overalls, Stanley’s dressing-gown having been airbrushed out.
“That’s odd,” thought Stanley, reading the first paragraph. “This isn
’t what I wrote.”
He was astounded at how the article read. Whereas he had written of his becoming a factory worker because of a crying need, and of how he had been well treated and only sent to Coventry because of a misunderstanding, and how he intended to marry his shop steward’s daughter, the article gave a far different impression.
I protest [it began]. Why do I work? To earn money. To save up and get married. But my trade union, GEEUPWOA, which has a national membership of two and a quarter million, is holding me back. I cannot work because they are on strike. Why? I do not understand it. I want to get back to work but I would lose my card. Up till now I have been fairly treated.
Further on it became even more unfamiliar.
Industry was crying out, I was told. For men. So I began working in industry. I seemed to be getting on very well. I was going to marry the shop steward’s daughter.
(Here reference was made to a footnote in heavy type, reading: William Kite, Chairman of GEEUPWOA’s local Strike Committee. Member of Communist Party. Seen recently on TV.)
Stanley telephoned the Features Editor.
“Ah, Mr Windrush. You got your cheque?”
“Yes, thank you, but this article is hardly any of it my stuff. What’s the idea?”
“All that’s been added is certain objective facts, Mr Windrush, and material from observations made by you to our reporter the other day. All right?”
“No, it isn’t. What about ‘After only a fortnight at the job I was able to work twice as fast as the others’?”
“Yes, that was information you gave our reporter. You did say you paid in your cheque, didn’t you?”
“Yes, yes. I——”
“That’s fine, then. Anything else?”