by ToClark
CHAPTER 1
He was in early. "I have made my mark!" he said to himself as he sat at his desk. "Today, they will all know that they have an Administrative Officer. Not 'the Admin. Officer', or 'Melksham from Admin.', but Mr Melksham the Administrative Officer." He insisted upon it, just as it appeared on the plate on his door which opened on to the Executive Corridor, hushed and still at this time of the morning - a silent river of red plush magnificence which flowed all the way from the Technical Director's doorway to his own.
His eye fondled the brand new grey-painted filing cabinet, impressive but empty because he also possessed a document destroyer, the envy of the department, which crouched beside his desk like a tailless, mechanical dog, its A4 mouth wearing a permanent, humourless grin exposing a double row of intermeshed steel teeth. Its appetite was inexhaustible.
He gave it an unopened memo from Mr Folklore for breakfast, absently timing it with the stopwatch he had stolen from a time-and-motion study man and which resided in his 'in' tray for that very purpose. "Bit slow, this morning, I must get the engineers to oil you", he informed it.
He gazed thoughtfully out of the window. The early morning sunlight cast long shadows from the row of gleaming metal chimneys on the roof of the building opposite which housed the Plant, pointing accusingly, like so many fingers at the piles of scrap, hastily dumped into the yard after Saturday's experimental run.
"Another bonanza for the scrap contractor", he mused "and another £700 or so down the drain. How does Folklore justify it?"
Along the vast, windowless wall of the Plant building, 26 parking spaces had been marked out. He had instructed the painter to number them off in a neat, orderly row, and so it was, interrupted only by his own car alongside the No.1 spot which he had allocated, naturally, to Mr Millar, the Technical Director. As Administrative Officer it was his vital function to ensure that everything in the Department ran smoothly and in an efficient, tidy fashion and he gladly made himself responsible for sorting out the sloppy disorder of the car park. From now on, each would know his place. The five spare bays might have provoked some comment as to the point of the exercise had he not conceived the brilliant idea of marking them "reserved for visitors", not that they had many. The memoes had gone out on Friday so that this morning he would be able to witness his handiwork coming into operation.
As he watched, the first of the factory workers began to trickle in through the gates, Bobski the expatriate Pole with a hernia who ran the pilot plant, weaving between the barrels of chemicals across the slippery yard on a bicycle and his oppo Ernie trailing along behind with the tea things. A few moments later, George the Plant Supervisor pulled into No.16 in his beloved beetle, to be joined by his assistant, Pete in No.17 before he had time to open the car door. They disappeared together through the nearby side entrance into the Plant and Melksham smiled inwardly, ticked them off on his master copy and settled back in his chair. By eight o'clock all the workers had crossed and the yard was once more deserted.
Without any hint of warning, the peace of the morning disintegrated. As if an airliner was taking off outside his window, the Mighty Fans in the Plant building wound themselves up to their endless task of sucking out TDI fumes, discharging them through the metal chimneys. He sighed and closed the window just as Millar, his biggest test, came into sight. With sinking heart he saw the bright, deep scratches on the front of the Jensen Interceptor, the open bootlid banging angrily up and down on the wreckage of a pair of wrought iron gates as he hurtled in at five times the permitted speed to halt in No.14 with a screech of brakes, audible even above the roar of the Fans. The emaciated Scot climbed out, banged the door shut without bothering to lock it and stamped off in the direction of his office.
"Guess who was on the bottle last night", he thought moodily, "it'll take the entire contents of the Cona machine to pass down his neck before I dare ask him to move it. Bit of extra work for Sage's engineers, too!"
Millar's door had just slammed shut at the other end of the corridor when Dik's Ford special drifted in silently with its engine shut off. He always made a point of removing the keys from the ignition as he entered the premises, waving them at the gateman before putting them into the pocket of his jeans, an operation which filled Melksham with admiration for its sheer dexterity, even though the reasoning behind it mystefied him. (The intention was to prove that he couldn't possibly be breaking the Company's speed limit as he had once been accused. One day, he borrowed his father's car which was fitted with a steering lock and the Works Manager refused to have the gatehouse wall repaired so that its scars would act as a reminder of Dik's foolishness). He held his breath until the car stopped in No.3, beside his own, expelling it slowly with a hiss of annoyance. Dik, engrossed in a silent struggle with his colon ignored the gesticulating figure at the upstairs window and made a beeline for the departmental toilet.
In his wake, Sage's NSU Prinz (in his own words, 'the poor man's MG') came by, fleeing before the Folklore Rover to pull up inches behind Dik's Ford. He carefully engaged first gear, pulled on the handbrake as hard as he could, using footbrake pressure to gain an extra notch on the ratchet, checked that the doors and windows were securely fastened, and set the burglar alarm for good measure.
While he was thus preoccupied, Mrs Folklore stopped with a lurch against the kerb. Mr Folklore reluctantly unfastened his seatbelt, leaned over and dutifully kissed her on the cheek (Melksham shuddered) before emerging, pale but immaculate in Homburg and Pinstripe, real leather briefcase in one hand and precisely furled umbrella in the other. With a farewell backward glance and wave at her loved one, she dropped in the clutch, the heavy car squealed in agony, reared up on its springs turning in a haze of smoking rubber, brushing Sage contemptuously aside and was gone before he could draw breath to protest.
As the car park filled up, so the telephone calls began.
Sage was first, demanding to know why Grey, the Assistant Technical Manager had been given No.4 instead of his own deputy and was he to assume, therefore, that his section was inferior to the Test Tube Brigade downstairs?
Peddle was next, politely explaining that as the painter had missed out No.7, he had parked in No.8, and scarcely had he put down the handset when the Chief Inspector was on the line to complain that Peddle was in his place and he had been forced to park in No.9 ("For God's sake, they share the same office!)
The Works Manager's Secretary primly informed him that he had incurred her Master's displeasure by failing to consult him on what was clearly a Works matter and since traffic flow within the factory was currently under review by the safety committee, of which the Works Manager was Chairman, a written note of apology was the least that he could do to make amends.
Melksham had failed to realise that the staff never parked in the area he had designated as bays 7,8 & 9 so that the road tankers would have room to back round before entering the Plant loading bay. Saturday's experimental run had drained down the TDI tank and the day's production could not begin without a fresh delivery. Pike, the Production manager was in such fury that he stumbled over his own words.
"I've shifted Peddle and the Chief Inspector, who ought to have had more sense than to listen to a twit like you, but that man Smith has left his car in No.9 and gone off with one of the salesmen to see a customer. Now you listen to me, Muddlesham, if that car isn't moved pretty damn quick, I will have it dragged out with the fork lift truck. You mark my words!"
He was still reeling from the impact of Pike's onslaught and had just mentally registered the fact that Smith had traded in his old banger the previous week for a brand new Cortina when the arrival of the post girl distracted him. She handed him three internal memoes.
Folklore was demanding to know why he had been excluded from the parking list (He could not drive).
Sage was complaining that some person had had the audacity to park in his place and enclosed a copy of a stroppy missive entitled 'To Whom It May Concern', presumably for him to pas
s on to Dik.
These passed easily into the stomach of the document destroyer but the third was less easily digestible. It was a note from the Chief Security Officer pointing out that bays 14 to 16 inclusive obstructed access to a fire hydrant and should be cleared FORTHWITH as the factory could be held to be in contravention of the Fire Regulations and have its fire insurance invalidated. He timidly rang Millar's number, accidentally bypassing his secretary to find himself talking to the irascible Scot in person. "I always park there because it's nearest the door and the pair of you ought to be able to find something better to occupy your time with. Good day to ye!" and he was left holding a buzzing handset.
The combined efforts of the lab staff had failed to find a way to move Smith's Pride and Joy so that it now seemed inevitable that Pike would carry out his threat. The fork lift truck was manoeuvering close by it while the looming bulk of a tanker lorry, its engine snorting impatiently, heralded imminent disaster. The Jensen was still in No.14. He was in the act of swallowing a Librium tablet when the Works Manager's Secretary telephoned again. "I have to inform you" the voice was haughtily amused "that as you have allocated 21 parking spaces and there exist only 20 useable bays that one person will have to be refused permission to bring his car on to the premises. He has instructed me to tell you that as it was all your bright idea in the first place, you are the lucky one. He suggests that you avail yourself of the multi-storey car park at the other end of the industrial estate. Good morning!"
He took a second tablet before burying his head in his hands and his groan of anguish was driven back into his aching skull by the remorseless roar of the Mighty Fans.
