by ToClark
CHAPTER 6
As the next step in his career progression from Chief Development Physicist, Smith was instructed to make a detailed investigation into various aspects of the running of the factory at Ellesmere Port which the Company had acquired as part of the merger. He set off on the Monday after his initial briefing by Folklore, introduced himself to the right people at the factory and settled in for the week at the Station Hotel. The studies he had been commissioned to carry out were fairly straightforward, if laborious and he spent his days in the factory, gathering and recording data, measuring machines and generally finding out how the place ran. In the evenings he sat up late and wrote a series of draft reports, covering all that he had been told to work on. By Friday he had pretty well finished.
The second week, he transferred to an inn aptly named 'The Old Cobblers' which was about a hundred yards from the factory gates on the other side of the road. On Monday evening, he struck up a relationship with the barmaid at the 'Cobblers' and, to his delight, consummated the affair that night. The barmaid was on the rebound from a broken engagement with her previous boyfriend (a marathon runner) and only too eager to catch up on her 'horizontal jogging'. He departed for home on Wednesday morning with glowing parts and an hotel bill written out until Thursday with a few extras to inflate it. He was too tired and languid to call in at the factory on his way but appeared, much refreshed, just before Friday lunchtime to report to Folklore with his first report properly written up.
The next few weeks settled into a blissful routine of lust and profit. Half an hour's chat to the switchboard girl, together with a box of chocolates ensured that if anybody called him on Wednesday or Thursday, he was 'somewhere in the factory' and couldn't be found and if it seemed urgent, she would call him at home to tip him off.
On Tuesday night of the fifth week the amorous demands of the barmaid were so exacting that he fell into a deep and sated sleep just before midnight and failed to be awakened by an unusually noisy night outside. He awoke late the next morning, collected the special bill from her, slipped her a fiver and a promise to see her on Monday and set off for home with his eyes barely open, to recuperate and write the final version of his report for the week. On Friday, feeling much refreshed by his usual two days off, he rolled in at a time appropriate for one who has just had a long journey. He filled out his expenses claim, pinned the special hotel bill to it and took it up to Folklore along with his report for the usual half hour or so of discussion.
Folklore was in a jovial mood. "How nice to see you Smith. I trust you had a pleasant trip down, this morning?"
"Yes, thank you. Bit of trouble with the traffic at the other end, otherwise I might have been in sooner."
"Have you brought your report? Oh, Good Man!" He read it through with his usual thoroughness, pausing to ask a question here and there and when he had finished put it carefully down on the uncluttered surface of his desk. "And your expenses? Good Man!" Smith handed him the claim form and attached bills for signature. Folklore examined them closely, as always.
"'The Old Cobblers' is just down the road to the factory, isn't it? Very convenient. I suppose it helps you to keep in close touch with things. I prefer the Station Hotel, myself - and it is a little cheaper than 'The Cobblers'" he added, glancing at the total again.
"By the way", he added, taking a newspaper from his desk drawer, "before I sign these, there's an interesting article I'd like you to look at. Might be relevant to your report, here", he patted the report and handed the paper to Smith and, as he opened it added urbanely "as you can see, it is Wednesday's 'Liverpool Echo'."
On the front page was a photograph of a pile of smoking ruins. The main headline read:
'PLASTICS FACTORY TOTALLY DESTROYED!'
His horrified gaze took in fragments from the column underneath
- at 1 oclock in the morning a huge blaze -
- flames hundreds of feet high -
- explosions rocked the scene as barrels of chemicals burst in the heat -
- engines from three counties took most of the night to bring it under control -
"One or two details missing from your report, don't you think?" Folklore was enjoying himself hugely. "I can't help but think that I shall have to reconsider your recommendations for resiting the blending tanks, for instance."
Smith found himself incapable of replying.
"Perhaps you'd care to enlighten me about your movements over the last few weeks." Folklore leaned forward and his aspect changed in an instant to one of menace, "and bearing in mind the seriousness of your position, I want the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth!"
Smith gagged into his handkerchief and there were tears in the corners of his eyes. "I..., that is.." he spluttered.
"The Truth, Smith. Out with it!"
"Well, I...." he coughed into incoherent confusion, attempting to hide behind his handkerchief. Folklore stabbed a pink thumb on to his buzzer and his secretary appeared almost instantly. "A glass of cold water for Mr Smith at once please. A very large one!" and as she withdrew to get it, "your little game has come to a stop, Smith. Now, what have you been up to?"
In a shocked voice he made his confession, interspersed with gulps of water from the glass that Folklore's secretary had put into his nerveless hand. "I suppose you want me to resign?" he said miserably by way of a conclusion.
"Well", mused Folklore, "your position doesn't look too good, does it? Besides conduct sufficiently bad to render you liable to instant dismissal, there is also the little matter of swindling the Company over your hotel bills. The evidence here" he patted the claim form "is pretty convincing. There are those in Head Office who would be prepared to see you go to court as an example to others." He took the documents and dropped them into his desk drawer, carefully locking it. "I think that little lot is best kept out of the way under lock and key, don't you?"
"What are you going to do, then?" asked Smith thickly.
"A man like you..." Folklore leaned back in his chair, putting the tips of his fingers together, showing off to best effect the onyx cufflinks his wife had bought him to celebrate his promotion to Development Manager, " ... you're not dim by any means!" The chair creaked at the shift of balance of his ponderous body. "Quite a good little thing you had going, there. I might be able to use a man like you, Smith. If I can depend on your loyalty, that is" he eyed him purposefully and patted the locked drawer. "You take my meaning?"
Smith stared back with troubled eyes and a deepening sensation of being trapped in a web, the ramifications of which he could not envisage. "What do you want of me?"
"Your next assignment, following the satisfactory conclusion of your work at Ellesmere Port, was to be down at the Other Factory, looking at the layout and performance of the moulding lines. Now that you are free, so to speak, there is no reason why you shouldn't start on that in a week or two. I will give you your brief when we can see what effect the fire is going to have on our policy."
He leaned forward across the desk and spoke with quiet intensity. "Millar is due for retirement soon. His job as Technical Director by rights should be mine. I have worked hard and a place on the Board is surely due to me, but", his eyes narrowed, "Anderson has his knife in me and he is pushing for Watkins, the Technical Manager down there, to get it."
Smith was puzzled. "Everyone knows Watkins is useless. Surely Anderson would lose credibility if he lobbies for him. And what has all this got to do with me?"
"Never underestimate your opposition. Ever since Howell put in that box of tricks on the No.5 line, Watkins has been claiming the credit for it because Mr Happy works for him and you may recall that he agreed to it being tried out in the first place. The Board are very impressed by the production figures from that line and Anderson has been quick to use it against me. That's where you come in, Smith. I want Watkins discredited. How you do it is up to you but I would suggest that you start at Howell's Magic Box."
Smith ble
nched. He knew Howell. "And if I refuse?"
"Need you ask?"
"I suppose not." He got up unsteadily and blundered from the office.
Folklore smiled wetly after the departing figure. As the door closed he lifted the telephone and called the canteen to check the day's menu. "I'll have the sausages" he informed the manageress loftily "but they must be fresh!"
Where's the shithouse?"
"Gone to lunch!"
Anon
