by ToClark
CHAPTER 18
He pushed open the door, dumped a large cardboard box on a spare chair and his briefcase beside it. "Have you got room for another one in here? I don't take up much space."
"Dave!" A smile lit Howell's countenance. "What brings you here?"
"I'm in exile. Folklore's cast me out into the wilderness."
"Join the club!"
"It does seem to be a cosy spot in which to while away one's last days, though." He looked round approvingly at the friendly atmosphere of the workshop, cool and surprisingly airy on this warm summer's afternoon. "If you'll have me, that is."
"That will please me very much. It'll be just like the old days - I still have our chess set!"
"I must say, though, that I never imagined I would end up with you in the air-raid shelter!"
"What happened then? I thought you were all set for a life of fame and prosperity with your new wonder foam."
"So did I, but somewhere along the way the dream turned into a nightmare and I fell out with Folklore when we burned out the Holding Stores. Eventually, I found out something very bad about him that was dangerous to him and he tried to fire me. I managed to get reprieved temporarily by transferring down here."
"What did you find out, then?"
"I'll tell you later. I saw your TDI detector on 'Tomorrow's World' but no mention of you or the Company either. How come Siemens are marketing it?"
"Bastards sold it out cheap, didn't they. Didn't want me to be successful and besides, it made a squealing noise every time the atmosphere in the Works got contaminated and all the workers downed tools. Eventually they hid it in a closed box by the moulding line and it didn't cause any more trouble - but there wasn't any point in having it at all, then so they got rid of it."
"That's about par for the course!"
"What happened to the Project?"
"Pat's running it. You never met him. He's OK but still at the stage where he thinks he can win the game. He'll find out in time, I daresay."
"And you? What are you doing here?"
"I've been promoted to Chief Development Chemist here. They promised me œ20 000 to set up a new section, I had to run about very quickly to raise a Capital Expenditure Chitty and cost out everything I needed to create a lab. Trouble is that once they had the GM's signature on it they diverted the cash - you see Sage got himself into very deep water, financially because he hadn't got any work to carry over the losses from the Small Machine so Folklore had to bail him out by commissioning the largest moulding machine the UK is ever likely to see. With my œ20 000! Bastards have used me to the last."
"How can they possibly justify that?"
"Well, they have some crackpot scheme that if they make slabstock in individual blocks rather than continuously, they can tailor the size to the exact needs of the customer. The ultimate refinement was a hand operated winch to lower the bottom, thus giving a flat top. I remember him demonstrating the prototype. Bobski dumped several buckets of hand mixed foam all at once into this big box and Sage wound the handle on the end to keep the surface level. The executive were not all that impressed! Neither was Sage because some bugger had put a large dollop of grease on the handle as a pisstake and he just had to carry on winding as best he could with the handle slipping all over the place. It was funny to watch!"
"Now who would do a thing like that?"
"No idea at all!" Dave grinned modestly and lowered his eyelids.
"Anyway, that leaves you in a poor situation, doesn't it."
"Very much so! Here I am, no lab. no equipment, no staff. Nothing!"
"You have had a rough ride, haven't you! What will you do now?"
"Same as you. Continue to irritate them from afar. They did at least give me a project, I've got to look at scrap and waste. I really am at the end of the line, aren't I!"
He managed to locate a rusty bunsen burner and a few items of old glassware in a disused cupboard and with these and the few bits and pieces he had managed to pinch from under Grey's nose in the three desperate days he had had left before his departure, contrived to scratch together a makeshift lab. on Howell's spare bench. The scrap project, he quickly came to realize, had more potential than the management could have imagined. Scrap was always costed into the selling price of an item and therefore, as the customers had already paid for it, nobody cared much what happened to it afterwards. In practice, apart from that used in a reclaim process or sold directly as polyether crumb for stuffing pillows and teddy bears, it was dumped into skips and subsequently removed by the shifty-looking scrap contractor's men. He now owned four lorries and made occasional visits in his Bentley to negotiate with the buyer. The cost to the Works at œ46 a skip, was staggering.
It took Dave four weeks to establish the principle of a recovery process. All day long, his lab. was the scene of bubbling flasks of chemical concoctions and he often worked on late after the management had gone home. He even gained some local notoriety and Howell's cronies would watch in fascination as large masses of foam disappeared back into the component chemicals in his apparatus, in uniquely striking contrast to every other production activity within the factory. At the end of his experiments, he sat down to compose a lengthy report, concluding flamboyantly that with simple processing plant, he could turn a œ30 000 annual loss into a half-million gain. He signed Folklore's copy personally.
"That will remind them of my presence!" he remarked to Howell as he addressed the envelopes. He was feeling slightly smug.
Howell dabbed his soldering iron on the job he was building before hanging it thoughtfully by its hook on the front of the filing cabinet which was its parking place. "It'll certainly remind one or two people around here!"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Put yourself into the buyer's shoes for a moment. What would all this do for you?"
"Go on!"
"You do a fair bit of business with the greasy looking scrap merchant with the Bentley, for instance. Good opportunity for a bit of tax free bonus, don't you think? You'd be depriving him of about œ25 a week, not to mention a whole chain of other beneficiaries from the gateman to the Dispatch Chargehand who make good use of what we pay to dispose of."
"I hadn't thought of it that way."
"Not a good way to make friends and influence people!"
"Just as well I'm sending a copy to the GM, then."
Howell chuckled and picked up the iron. You'd better get over to the Front Office if you want to catch today's post."
"Action at last!" He pushed the memo under Howell's nose. "A summons to see Folklore up at the Home Counties factory tomorrow."
"Day out, I suppose. Amongst your friends!"
"It'll be nice to see Dik, Mike and the others, though. I wonder if he's emptied the Engineers Stores into the compactor, yet."
"You'll be wearing your best suit, of course!"
"Naturally!"
He enjoyed the drive. He hadn't been back since his departure and had had little contact with his Department in the meantime. To be precise, he mused, he had had one phone call from Mellow and two from Mike in a period of almost three months. Things did not appear to have changed. The gateman waved him through as if he still came in daily and his spot in the car park, the number 22 still painted on the Plant wall, was empty. The chemists' office was empty, as was Peddle's and he entered Grey's to find him in the act of chipping a rubber ball into a wastepaper basket which he had tipped on to its side. He looked up at Dave with a start, perhaps wondering if he still felt as angry with him as he had when they last met.
"I see you're keeping yourself busy."
"Hello Dave." He laid the golf club self consciously on top of his filing cabinet. "There's not much doing at the moment. Bobski and Ernie are both off sick."
"Accident?"
"We had a blowout on the small machine in the pilot plant, caught both of them in the face. Not too serious, fortunately, although Ernie can't see out of his left eye
too well yet. Should have been wearing goggles."
"How did it happen?" Dave was appalled.
"TDI line burst. No safety cutouts - we might get them after this."
"But that was a new machine! That's the most dreadful negligence."
Dik entered from the direction of the executive toilet (first sitting). "I'm glad you're here, we're a bit short handed with the pilot plant blokes off sick. Going up the dump in a minute. There's a Hillman Imp come in and I've bought the engine and gearbox, but we need a fourth man to help lift the body shell so that the man can cut it out with his torch."
"But I've got my best suit on!"
"I'll buy you a pint!"
"Fair enough, but I ought to see Mellow, now that I'm here."
"He's out with Folklore at British United Plastics Reading Works."
"That's marvellous, isn't it. I come all this way and the sods can't even be bothered to wait in for me."
"Folklore will be back at 3 oclock. He told me to tell you that he will see you then."
"The pleasure will be all mine", he replied drily. "Can you lend me a lab. coat, Dik?"
"Borrow Grey's. He never uses it these days."
Grey shrugged his shoulders. "Try not to get it dirty, I have my image to think of."
"Who are you kidding!" sniffed Dik. "Only image you project is of a disgruntled golfer."
Grey's eyes glowed with emotion. "I beat that bastard from sales by a clear six, last weekend. Got my handicap down to twelve."
"You missed the wastepaper basket, though", pointed out Dave.
"Well, what can you expect when all I've got is a driver?" He picked it up and proceeded to swing it experimentally.
"You ought to get danger money, working in the same office as him!"
"I've tried to get shot of him Upstairs, but he won't go."
"Go away!" roared Grey. "Leave me in peace."
"Come on then, we have work to do." Dik led him out by the arm, pausing only to snatch Grey's lab. coat from its hook. "Poor bloke's going off the rails at last."
"It was bringing in that idiot Mellow over his head, he's never been the same since."
"Sad, isn't it. He was one of the best practical scientists I've known."
"Doesn't do a stroke now" said Dik. "Just like the rest of us."
At 1500 hours a grimy and slightly inebriated Dave was shown into Folklore's office. Folklore was satiate with an excellent lunch on British United Plastics and a drop of whipped cream still clung to one of his chins. At sight of Dave his countenance assumed a distant and stern expression.
"Your work on scrap recovery is very praiseworthy and quite a feather in the Department's cap. However, I have to point out to you that it is not protocol to communicate directly with the GM. That is my function, and I will not have it usurped."
"You aren't far off being the GM anyway. Just practicing." If Folklore noticed the sarcasm, he chose to ignore it, suppressing a smirk with difficulty. "Whilst that may be a possibility someday, it would be disloyal to our present chief. He is very impressed with your work and he has instructed me to make available œ1000 to allow you to commence pilot trials. You will have to work through the Design Engineer at the Other Factory. You may also find it helpful to have a word with the Chemical Engineer at Head Office. Mention my name if you do."
He leaned forward massively. "Make no mistake, Dave. All you have done is to buy yourself some time by your scrap recovery process. Don't fail to keep up the momentum of your success, you survive only by the GM's patronage." He belched comfortably. "I have a lot of work to do this afternoon and I am sure that you would like to make a start back. Good afternoon."
The clock in his secretary's office read 1503. He had travelled two hundred miles for three minute's conversation. 'Worse than Ford Motor Company' he mused. 'Never mind, though, the bastard still can't get me, I'm still hanging on!'
Folklore's buzzer snarled its grating note, causing his secretary to leap from her typewriter with pavlovian alacrity. He noticed the twitch start on her face as she passed him and he heard Folklore say "bring me the P & R Weekly. And I am not to be disturbed."
He pushed open the door to find Howell seated at his bench, scrutinising the usual clutter of wires and the strange little components which were the tools of his trade. He pulled half a bottle of whisky from his briefcase and placed it before him.
"Bit early in the day, isn't it?" remarked Howell. "It isn't nine oclock yet!"
"It's a sort of birthday." Dave rummaged in the back of a filing cabinet, emerging with two paper cups. "I've been with you for exactly six months today."
"I'll drink to that!" Howell unscrewed the cap and poured a generous measure into each cup. "It is also a day filled with omens and portents. Mr Happy smiled at me on the way in this morning, and do you know why?"
"Pray continue!" Dave took a large swallow.
"Because the GM had a heart attack last night. Still alive, so they tell me, but most unlikely ever to come back."
"And that brought a smile to Mr Happy's lips?"
"No doubt the rest of the management are enjoying the idea as well, though I'm sure they'll come down to earth when they realize the implications."
"Which are?"
"A straight fight between Anderson and Folklore."
"They're both dirty fighters" mused Dave "but they don't come any dirtier than Folklore. I bet the old bastard will get it."
"They're already offering two-to-one on him down in the moulding shop, with Anderson at five-to-one, and Watkins at fifty. Not that there are any takers" he added.
Dave drained his cup gloomily. "Pass the bottle will you, I don't think I can bear it!"
"Having friends in high places!"
"It'll be the end for me, and PDQ at that!"
"Can't you use the scrap recovery project to keep you going. If that's a success he can't afford to get rid of you, GM or not."
"I've been trying hard enough, but I'm not going to make it. Look what I've got ranged against me. All the vested interests and a 'thank you very much' from the engineers for the œ1000. The story I get whenever I prod them is that I have to wait until there is some spare time available, which there never is and never will be because they are permanently undermanned. If I want quick results then I have to get in contract engineers and my money will be swallowed up in a week - I'll be stuck with a half finished plant that I can't do anything with."
"The other thing that sits in the back of my mind all the time, is what the Chemical Engineer at Head Office said. You remember, I went to see him. Nice old gent - one of the Old School. He did me a rough costing, reckoned I would repay the capital costs in the first year, absurdly profitable. So I was just getting all excited about it when he pulled open the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet - bulging with stuff, it was - and he said 'to put things into perspective for you, these are all the jobs I've costed out for various people over the last few years, many of them every bit as good as yours. I have to tell you that none of them ever made it into production.' Then he put my folder in with them - I think he was trying to tell me something about our illustrious employer!"
"Happy birthday, dear friend!" Howell emptied the last of the bottle into Dave's cup.
"Hello Dave." It was Grey on the telephone. "Just a tip off. Folklore's coming to see you, he left here about an hour ago. So I heard, he's coming down specially to have the pleasure of sacking you himself. Why wasn't your scrap recovery process successful? It would have saved you."
"It's a typical story. The buyer has a very nice thing going with the scrap contractor and the engineers were very grateful for the £1000. You can imagine the rest. I'm afraid it wasn't to be, but thanks for the warning, I can at least deny him the final pleasure."
"Well, best of luck, Dave. I'll have to ring off now, Mellow's coming. I'm sorry."
He stared at the buzzing receiver for a long time before lowering it back into it
s cradle. 'Why was Grey sorry' he wondered. 'Sorry because Mellow was coming? Sorry because he was going to be fired or sorry because he shopped him to Folklore in the first place?'
He could expect him to arrive just after lunch. He reached into the bottom of his desk drawer for a memo pad. It was old and a bit dirty, so he peeled off the top few sheets until he found a clean one. He wrote on it:
'Give that Bastard Burton one for me'
and signed it just above the message at the bottom which said
'P.S. Don't forget I.C.I. Chemicals & Additives'
He slipped it into an envelope which he addressed to Grey and took over to the post room. He then went to the canteen to buy a box of matches which he wrapped up into a neat little brown paper parcel, put Folklore's name on it and placed carefully in the middle of his desk, removing everything else into the drawers. He finally picked up his bag and patted Howell, who had been watching, on the shoulder before leaving. He was beyond speech.
He was feeling a little tired now and he paused at the spot where he and Howell had sometimes taken their lunch. Far below him he could see one of the scrap contractor's lorries turning into the Works. Behind it, appropriately, its progress blocked, was the Works car bringing Folklore from the station. Somewhere in the dim recesses of the factory someone switched on the Fans, audible even up here since the latest addition of chimneys to the roof. He turned his back on the scene and continued to walk slowly on to the top of the hill. He had never been up here before. A wide, moorland plateau spread out before him to the horizon, dotted with the white backs of a few sheep. Turning round, he could see that he had passed over the shoulder of the hill and the factory was no longer visible. He took a small square of foam from his pocket, blew through it and then threw high into the air, the wind caught it and sent it skimming away until it disappeared into a hollow. He shrugged his shoulders and started to walk away over the plateau.
EPILOGUE
The Tills of Joseph Sainsbury no longer whinny, the Chief Inspector's sewing machine and Alf's circular sliderule have also given over to their electronic counterparts. The Company (named as one of Britain's Top 25 to be Nationalised by Harold Wilson) continued a decline which had already begun when Dave joined it. As factory after factory closed its gates, the management survivors crowded on to those remaining like sailors on the desperate Atlantic wartime convoys of merchant shipping. Nothing now remains, there is no visible trace of either of the factories that once gave meaningful employment to so many and the Fort, once proud centre for research is now a holiday inn.
Throughout all those years, the Mighty Fans continued to extract vast amounts of chemicals for discharge into the environment, including upwards of two tons per Plant per week of fluorocarbon 11 (we call them CFCs these days). Nobody had ever heard of the ozone layer or suspected the effect their emissions might be having on it and probably couldn't have cared less if they had.
In March 1989, a new British Standard was created which effectively prohibited the use of polyether foam in furniture. A 'Combustion Modified' product was marketed with great success by another Company. Its properties are virtually identical to that which featured in this book.
As for our Hero, he eventually came down off the plateau to become a school teacher. On the first morning of his new appointment, he fell in with one of his new colleagues on his way to the staffroom. He had seen him before when he had been shown around during his interview.
"You were fool enough to come and join us, then."
"The Headmaster told me it was such a wonderful place that I could scarcely do otherwise."
"You'll get used to him, in time, I daresay. By the way, word of advice to a beginner. You see old Watkins over there", pointing to the Deputy Head who was supervising the playground. "Slimy bastard! Don't trust him an inch, he'd stab his own grandmother in the back for the price of a packet of fags!"
EPILOGUE 2
1995 and the final agony reveals itself. At the Company’s doorstep can also be laid, in part, the tragedy of cot death. The poor innocent babies who died in their smoke-logged bedrooms made up only the tiniest fraction of this dreadful total. Indeed, few babies actively (but quite a few passively, alas) smoke in their cots and so the rationale of insisting on flame retarded cot mattresses seems a little suspect. It couldn’t have been subjected to a proper risk assessment, we never had such things then.
According to an article published in the ‘Guardian Weekend’ on April 1st 1995 (and the content is too unfunny to make any comment on the date), cot death was first described in 1953 and rose to a peak in the UK of 1500 cases a year in 1986-1988. The new foam contained less than 2% of tris 2 3 dibromopropyl phosphate (no antimony, arsenic or anything else other than a tiny amount of tin catalyst residue). Its use in place of ‘conventional’ additive systems from 1971 onwards, which were loaded with the stuff) could have unknowingly saved anything up to 30 000 infant lives and the misery inflicted on their parents. The worldwide total is difficult even to guess at
Alas, it never got into production!
