The Man in the Street

by Martin Howe

  He surveyed the room, his audience was frozen, anticipation fuelling a creeping anxiety.

  “… well you’ve had enough of me. I think the person to tell you what this’ll mean for you personally is Steve Percival. He’s been right with me throughout all of this, Steve.”

  David stared hard at the man, who raised himself slightly in his seat as way of an introduction, then slumped back emphatically crossing his legs. He was slightly younger than David, and less than six weeks ago had worked alongside him in his department. He was tall, good-looking and had long silky brown hair that he would push back from his forehead with a languorous gesture of his hand, that David knew drove at least one woman in the office wild. He watched him now and couldn’t see it. The flush of success was annoying, particularly in a bearer of bad news, which he almost certainly was. David was resigned to hearing the worst, he had listened to such a speech before, but he was already inwardly fuming, a slow-burning anger kept in check only by the abject hopefulness of the condemned man desperate for a last-minute reprieve.

  “Larry thank-you. People. As has already been clearly spelled out, our aim here is total quality management. You should have no doubt about that. This will be achieved in two ways: firstly by restructuring the company and second by increased efficiencies. To that end we propose to do away with all departments and reconstitute them as divisions. In the process certain departments will be redefined and their separate identities lost. As you will have gathered, yours, being a regional entity, is one of those…”

  There was a perceptible movement in the room, bodies subtly adjusting to an uncomfortable new reality, a collective exhalation of breath. Roger McCarthy, the head of department, looking visibly ill at ease, asked the question on everybody’s mind.

  “What will this mean for us, my colleagues? I wasn’t told anything of this. I had no idea.”

  “Roger.”

  All attention turned to Larry.

  “I want only team players on this one, you understand? This is not a consultative process. The decisions have been made and approved at the highest level. No muddying of the waters now, Roger. Sorry Steve.”

  Roger appeared about to respond, his mouth wordlessly open, his body positioning combative, but he thought better of it and sank back into silent passivity. Steve stared at him then continued.

  “As I was saying, your department is to be subsumed into the new “Global Division,” and I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn,” he glanced at Larry, who smiled and nodded, “to be headed by myself. This is a sign of the high priority placed on our overseas business by the directors, in that they’ve appointed one of their number to head this division.”

  “Smug bastard,” thought David, “this is going from bad to fucking worse. Now I’ve no chance. I’m finished.”

  “As to what will happen to individual members of staff, well as you know the company operates a redeployment policy, it doesn’t simply make everyone redundant. Let me assure you that is not our intention. This scheme will come into immediate effect and everybody will be given careful consideration for every company-wide vacancy that comes up over the next six months.”

  “How many of us will be made redundant?”

  “Roger, it may not come to that. Six months is a long time in business as you well appreciate. But you’ve been around long enough to know the score, so let me put the cards openly on the table. Greater efficiencies can’t be achieved without some pain, we aim to minimize it, but there will be pain for some of you I’m afraid. Bottom line …”

  Steve Percival paused for a second, his blank eyes and tanned face radiating contempt.

  “ … we estimate there will be a small head count reduction.”

  “When will this happen?”

  “We aim to have the new structures in place by October, so in just under four months.”

  “What have the unions had to say about this?”

  “Roger, come, come, today marks the beginning of the formal consultative process. But as Larry made very clear the company can’t afford not to implement these changes at once. The competition doesn’t stand still. The days of continuous incremental improvement, I’m afraid are over, and no bad thing in my opinion.”

  “Well said, Steve.”

  Larry was again looking at his watch.

  “Has anybody anything else they want to ask?”

  David couldn’t contain himself.

  “Larry mentioned that the company no longer needed specialists. But I was recruited just over a year ago on a three-year contract to be exactly that, a specialist. I was told at my interview that the regional departments were being expanded,” his voice faltered, clipping his words and he swallowed hard before picking up his thread, “they were being seen as the focus for the company’s stepped up drive to win new markets in these areas. Now that appears to have changed, where does that leave me?”

  “Well, I think Larry made the case well for the company’s change of policy. There is no question in anybody’s mind about the need for such a development. As to your contractual position I think that’s one for Dick.”

  The small balding man looked up suddenly and turned to face David.

  “I don’t know your name?”

  “David, David Coxon-Dyet.”

  “Well, David, the position is this. Contractually I think you’ll find the company is obliged to give you one month’s notice of termination of employment. After that your length of service will determine the level of redundancy payments you are entitled to. Basically for someone at your level, on your type of contract, it amounts to one month’s salary for each complete year of service. Tax free, of course, up to a maximum of 30K. And believe me that is generous. The legal minimum is much less than that – a week for each year, I think. But, in your case, and I would need to check your files, it sounds as if you’d be entitled to nothing, I’m afraid, as you haven’t been with us two years – that’s the minimum service before you’re eligible for redundancy.”

  “But I signed a three year contract. It sounds as if you’re saying you’re not going to honour it, that it’s not worth the paper it’s printed on?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that David. If you bother to read it carefully you will find that it is all there in black and white. We’re not pulling the wool over anybody’s eyes, I can assure you.”

  Larry lifted his jacket from the back of his chair and began putting it on as he spoke.

  “Look folks, I have to leave. Thanks for coming. I know it must have come as a shock to some of you but if you have any further questions, Dick’s door is always open. It’s a brave new world we’re entering and I’m excited about it and you should be too. In your heart of hearts, if you ask yourself honestly, you will see the inevitability of all this and give thanks that decisions are being taken now that will safeguard the future of this company of ours for many years to come.”

  He stood up.

  “And don’t think I don’t know what you’re going through. When I was younger I was let go by the company I was working for. It was devastating. I had two young children, a mortgage, believe me, I understand.”

  Chapter 6

  TRAITOR

  4th June 1940

  The hammering on the door, sonorous and prescriptive, was an anomaly in the pitch dark void of the blackout. Silence followed, an interlude, empty and intimidating. Tony sat bolt upright in bed. Emily stirred beside him. He’d been expecting this but for the life of him he couldn’t remember why. Bad news? Invasion? It couldn’t be good at this hour. What time was it? Tony turned in the direction of the bedside table and the alarm clock, but he couldn’t see anything. Those bloody curtains, he thought as he fumbled beneath the blankets for his pyjamas. The pounding resumed and there was the sound of glass shattering. Tony tumbled from the bed, entangled in the sheets.

  “What’s happening?”

 
Emily blearily murmured as the bedclothes slithered to the floor and the chill morning air swept over her curled body.

  “Hey, what you doing?”

  “Get the children. It’s happening.”

  “What?”

  A rapid series of dull thuds shook the house. A child cried out, closely followed by the uncomprehending screams of another.

  “The bastards.”

  The front door loudly cracked as it gave way. Tony hopped across the bedroom floor frantically pulling on his pyjama trousers. There was a brief pause. Tony stood on one leg listening.

  “The boys,” he hissed to his wife.

  Light flooded under the bedroom door then everywhere shouting, the rush of bodies, pounding boots in the hallway, on the stairs, doors crashing open, wood splintering.

  “Their bedroom’s the one at the front. Constable, get in there, try and stop the children crying.”

  Tony turned to face the door as it was flung open. A tall thin man in shirtsleeves strode in, closely followed by two police constables, truncheons in hand. He switched on the bedroom light. The room tepidly lit filled with the noisome smell of gamy perspiration.

  “You were expecting us then?”

  He gesticulated at Tony, looking round at his men, who nodded back at him affirmatively. They were watching Emily who was sitting on the edge of the bed pulling her nightdress over her knees. She glared up at them.

  “I thought you lot were well-organized. They told us you’d have been tipped off. That you’d have scarpered or been ready to put up a fight. But…”

  He looked again at his captive audience.

  “…we seem to have caught you with your pants down.”

  All three policemen smiled as Tony hastily tied the cord of his pyjamas and buttoned up the jacket.

  “Can I go to my children?” Emily asked coldly, getting unsteadily to her feet.

  “What are you looking at?” she sneered at the youngest policeman, who had been following her every move, “never been so close to…”

  “Hold on, hold on, a few formalities first,” said the plain-clothes officer. He coughed self-importantly and went on, “You must be Emily Cox?”

  Emily stared silently back at him.

  “Playing silly buggers will do you no good at all, co-operating with us is to your advantage, believe me.”

  He smirked. Emily said nothing for a moment and then asked quietly.

  “My children?”

  The smile faded from the policeman’s face, his cheeks flushed as he stroked his chin and glowered first at Tony then Emily. Any trace of good humour dissipated.

  “I’d expect nothing less from a pair of traitors and fifth columnists like you. Should’ve rounded you lot up a darn sight earlier than this in my book. But better late than never, I suppose. Now, let’s start again, shall we?”

  He stepped over to the heavy mahogany chest of drawers that stood along one wall of the room and looked into the walnut jewelry box that was open on top of it. He rummaged through the individual compartments before lifting out a pair of ear-rings, small silver replicas of the flash and circle symbol of the British Union of Fascists.

  “Very nice, very nice. Lads, it doesn’t look like we’ve come to the wrong house, does it?”

  He held the ear-rings up to the light.

  “Put those down, they’re mine, you’ve no right.”

  “Shut it, I’ve every right, madam.”

  He tossed her jewelry onto the top of the cabinet.

  “You’re the one without rights. There was a day when we used to execute traitors, but the world’s gone crazy, upside-down. I’m supposed to treat you with the due respect of the law. Fine, but no more. And, lady, we’ll be back here tomorrow to question the neighbours, and remind those heavy sleepers, who haven’t been woken up by our little visitation this morning, just exactly who you lot are.”

  A child screamed then began crying inconsolably. Emily winced and tried to leave the room, but was pushed roughly back onto the bed.

  “Sit there and keep quiet.”

  “You heartless bastards, there’re just children. They’ve done no harm to anyone.”

  “Right, I’ve had enough of this.”

  He pointed at Emily.

  “You must think we’re stupid, but let me assure you we’re not. We’ve got you lot taped. Our intelligence is very good.”

  Frowning he drew away from her, his disdain explicit.

  “You are Emily Cox, formerly Carstairs. You’ve been Women’s Administrative Officer for the North,” as he said this he raised his eyebrows and shrugged, “for the British Union of Fascists for the last three and a bit years. You joined the party, if memory serves, way back in the early thirties. Seems to run in the family doesn’t it? Your dad’s also a keen member and a man of the cloth, no less. Well you won’t be seeing him for a while, so I’ve been told. What gets me though, is that you can’t get much lower than this. What is it with you people? Bit of a family tradition is it, being a traitor? Comes up regularly over Sunday lunch, does it? Or maybe you just say a prayer before you tuck into your roast beef asking God to overthrow King, Country and Empire?”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Shut it, now. I don’t want to know.”

  He walked over to the bed and scowled at Emily, who ignored him and continued to stare at the wall.

  “The time for talking to you lot, listening to you lot, is long gone. Lock you all up, I would, throw away the key. But, and this is why today is your lucky day, you may not think it now madam, but believe me it is, the powers that be have told me not to pick you up, just your old man.”

  Emily looked up aghast.

  “Yes, no need to seem so surprised, it’s true. Left to me though you’d be inside, children or no children. In my book you’re as bad as he is, if not worse. Women shouldn’t be getting involved with politics, their place is in the home, raising kids. You, lady, crossed that line, but lucky for you, it’s not up to me.”

  “Bloody disgrace”, muttered one of the constables as he thrust his truncheon back into his belt.

  “Not a popular decision I suspect round here. People don’t like those with ideas above their station and you fit that bill in my book. You’re free to go. Go on, get out of my sight.”

  Emily glanced across at Tony, who was standing at the end of the bed clutching his pyjamas at the waist, his eyes dark studs in a face bleached and grimly set; his mouth, twisted with fury was barely visible. He nodded at her and she got up, grabbed a dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door, and left the room. The crying stopped almost immediately. The tension eased – it was as if everyone paused for breath – and for an instant the only sound was the discordant din of the dawn chorus.

  “Now, back to the real business of the morning.”

  The policeman nodded his head in Tony’s direction.

  “You, you fascist bastard.”

  He stepped menacingly forward, tripping on the tasseled edge of the bedside rug – which shifted on the black polished floorboards – and lost his balance. Warding off the lunging body, Tony staggered backwards and caught his hip on the sharp corner of a Singer sewing machine table and cried out. The policeman shoved him away angrily. In retaliation, Tony raised his fists, anger subverting his natural reticence, but the eager glint in the officer’s eyes warned him off and he lowered his guard.

  “What a pity. So you’re a coward as well as a traitor. Wish we’d known that earlier, eh lads. The heavy mob could’ve stayed in bed and we could have sent a lady constable round instead to pick you up in the morning.”

  He turned, nodding knowingly to his constables.

  “Ain’t that right Bob?”

  PC Robert Inglewood, who personally had ambivalent feelings about the round-up operation and was exhausted by the run of early morning call-outs, humour
ed his senior officer, nodding in agreement.

  “Yes sir. Elsie’d have loved getting her hands on this one. She’s a real pussy cat.”

  Laughing the policeman turned back to Tony.

  “You were reported to have been some sort of hard man in your youth. What happened? Married life softened you up? By the look of her, old Emily’s a tougher nut than you are. Is she the one who wears the trousers in this house? Was she wearing the trousers when we came in, eh?”

  Tony stared at the pile of crumpled blankets lying beside the bed, the shirt, trousers, underwear he’d worn the day before discarded in a heap nearby. He looked anywhere but at his tormentors. He noticed a coin – a sixpence – in the shadow of the bed, he saw another, then another – pennies, farthings – they must have spilled from his pockets as he undressed hurriedly last night. He rubbed his eyes wearily with his left hand. How long before he did that again? Weeks, months, years? He sighed deeply then opened his eyes and glanced up. They were still there. He had to assert himself.

  “What is it you want?” he bellowed at the top of his voice. The policemen gazed at him in surprise. One of his sons began crying in the next bedroom, Emily could be heard soothing, comforting him. A helmeted policeman stuck his head round the door.

  “Everything alright, Sir? We was wondering if you needed any help?”

  “No Sergeant, everything is under control. Our man here’s just trying it on, but he’ll learn. Once he’s got dressed, we’ll be out.”

  The policeman disappeared.

  “Oh Sergeant…”

  Seconds later he reappeared.

  “Sir?”

  “Get someone to search the back bedroom and the children’s room will you, we’ll check in here. You know the sort of thing, papers, letters, anything official, collect it up and take it down the station.”

  “Sir.”

  “Don’t I get told what I’m being arrested for, or has the war put paid to all such niceties?”

  “You’re a fine one to talk about niceties, do you think we’d be standing here talking if old Adolf was in charge? No way, up against a wall my old son, no messing. A lot going for it in my book, but this is Great Britain and we still have our procedures. So here goes.”