Gull

by Glenn Patterson

  ‘Clear the third week of January,’ he said, loud enough that Randall could hear him without Lander removing the receiver from his ear.

  ‘And a very good morning to you too, Roy,’ said Lander. ‘Third week of January... Can I ask what for?’

  ‘That’s when we are unveiling the first Dunmurry-made DMC-12.’

  ‘I would hope it would be ready by then.’

  ‘No, it will be. John is coming that week.’

  Lander had covered the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘Did you know about this?’ he hissed. Randall shook his head.

  ‘Don, are you listening?’ Roy asked.

  Lander took his hand away. ‘I’m listening all right.’

  ‘We’re just making final arrangements with press on this side. I’ll get back to you with an exact date.’

  ‘I await that with interest.’

  ‘Oh, and tell Randall to book into a hotel for that week. Or better still leave the booking open-ended.’

  ‘He’s standing right here,’ Lander said. ‘Why don’t you tell him yourself?’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Randall called towards the phone and Roy hung up.

  A half-hour later, by which time Randall was back in his own office, DeLorean himself rang.

  ‘I’m sorry about Roy,’ he said, a little wearily. ‘Carole told me she was in his office when he was speaking to Don. I didn’t know he was going to take it upon himself to call. We had only finished talking and I was going straight into another meeting...’

  ‘No apology needed. Like Don said, I just hope we are going to be ready by then.’

  ‘I have every confidence in you all. And thank you, by the way, for agreeing to move out for a while. It’s probably time anyway we tried to find somewhere more permanent for you.’

  Randall’s shoulders slumped. ‘I thought maybe once production started I wouldn’t be needed here any more.’

  ‘Oh, sure, when I say permanent I’m talking about the end of this coming year.’ Twelve months of Randall’s life – of Tamsin’s – accounted for just like that. ‘It’s just I’m thinking I’m going to be spending a lot more time at Warren House myself from now on.’

  *

  There was a big meeting called in the body-press shop the first day back after New Year. Managers and union reps shoulder to shoulder at the front. Anto, at the near end of the line to where Liz stood, had had a haircut over the holiday. Short back and sides, possibly DIY. Randall – next to Don Lander – was almost dead centre. It was odd. She knew now his forename was Edmund but she did not think she had once called him by it, nor could she imagine the circumstances in which she ever would.

  Liz hadn’t seen him since the Sunday before Christmas. He looked, she thought, a little jaded. Who knew what he had been up to over there.

  (She had Saturday Night Fever in her head. The trailer. Robert hadn’t liked the look of it when they caught it before Jaws 2, and there was no way, once she had seen the age of the ones in queues outside it, she would have gone on her own.)

  Lander started by wishing them all a happy and prosperous 1981. He told them how much he appreciated their patience all these months – their patience and their application. It was no easy thing to keep putting in the effort when there was so little that you could point to and say, ‘See? I did that.’ He wanted to ask them though to apply themselves with renewed vigour. These next few weeks were going to be the most important yet. All this equipment they saw around them would have to be tested and retested. All the routines they had rehearsed would have to be rehearsed a few times more. On 21 January the doors at the end of the shop next door would open and a DMC-12 would be driven out. He didn’t think it was too much of an exaggeration to say that the eyes of the world would be on it, and them.

  *

  She was held up getting home that night. A lorry abandoned under the M1 bridge by Black’s Road was the word that filtered down her bus. (Some day someone would give the bombers and abandoners of lorries and cars jobs in the roads department. They knew the network and its stress points better than anybody else.) After twenty motionless minutes outside the Speedy Cook on Kingsway she cracked and got off. Avoiding the bridge, she walked halfway up Dunmurry Lane then hoicked her leg over a low wire fence and climbed a clay embankment into the wood. Robert would have a fit. She would have a fit herself if it was one of the boys attempting it in the dark. Except it wasn’t absolutely dark. Lights were still burning in the school on her left and, a little further off to the right, she could see through the trees – thinner than she remembered them – glimmers from the streetlamps at the back of her estate. It was no distance between the two, she told herself. The assembly shop, for goodness sake, was longer. Even so her heart when she emerged on to the playing fields on the other side was thumping. She wouldn’t be doing that again in a hurry.

  The car was already in the driveway when she turned into the street. She hoped Robert or the boys had had the wit to turn on the potatoes while they waited for her.

  Her shoes were caked in orange mud. She went round to the back door and kicked them off on the step. Give them a wipe with a sponge later. No one would be any the wiser.

  The glass in the door and in the window next to it was steamed up. She pulled open the door, into the kitchen, and the heat wrapped itself round her face like a wet facecloth. One of the three of them had turned on the potatoes all right, but whichever one it was had forgotten to turn them off again when they came to the boil. The lid was half off. She lifted it with a tea towel bunched in her hand. Mush.

  Chumps.

  She was turning from the cooker to the living room door when Robert opened it from the other side.

  ‘Do you know anything about this?’ he asked and pushed the door right back.

  The boys were on their hands and knees on the floor, surrounded by cardboard and Styrofoam packaging, examining a twenty-four inch colour television as though trying to divine the magic of the Big Box of Moving Pictures. (It’s called electricity, boys. Try plugging the thing in.)

  ‘They told me they weren’t able to deliver it till Saturday,’ Liz said, though she had to work at the accompanying scowl. It was a beautiful set. Top of the range.

  ‘Here, look at this!’ One of the boys had unearthed a remote control and was holding it flat across both palms. His brother reached out a hand, withdrew it again without making contact.

  He whistled through his teeth.

  Robert sucked saliva through his. ‘Do you not think you should have talked to me first? What are the rental payments, a brand new set like that? You don’t even know yet if that place of yours is going to last.’

  ‘Look on the bright side, why don’t you? Anyway, there are no payments. I bought it’ – his brows knitted before she could get to the end of her sentence – ‘in the sale at Gilmore’s, half price. It was to be a surprise... Next week? Our anniversary?’

  There was another whistle of wonderment from the explorers on the living room floor. ‘Ceefax as well... We’ll be able to check the football scores.’

  Robert stared, trying, she would have sworn, to find something, anything, to be annoyed about. ‘I’m going to get washed,’ he said at last.

  ‘Can we put it on?’ the boys asked as one over their shoulders. They had clearly located the plug.

  ‘You can get into the kitchen and peel some more potatoes for me,’ said Liz, her eyes on the door Robert had walked out of. ‘Both of you.’

  *

  As Randall was leaving Warren House on the afternoon before the day appointed for the unveiling, the landscape gardeners were arriving. Two middle-aged men in tan bib overalls and – her hair hidden under a tweed newsboy cap – a very short young woman who, he quickly realised, was running the show. She directed the men to take two bay trees from the back of their flatbed truck and place them either side of the front door, then knelt herself before the first of the trees, a roll of red satin ribbon in one hand, a pair of scissors in the other, and before Randall’s car was eve
n halfway down the drive had the first bow fashioned and attached.

  He checked into the Conway again, into his old room. (He was touched that they had remembered.) The residents’ dining room was full of journalists ahead of tomorrow’s ceremony. The bar – all the bars – fuller still. Randall kept his head well down. Time enough for all that hoop-la in the morning. He went instead for a wander around the grounds after dinner, arriving eventually at the security barrier at the front gate. A guard stepped out of the hut. Tall, well built. Not one of the men he remembered. No more was the man who remained inside, turning the pages of a magazine. Even the uniform looked different.

  ‘New company has the contract now,’ the guard said in answer to his first question, and in answer to his unfinished second – ‘The guys who use to work here...?’ – ‘You’re asking the wrong person, mister. All’s I do is raise and lower the barrier and look in the car boots.’

  Randall offered him a cigarette.

  ‘Don’t touch the things,’ he said and went back into the hut leaving Randall looking across the road at the cottages and their giant concrete offspring, gaudy with lights and TV screens.

  *

  The afternoon of that same day Liz and her workmates had had their final walk-through, starting up at the entrance to the assembly shop from the body-press shop. Bennington used to conduct the tours himself sometimes, before his sudden departure. Randall had filled in once, much to his obvious discomfort, and hers. She missed the name of the guy who was doing it today, but he was one of their own, stepping up, acting up, half taking the pee out of it, half hiding behind the Americans’ manner of speaking.

  ‘Right, let’s see who has been paying attention on our little excursions,’ he began. ‘The cranes bring the bodies through here to the assembly shop...’ He pointed to a man in the front row. ‘How many square feet?’

  ‘Me? Um...’

  ‘Too slow: two hundred and seventy-two, six and a quarter acres. So, bodies come in, are lowered on to the trim line here, trim being the polite word for the viscera, the guts, all those wires that give civilians the heebie-jeebies when they look behind the dashboard... Pardon me, the dash.’ He – they – had reached the far end of it as he talked and now wheeled right, round the corner of the parts’ shelves that flanked the trim line. ‘Round here is the...’ He pointed at the same man again.

  ‘The, ah, chassis line.’

  ‘More like it: the chassis line. The end of the chassis line to be exact, where the chassis, all nicely “dressed”, is placed on one of these...’

  ‘Tellus carriers,’ the man said without waiting to be asked.

  ‘Now you’re just showing off... and is carried to where the trimmed body waits to be – ahem – mated with it.’

  Cue the sniggers. The guide raised his voice above them. ‘I cannot promise you that heavenly choirs will sing, but I can promise that if that body and that chassis do not meet at the time prescribed all hell will break loose. Am I right or am I right?’

  ‘You’re right!’ the group chorused.

  ‘Good. The chassis and the body, now forever joined, are guided by the miracle of computers on the most important part of their journey. He had stopped next to a double-decker rack of stainless steel panels, or skins. ‘The doors get all the press, but you know and I know the stainless steel skins are what make the DMC-12 the DMC-12. Guaranteed rust-proof for...?’ He cupped his hand behind his right ear.

  ‘Twenty-five years!’ came the cry. They were starting to enjoy themselves.

  Your man nodded, satisfied. ‘One quarter of a century. So, skins there, then doors here, then all that remains is the seats and the wheels...’

  ‘Here, less of the “all that remains”,’ shouted Anto, a little to Liz’s left.

  The guide acknowledged the justice of his complaint with a raised hand and a bowed head. ‘Correction, after that there follows the vitally important task of fitting the seats and wheels, then the car is placed on the rolling road, its brakes tested, its headlights aligned, and off on out the doors it goes – to what is no concern of yours. In fact, from the moment you walk through that factory gate in the morning, whichever gate it is you walk through, you don’t have to worry about anything...’

  The chorus now became a sing-song. This was an old favourite: ‘No green, no white, no orange, no red, no white, no blue. We are the independent state of DeLorean, our wages are DeLorean wages, our conditions are DeLorean conditions.’

  The guide held up a finger, straight as a baton. ‘As long as you keep getting fibreglass bodies in one end of this building and DeLorean motor cars out the other.’

  They applauded, him for his performance, themselves for their contribution and for what they were about to do together.

  ‘OK,’ he said – he was Jimmy Cagney now, all twitching lip and jittery hands – ‘tomorrow we make cars.’

  9

  Randall left the Conway a couple of minutes short of half past six. The scaffolders were already onsite when he reached the factory, laying out the metal poles for the temporary bleachers – grandstand as they preferred here, if a structure with a mere twenty-four seats could be thought of as grand (as opposed to some of the people who would sit in it). Before it was quite eight o’clock half a dozen outside-broadcast units – ranging in size from VW van through three-axle fixed-body truck to giant semi-trailer – were parked in the loading bay at the side of the assembly shop, thick black cables running from them into a generator provided gratis along with the constant supply of tea and coffee and triangles of toast brought from the canteen by Peggy, who once upon a time had stuffed cuddly toys in the pram factory.

  (Did the people in the vans and trucks thank her, or him? They did not.)

  Jennings showed up an hour ahead of schedule, looking as ever as though he had dressed according to strict civil service guidelines, right down to the size of the bow on his shoelaces.

  Behind him came an advance party of the RUC, bringing with them a pair of Labrador detection dogs, one golden, one black, who were let off their leashes to run around a while, ears up, tongues wagging, noses to the ground, before being called to heel again. In went the tongues, down went the ears.

  ‘I sometimes think I would like to leave something very small for them to find, they look so disappointed,’ said Jennings, as the handlers coaxed the dogs into their van.

  They were no sooner away than the VIPs began to arrive, or the PIPs at any rate – the pretty important people: the industrial developers, the local political party leaders, doing their level best to be seen to be ignoring one another, a couple of lords lieutenant, Colin Chapman, accompanied by a woman half a head taller and a decade and a half younger, who did not answer to any of the descriptions Randall had heard of Chapman’s wife.

  Another thirty minutes and a convoy of Land Rovers came through the gates with, at its centre, two long black cars. Jennings made straight for the first as it pulled up, Randall for the second, the two of them opening the doors almost simultaneously.

  Humphrey Atkins stepped out of Jennings’s car then turned to offer his hand to a woman with the longest neck that Randall – from whose car no one had yet emerged – had ever seen. The press corps as good as ignored her, as they had ignored her husband before her, but as the first size sixteen black chain loafer was belatedly planted on the ground next to where Randall stood they made a sudden and determined charge.

  John Zachary DeLorean – for he seemed on this occasion to emerge in three distinct stages – finished unpacking himself from the car (however he packed himself his suits never creased) and was followed in one fluid movement by Cristina, towards whom every camera and microphone now pointed.

  ‘Mrs DeLorean, if you would... this way... please... Mrs DeLorean!’

  ‘How are you enjoying Belfast?’

  ‘Had you time for an Ulster fry on the way from the airport?’

  Cristina merely smiled, which appeared from the absence of further questions to satisfy the journalists for
now.

  A few yards to the left Mrs Atkins maintained her smile too in case it was needed any time soon. Randall rather suspected it would not be.

  DeLorean dipped his head towards him on his way to shake the secretary of state’s hand.

  ‘All set?’

  ‘All set.’

  DeLorean squeezed his upper arm.

  Don Lander, who had met up with the DeLoreans in London the night before, got out of the car last and least noticed. ‘Well I got to the bottom of the choice of launch date,’ he told Randall. ‘Seems Sonja thought this was the most auspicious day.’

  Randall looked at him blankly.

  ‘Cristina’s palm-reader,’ Don said. ‘And there I was thinking it was the interior designer.’

  *

  All through the morning they had listened to the crowd gathering on the other side of the assembly shop doors. People returning from outside brought updates – ‘The sniffer dogs are here...’ ‘There’s fellas out there speaking German and all sorts’ – and questions – ‘Anybody know what CNN stands for...?’ ‘Who’s the woman with your wee man Chapman...?’

  Liz had a distant memory of a Girl Guide Concert – dear God: 1959 – she and her fellow Guides taking it in turns to sneak a peek through the church hall’s dusty black curtains: What can you see? What can you see? Then, as now, when show time finally came it took them all a little by surprise, as though the reason for all that activity out front had temporarily slipped their minds. Then it was chords bashed out on the ancient piano; now it was a sound as of the whole factory being kick-started.

  They turned their backs en masse on what was happening beyond the doors and strained to see the crane bring the first of the fettled bodies through from the pressing shop and set it, beyond the sightlines of those at Liz’s end of the chain, on to the trim line. There was an enormous cheer from that direction, modulating into a buzz – workers combining, talking one another through the tasks in hand – which after a time yielded to something more querulous, something indeed very like a grumble, punctuated finally by a single ringing cry, ‘What the fuck?’