by Magnus Mills
“Ten to one,” he said. “Plenty of time.”
Without another word he led the way towards the office, followed closely by Watts, while Kevin and the rest of us made a big show of loading the two pallets onto the UniVan in an efficient manner. At three minutes to one the task was complete, but there was no question of sloping off for dinner. Instead we each seized a broom and gave the bay yet another sweep. Only at one o’clock was it safe to stop work. Cliff and Kevin downed tools on the dot and headed for the canteen doors.
“Go with them and meet a few people,” I urged Jonathan. “Have a round of cards; they’re all quite friendly.”
“Are you coming?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Think I’ll stay with the van.”
I spent the next half-hour wondering what to do about the cake. It sat there on top of the dashboard like a piece of damning evidence, a signpost advertising the fact that we’d broken one of the cardinal rules of The Scheme. The conveyance of private goods by UniVan, either in the cab or in the back, was not allowed, and if I had any sense I’d get rid of it there and then. On the other hand, Nesbitt had made no mention of the box during our journey to Cotton Town, which suggested he’d chosen to ignore it. The only way I could get it passed on to Pete Giggs was by taking it to Blackwell depot, so finally I decided I would stick to the plan and hope for the best.
A secondary line of thought concerned Watts, and his reaction when he saw the pallet trolley. I’d always had Watts down as an unbending authoritarian, but now I realized I’d misjudged him. He could easily have dropped me right in it for not getting that trolley delivered, especially with Nesbitt present, yet he’d actually gone out of his way to change the subject. I made a mental note that Watts was a softer touch than I’d previously thought. It was always useful knowing these things.
Nesbitt, though, was completely unfathomable. Osgood had remarked that no one knew how his mind worked, but really this was a profound understatement. Nesbitt was a totally free agent whose sole duty was to perpetuate the smooth running of The Scheme. A man with unlimited powers, he investigated anything that caught his fancy, and today, for reasons of his own, he’d decided to ride round in our UniVan. I expected him to come back at exactly one thirty, so at twenty-five past I got behind the wheel and waited. In the event it was Jonathan who returned first.
“I overheard some interesting discussions up in the canteen,” he said. “In fact, there were a few heated arguments.”
“What about?” I asked.
“Well, there was a table by me and they were talking about the best way to get an early swerve.”
“Oh yes?”
“One bloke said you just had to go slow all day until you were so far behind schedule that they had to sign your card. Then this other bloke said he was wrong, and that the best approach was to get in with a particular super, so you could get a signature in advance. But the first bloke didn’t like that because it meant you owed them a favour.”
“True.”
“They were just going on and on about finishing early, as if their whole day was built around it.”
“It is, for some of them.”
“But I thought this was supposed to be The Scheme for Full Employment!”
“Yeah …”
“Well, I can’t see how it can be if no one’s got enough to do.”
“The point is,” I said, “there’s a difference between full employment and being fully employed. True, there is a lot of spare capacity in The Scheme, but it’s better for people to be paid to do very little than have no job at all, isn’t it?”
“Suppose.”
“You’re right, though,” I conceded. “Some of them do tend to take the early swerve thing a bit far.”
“That’s exactly what this other bloke told them. John, his name was, I think. He suddenly came marching up to the table and said they were going to ruin everything if they carried on the way they were.”
“That’ll be John Ford,” I said. “He’s a great believer in The Scheme, but also highly opinionated.”
“Well, he had a real go at the others.”
“And what did they say back to him?”
“They just laughed.”
The nearside door opened and Nesbitt peered in.
“Who laughed?” he asked.
“Er … some people up in the canteen,” replied Jonathan.
“Good,” said Nesbitt. “Glad to hear everybody’s happy. Move over, can you.”
While talking to me, Jonathan had been lolling in the dummy seat, seemingly forgetful of Nesbitt’s imminent return. Now, he was once again obliged to find a perch on the centre cowling. Then Nesbitt got in and we continued our daily round.
During the next part of the journey it struck me how quickly we’d adapted to having such an important passenger on board. Apart from putting a stop to all but the most necessary talk, his presence had also affected the way I was driving. There was a code of conduct on The Scheme that included courtesy to other road-users. This was wrapped up with the image of the UniVan as a sort of model, skilfully-driven vehicle, sharing the highways with everybody else. The reality, of course, was different. Due to their size and sluggishness, UniVans were in fact the primary cause of traffic congestion in most towns and cities, and this often brought out the worst in fellow drivers. It was a common sight to see a UV being carved up by some car or lorry, desperate to get in front. The result was that we all tended to defend our road space quite robustly, as if we were in command of assault tanks rather than humble utility vehicles. Today, however, I was courtesy personified. Under Nesbitt’s scrutiny I became the politest, most considerate person ever to sit behind a steering wheel, giving way to all and sundry, and beckoning over-takers with a cheery wave of the hand. Nesbitt passed no comment on any of this, nor did he look anywhere except at the road dead ahead. Nonetheless, I knew he was clocking my every move.
Fatigue was beginning to set in by the time we arrived at Blackwell. Normally, this would be the opportunity for a cup of tea, but I had a feeling that today we would be missing out. One thing was for certain, though: the depot had been forewarned that Nesbitt was coming. This was evident from the number of staff who materialized on the bay the moment we entered the yard. From what I could see it was practically a full complement. Charlie Green and Mick Dalston were busy tidying up a huge stack of surplus pallets, assisted by Dennis Clark and Steve Carter. Meanwhile, Len Walker was occupied getting his forklift truck into position. As I reversed in, Gosling descended from the office and began guiding me back with a series of meaningless hand signals. This actually made the manoeuvre more difficult than usual. I’d been driving UniVans for five years, yet because of Gosling I only made it squarely onto the bay at my second attempt. At last I switched off the engine and waited for Nesbitt to get out. Instead, he remained sitting exactly where he was.
“Now then,” he said. “We seem to have an additional item on board.”
He was looking directly at the cake box.
“Oh,” I said. “Yes.”
“So let’s have a look inside, shall we?”
Nesbitt reached forward, lifted the box off the dashboard and placed it on top of his knees. Then he removed the lid. Inside was a cake covered with yellow icing. It had a circle of crystallized oranges and lemons round the outside, and on top was a tiny sugar bicycle, as well as some candles and the words: FOR A VERY SPECIAL BOY WHO’S FIVE TODAY.
“Rather pretty,” remarked Nesbitt. “Has it got marzipan in it?”
“Should think so,” I replied.
“I’m very partial to a bit of marzipan.”
“Are you?”
“Very partial indeed.”
For a few moments I remembered my own distant childhood, and the weeks I used to spend waiting for my birthday to come round. I recalled that on those far-gone occasions the candlelit cake had always been central to my boyish hopes and dreams, the guarantee that there would be many happy returns of the day.
&
nbsp; Then I turned to Nesbitt and said, “Like a slice?”
“Yes, thank you,” he said. “It’ll go down nicely with a cup of tea.”
Replacing the lid, he put the box under his arm and got out of the UniVan. Jonathan and I looked at each other, and followed after him.
“Afternoon, Cyril!” called Osgood from the office door. “I’ve got the kettle on if you’d care to partake.”
If Osgood realized what Nesbitt was carrying with him he didn’t show it. Professional that he was, he simply stood holding the door open as his superior mounted the steps and went inside. Gosling, I noticed, was not invited to join them.
Len Walker seemed positively delighted about Nesbitt’s visit.
“Heh heh!” he kept saying. “There’ll be no one getting away early today.”
Certainly, Charlie and the rest of them appeared to have accepted this as an unavoidable fact. Having completely rebuilt their stack of pallets, they next directed their energies into unloading a van that had arrived after me. The swiftness with which they went about the task surprised the driver and his assistant, who came sauntering onto the bay to find the process already in full motion. Informed of Nesbitt’s presence, however, they soon fell into line and set about giving their mirrors and headlights an extensive polish.
All this activity gave Gosling something to concentrate on, and he seemed moderately happy overseeing operations during the fifteen minutes or so that the office door remained closed. When it opened again we were all busily engaged in our respective duties. Nesbitt emerged with the cake box tucked under his arm.
I had been half-hoping he would choose to spend the rest of the afternoon at Blackwell, especially after Len’s remark that no one would be getting away early. Surely, I thought, he must have had enough by now of riding round in a UniVan. But I was wrong. Still carrying the box, he descended the stairs and headed back towards our vehicle. As Jonathan and I trailed after him we received pitying glances from the others. Osgood stood in his doorway, looking thoroughly relieved that Nesbitt’s sojourn was over.
Back in the cab, I saw the cake box sitting on top of the dashboard as though it had never been moved. Jonathan was balanced on his perch, while Nesbitt sat leafing through his schedules book.
“Right,” he said. “You’re due to go to Merry Park now.”
“Yes,” I replied. “Last call of the day.”
Nesbitt closed the book and slipped it into his pocket.
“Well, I’m not minded to go to Merry Park,” he announced. “You haven’t picked up from here, have you?”
“No, there wasn’t anything.”
“Right you are. Give me your duty card and I’ll sign you straight back to Long Reach. Then we can all get home a bit sooner, can’t we?”
“Er … yes,” I said, handing him the card. “Thanks.”
“It’s not a matter of thanks,” he said. “It’s a matter of I’ve got a long way to go.”
While Nesbitt was writing the details, I suddenly remembered I hadn’t exchanged dockets with Len for the two pallets we’d delivered. The simple ritual had been forgotten in the midst of all the frenetic activity, so I got out of the van and went to find him. When I came back about three minutes later, Nesbitt was still holding the card, but now seemed to be examining it more closely. It was our final week on that duty, so most of the spaces were filled in.
“Seem to be a lot of signatures on here,” Nesbitt remarked. “Looks as though you’ve hardly been to Merry Park this last month.”
“No,” I answered. “Suppose not.”
“And it’s always the same person who’s signed it.”
“Yes.”
“Wednesday, Thursday and Friday last week. Monday, Tuesday the week before. Friday the week before that. Whose name’s this then?”
I took the card and ran my eyes over an identical series of signatures. Each consisted of a letter g with a long extended tail.
“Er … it belongs to Mr Gosling, I think.”
“Mr Gosling,” repeated Nesbitt, taking back the card. “I see.”
He reached into the inner recesses of his coat and produced a book. For a moment I thought this must be the book of schedules he’d been studying earlier, but one glance told me its pages were blank. Next thing, Nesbitt was copying particulars from our duty card, underneath which he wrote various comments of his own. Then he put the book away again.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s go to Long Reach.”
6
When I walked into the duty room next morning, Bob Little called me over to the counter.
“Don’t bother clocking in,” he said. “Ray Coppin wants to see you.”
“Do you know what it’s about?” I asked.
“No, I don’t,” replied Bob. “He just said could you go up at eight o’clock.”
“Alright then. Is someone covering my duty?”
“Yes, we’ve asked Peter Lawrence to do it.”
“Oh, right.”
This was the first time Ray had ever asked to see me, and I had no idea what he wanted me for. I only hoped it had nothing to do with Nesbitt. Before I went upstairs, however, I had to go and remove the cake box from our vehicle. Peter Lawrence was a bloke who did the job dead straight, and I knew he’d want no involvement with George’s cakes. He was also the sort of man who turned in early for work, and when I found him he already had the van unlocked with the engine running. Jonathan was standing with him looking slightly bewildered.
“I’ve got to go and see the depot manager,” I explained. “Don’t worry: Peter’ll look after you alright.”
“You in trouble then?” Peter asked.
“Don’t think so,” I said. “But you never can tell for sure. Look, I just need to take something out of the cab. See you later.”
“Yes, see you,” he said. “Come on, Jonathan. We’d better get a cup of tea before we go.”
I decided the best thing to do with the box was leave it with Rob Marshall in the engineers’ workshop. On my way there I lifted the lid and had a look inside. The cake was in perfect condition, except that about one fifth was now missing. The tiny sugar bicycle was untouched. When I arrived at the workshop I saw another six boxes on the bench, waiting to be taken away. There was no sign of Rob, so I added yesterday’s box to the stack along with an apologetic note to George. Then I took the stairs up to the main offices.
It was a long time since I’d trodden the cold tiles that led to Ray Coppin. He was a hands-off type of manager, fairly popular with the staff, whom we rarely caught sight of. His room was at the end of a broad corridor, down one side of which ran the famous Long Reach mural.
Painted in bright colours, this depicted scenes from daily life on The Scheme. In one section, UniVans were shown being loaded and unloaded by industrious men in smart blue uniforms. In another, they were seen motoring along a great uncluttered highway where the traffic consisted entirely of UniVans. Further images showed dignified superintendents, smiling ancillary staff and resolute gatekeepers, all working together in a spirit of cooperation. The centrepiece was an eight-hour clock beneath a golden scroll. This bore the words: LABOR OMNIBUS.
As I walked the mural’s length, the same thought occurred to me as had the last time I’d seen it, namely, that the UniVans it pictured looked different from those in real life. A few slight discrepancies, for example, in the thickness of the windscreen divider, or in the curve of the mudguard, made these vehicles appear much more angular than the ones I was familiar with. The result was that they seemed as if they belonged to another age altogether. Also, the men’s arms were much thicker than would be natural. I blamed this on the artist, whose illegible signature appeared in the corner at the far end of the mural.
On the opposite wall was a framed photograph of the UniVan’s late designer, Sir Ronald Thompson, wearing spectacles and looking very austere in black-and-white. Vaguely I wondered if he’d ever seen the mural, and what he would have thought of it. Then I came to an office door with
a brass plate that said:
MR RAYMOND COPPIN
MANAGER
I knocked once.
“Come in.”
When I went inside, Ray was standing with his back to his desk looking out of the window. This gave him a fine view over the lower rear roof of the depot, an aspect obscured only by the ventilation stack which stuck up at one side.
“Ah,” he said, when he saw me. “Thanks for coming in. Take a seat, please.”
I sat down while he went to a nearby cabinet and retrieved a file. Then he settled opposite me.
“Right then,” he began. “Just one or two questions first. How long have you been on The Scheme?”
“About five years,” I replied.
“And how are you enjoying it so far?”
“Fine thanks.”
“That’s good.” Ray leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “Yes, I think we’ve got a happy depot here. Everyone knows what they have to do and the bulk of the work always gets done. Oh, we may not be the height of efficiency, but all in all the fleet’s in good order and our rate of flow is easily above the average. Yes, I can safely say we’re a very happy depot.”
No sooner had Ray started than I recognized this introductory talk as the one he’d given me on my first day as a new recruit. As a matter of fact it was the one he gave everybody, and was supposed to offer a sort of fatherly reassurance to newcomers. On that earlier occasion he’d gone on to explain the policy of eight hours’ work for eight hours’ pay, and to inform me I could look forward to glorious days ahead. This morning, however, he soon began to pursue a completely different line.
“Now as you know,” he said, “The Scheme continues to go from strength to strength. UniVans travel around in their thousands every day, moving goods and maintaining a steady throughput. Nevertheless, there still remain gaps in the network where certain regions have yet to be fully incorporated. The process of integration has been a slow one, but at long last it’s arrived at our doorstep.” Ray reached for his file and opened it. “Have you ever heard of Eden Lacy?”
