The Scheme for Full Employment

by Magnus Mills

  “Isn’t that a bit worrying?” I enquired.

  “Course not,” he replied. “Our driveway’s as straight as a die. We can see anyone coming a mile off.”

  Apparently there were a few clerks who worked in the main offices at the back of the building, and also a depot manager, but Harold assured me that none of them ever interfered in the day-to-day running of the place. As we sat down to a plateful of Martin’s sandwiches, I had to agree that they had everything functioning perfectly.

  “These are delicious,” I said. “Have you ever thought of going into catering?”

  “Yes, I’ve considered it,” replied Martin. “But I’d probably just eat them all myself.”

  Keith and Rodney left at two o’clock, bound for Merry Park. According to Harold, there was a van due at two thirty that would take away some of the pallets they’d just delivered. The rest would be collected at twenty to four. With appropriate haste the three warehousemen began checking through the items in readiness: Martin doing the counting, Eric marking the goods, and Harold standing nearby with his hands in his pockets. Meanwhile I got into my UniVan and headed back to Long Reach, giving them a hoot as I pulled out of the yard.

  On my journey to Eden Lacy I’d been concentrating on taking the correct route, but now I knew the road a bit better I had the opportunity to make certain informal observations. Halfway home, for example, I took note of a cafe called Jimmy’s, an establishment which looked highly suitable for drivers in search of a late breakfast. Further along were The Cavendish Tea Rooms, which on first impressions seemed less appropriate. On slowing down for closer inspection, however, I saw they had “parking space at rear for patrons only”. This would provide a good place to disappear for half an hour or so, if such was ever required. By the same token, a lay-by obscured behind a dense row of poplar trees promised to be very handy. My casual research allowed me to build up a composite picture of what a typical trip from Long Reach to Eden Lacy (and back) might be like, given the various needs of an average Scheme employee. It also occurred to me that in timing the run tomorrow I should make allowances for some of the layover points I’d spotted.

  Drawing nearer to the Ring Road I began seeing UniVans parked at various tried-and-tested locations, as their crews waited for the afternoon to tick away. Sometimes they were gathered together in groups, and five or six men stood holding a discussion on some subject or other. Elsewhere, a pair of feet sticking through a cab window indicated a driver enjoying a tranquil doze. Meanwhile, his assistant sat in the sunshine reading a newspaper. The weather had now turned definitely spring-like, and as I swept along those byways I knew we could look forward to some fine days ahead.

  About a mile from Long Reach I saw Chris Peachment strolling along the pavement looking very much at peace with the world. When he saw me he gave a cheery wave, and then mimed as if writing his signature on something. This told me he’d managed to wangle an early swerve, even though it was only half past three in the afternoon!

  Five minutes later I arrived in the yard, having noticed a couple of UniVans loitering round a nearby corner. I was first back, and if I’d wanted I could have parked my vehicle on the bay and gone straight home. For some reason I instead decided to put it through the automatic wash. This stood poised and ready for use at the far end of the yard, so without hesitation I drove in between the giant rollers. The process was well underway when I saw Bill Harper’s UniVan come in through the gateway and head directly towards me. Only when he saw that the wash was occupied did he stop and get out. Then he came over.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Washing my van,” I replied.

  “But I always wash mine at this time.”

  “Sorry,” I shrugged. “Beat you to it.”

  Over in the super’s office, Horsefall was stirring behind the glass, obviously aware that two vehicles had come back unusually early. Unfortunately, there was only room in the wash for one at a time. If I could I would have moved mine immediately, because all of a sudden I felt quite dog-in-the-mangerish. I never bothered washing vans as a rule, since they were clean enough anyway, and had only put mine through for the sake of it. Now, however, it was completely engulfed in soapy water, so I had to leave it in for the rinse.

  “Thanks very much!” snapped Bill, before stomping back to his van and reversing it fiercely onto the bay.

  I watched with alarm as he was confronted by Horsefall. There then followed a lot of arm-waving and finger-jabbing, but as far as I could see Bill didn’t get booked. I waited until he’d gone before I put my vehicle on the bay, handed in the keys and went home.

  As if getting on the wrong side of Bill wasn’t enough, when I went into the duty room next morning I was instantly called over to the counter by Bob Little. He didn’t look very pleased.

  “You know that pallet trolley you were supposed to take to Merry Park?”

  “Oh yes?”

  “How come it’s still in the back of UV55?”

  “Well,” I said. “I tried to hand it over, but no one was interested, so I left it in the van.”

  “So we’ve heard.”

  “Is that a problem then?”

  “Course it’s a problem. They’ve been crying out for that trolley up the Park. I had them on the phone all day yesterday. Then Peter Lawrence tried to deliver it and found there was no docket.”

  “That’s cos I’ve got it,” I said. “As a matter of fact, the docket’s in my pocket.”

  “This is no laughing matter,” said Bob. “They’ve got Scapens coming round inspecting the premises in two days’ time.”

  “Who’s Scapens?”

  “Senior Gold Badge. If he sees they’ve got no manual trolley they’ll be in trouble, so they really need it urgent.”

  “Here you are then,” I said, unfolding the document in question. “Give this to Peter and everything’ll be alright.”

  Bob gave me a prolonged look. “How long have you been on The Scheme?”

  “Five years.”

  “Well, then,” he said. “You know I can’t take dockets off people. You’ll have to sort it out directly with Peter.”

  “Alright then. Sorry about that.”

  I left the duty room feeling annoyed that what had promised to be another pleasant day was already marred. Because there’d been no need to clock on, I’d taken my time coming to work, not arriving until a few minutes after eight. This meant I’d missed Peter Lawrence, who was bound to have departed already. I also knew he wouldn’t be best pleased at being lumbered with a trolley he couldn’t get rid of, so I’d be in his bad books as well as Bill Harper’s and Bob Little’s. All in all it wasn’t a very good start to the morning.

  Moreover, I still had to run the gauntlet of Arthur and his blessed key collection. The way he guarded them would make anyone think he was custodian of some sacred artefacts, or maybe even the crown jewels. He passed a remark about how the keys for UV61 had been returned “inordinately early” the previous afternoon, and only when he could think of no further means to delay me did he hand them over.

  Not until I actually got into my cab did yesterday’s feeling of liberation return. Ah, yes, there was nothing to beat the freedom of the open road! I checked my time of leaving and headed out through the gates.

  I’d decided that the correct way to carry out a timing run would be to stick rigidly to the speed limits for the entire journey. As a result I found myself trundling along deserted sections of road at 30mph when 45 would have been quite safe. Nevertheless, the exercise proved quite enjoyable, and I discovered I could be much more patient than I’d ever thought. At Jimmy’s cafe I paused for twenty minutes to allow for “unscheduled stoppages”. I didn’t go in, though, as I was already looking forward to the hospitality at Eden Lacy.

  Neither was I to be disappointed. As I came up the concrete drive I again saw Harold, Martin and Eric standing on the loading bay in their silent vigil, watching my approach. Again, too, I was offered tea the moment I arr
ived.

  “Better tell Jim,” said Harold, and once more Martin used the phone on the wall to ring over to the workshop.

  “Jim?” he said. “It’s Martin here. We’re making a cup of tea if you’re interested. Right you are. See you in five minutes.”

  After he’d hung up I said, “Don’t mind me asking, but wouldn’t it be easier just to shout across to the workshop?”

  “You could,” replied Martin. “But you’d soon be hoarse.”

  At twelve o’clock, while I was helping Eric sweep the bay, Keith and Rodney arrived in the Bell Tower van. They were quickly unloaded, and then we all sat round the table for a game of cards.

  “Have a good journey back yesterday?” asked Harold, as he shuffled the pack.

  “Yes, thanks,” I replied. “I was in the yard by twenty-five to four.”

  “Nice early swerve for you then.”

  “It’s job-and-finish really,” I said. “But I suppose it amounts to the same thing.”

  “Well, whatever you call it,” said Keith. “I’ve got a feeling there’ll be a clampdown very soon.”

  “How come?”

  “I was talking to John Jones this morning. Do you know John?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Keeps the gate at Merry Park.”

  “Right, well he told me there’s been a big surge in early swerves lately, but it only came to light when Nesbitt signed somebody’s card.”

  “Nesbitt?” said Martin, clearly astonished.

  “Yep,” said Keith. “Apparently it’s the first time he’s done it for years, but then he noticed someone else’s signature repeated about a dozen times. Turned out to be Gosling – he’s a super over at Blackwell depot – and now Nesbitt’s conducting this special enquiry. There’s bound to be a clampdown when it all comes out.”

  Harold nodded and puffed out his cheeks.

  “Yes, we’ve heard of Gosling,” he said. “Very popular with all the drivers who come here.”

  “Well, according to John he’s been suspended,” said Keith. “While the matter’s being investigated.”

  Under the circumstances I thought it better to keep quiet about my part in Gosling’s undoing. All the same, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him.

  “Blimey,” I remarked. “Poor Gosling.”

  “Poor all of us,” murmured Keith. “Imagine life without early swerves!”

  On Friday morning I bumped into Jonathan, just after he’d received his first full wage packet. He was standing in the corridor outside the duty room, staring in disbelief at his pay slip.

  “Just had a pleasant surprise, have you?” I asked.

  “I’ll say I have,” he replied. “Really, I had no idea I’d get paid this much. I was only on the basic rate during training, but look at all these extras: cost of living allowance! Dry-cleaning disbursement! Attendance award! There’s even a productivity bonus!”

  “Of course.”

  “But how can we have a productivity bonus when we don’t produce anything?”

  “It’s a notional payment,” I explained. “Equivalent to what we might earn in a comparative industry.”

  He shook his head and smiled. “Blimey! Now I see why everyone goes on about glorious days.”

  “Ah, but it’s not just the money,” I said. “It’s the whole thing. Once you’re on The Scheme they look after you right down the line. Just think about it. You’ve got your full uniform provided, winter and summer, so that saves on clothes; you’ve got your subsidized catering, your welfare fund, your sports association and your on-site amenities, and all you’ve got to do is turn up for work every day! It’s like being in a great big feather bed! Can I see that?”

  “Sure.”

  He handed me the pay slip, and I ran my eyes down the itemized list until I found what I was looking for.

  “Here you go. Holiday entitlement. You’ve only been here a week and you’ve accumulated half a day already. It builds up pro rata.”

  “Marvellous,” said Jonathan. “I think I’ll keep this as a souvenir.” He took back the slip and carefully folded it up with his bank notes. Then, as we walked round to the loading bay, he asked a question that surprised me. “So what exactly’s in all these crates?”

  “You must know,” I said. “Didn’t they tell you during training?”

  “No, they just said the contents were very important.”

  “Oh, they’re important alright. The whole Scheme depends on them.”

  “How’s that then?”

  “Well, presumably they told you that these UniVans were custom built: specially designed with interchangeable parts and immunity to rust.”

  “Yes,” said Jonathan. “And the engineers can take them to pieces in a day.”

  “Right,” I said. “Well, that’s what’s in the crates.”

  “What, you mean spare parts?”

  “No, all the parts. Everything. Wheels, panels, mudguards, mirrors, lamps. Not to mention all the engine components. Look at this crate here: what’s it say on the label? Radiator grilles: one dozen. There you are: perfect example.”

  “So we’re driving round in UniVans, full of bits of UniVan?”

  “Correct,” I said. “It’s self-perpetuating. We move the parts from one depot to the next, and it keeps us all in work.”

  I was quite pleased with my explanation, which I thought had come over as clear and succinct. In thoughtful silence Jonathan gazed at the unhurried activity taking place all along the bay.

  “By the way,” he said. “What’s this rumour about no more early swerves?”

  “Where’ve you heard that then?” I asked.

  “It’s what they’re all saying up the canteen.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “You don’t go up there very often do you?”

  “No, I prefer a bit of peace and quiet with my dinner.”

  “Well, the word is that there’s going to be a clamp-down and no one’ll get signed off early any more.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it,” I said. “They threaten these purges from time to time to shake everybody up, but then nothing happens. I expect someone thought of this latest one to get the Silver Badges running up and down a bit. At the end of the day it’s all just Scheme, isn’t it?”

  “Suppose so.” Jonathan glanced at his watch. “Right, I’d better get moving.”

  Before he went I gave him the docket for the pallet trolley, and asked him to pass it on to Peter Lawrence. Then, at last, the wretched thing could be got rid of. After that I went across to the cafe for a tea and doughnut. I was in no particular hurry to get going, of course, and I now understood why Steve Moore had taken so long over his breakfast the other morning.

  Eventually, however, I decided it was time to leave, so I wandered back to the depot and got the keys for UV61. I’d left it parked on the bay overnight, down at the far end near the super’s office. As I approached I noticed a slight change in its appearance. Just below the window on the cab door, someone had drawn a simple emblem. It had been done neatly in yellow wax crayon, and consisted of a figure 8 enclosed in a square.

  8

  “Vandalism,” said a voice nearby. “Sheer vandalism.”

  Glancing round I saw that I’d been joined by Horsefall. He was standing just behind me, gazing thoughtfully at the yellow mark.

  “Who’s done that then?” I asked.

  “You tell me,” he replied. “The Scheme gets through about half a ton of crayon every year. Anybody can get their hands on it.”

  “Must be a flat-day man trying to make a point.”

  “Quite possibly, yes, but I don’t think it’s one person acting on their own. I’ve heard these signs have been appearing all over the place lately. There’ve been reports of them from right across the region.”

  He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and moved close to the van. Then he began rubbing at the emblem, gradually obliterating it. This was a slow task because the crayon had a high wax content. Eventually, however, all tra
ces of the figure eight were gone.

  “That’s better,” said Horsefall, stepping back and examining his handiwork.

  “I’m surprised you went to all that trouble to get rid of it,” I said. “I thought you supers would be sympathetic to the flat-dayers.”

  “It depends on the situation,” he answered. “Obviously we favour the full eight hours where it’s at all possible, but our main concern is to get the vans back to the depot on time. We don’t want you stuck out there in some traffic jam when we’re trying to shut the gates for the night, do we?”

  “Suppose not.”

  “There you are then. In circumstances like that we’d gladly sign your card. We superintendents have homes to go to as well, you know.”

  This seemed doubtful, but I let the remark pass and watched as Horsefall returned his now-yellow handkerchief to his pocket.

  “So you’d side with the early swervers in some situations, would you?”

  “It’s not a question of siding with anyone,” he said. “It’s a question of getting the vans back on time.”

  I could tell by Horsefall’s tone of voice that he was prepared to discuss the matter no further. Nonetheless, I had plenty to think about as I began my drive to Eden Lacy. It appeared there were some people who regarded the flat day in very serious terms. I knew already that men like Len Walker and John Ford were outspoken practitioners, and indeed they’d been spreading the word against early swerves for as long as I could remember. Somehow, however, I couldn’t imagine either of them going around daubing emblems all over the place. Not long after I’d got onto the Ring Road, I spotted just such a device drawn on the back of a UniVan travelling ahead of me. It was identical to the one on my cab door, and had again been done in yellow wax crayon. I tried to overtake the van to catch a glimpse of its driver, but at the exact moment I drew level he turned up a side-street and I lost sight of him. A little while later I met a UniVan approaching in the opposite direction. By now I’d run into a spot of slow-moving traffic, so that I was barely doing more than 5mph when I drew alongside the oncoming vehicle. This had plates bearing the letters TL, which indicated it came from a different region. And there, just below the cab window, was yet another enclosed figure eight. I glanced at the yellow emblem, then up at the driver, only to realize that both he and his assistant were looking across at me. When they caught my gaze they each gave me a thumbs-up signal, as if reaffirming some common bond. I nodded and smiled vaguely, they smiled in return, and next instant we’d passed by.