by Magnus Mills
Now as I mentioned before, drivers on The Scheme only acknowledged one another when they belonged to the same depot, and they always did so by flashing their lights. This thumbs-up signal was not a recognized form of greeting and therefore meant nothing. All the same, I got the strong impression that the occupants of the other van had been trying to communicate with me, and that they were offering more than just a simple hello. Rather, they seemed to be counting me as one of their number. The evidence suggested that certain parties had organized themselves into some kind of movement, with its own special emblem, and were now conducting a recruitment drive in order to strengthen their cause. How successful the campaign would be was impossible to tell, but I now had no doubt that the flat-dayers were on the march!
Speculation was rife when I turned up at Eden Lacy that morning. Despite being stuck out in their remote corner of The Scheme, miles from anywhere, Harold and his companions had heard all sorts of reports and rumours since my last visit, and were eager to pass them on. Over platefuls of Martin’s sandwiches, I was told of impromptu meetings where the flat-dayers had begun to speak up and make themselves known to one another. Such gatherings had taken place more or less spontaneously at various depots across the country, and it had soon emerged that, far from being the tiny minority everyone always assumed, these men actually represented a sizeable body, amounting to roughly half the total workforce. Soon afterwards they’d adopted the enclosed figure eight as their popular emblem, and thereby earned the scorn of the early swerve brigade. Even so, these stories were only the tip of the iceberg. When Keith and Rodney arrived just after midday, they brought news of a further development. It seemed that some of the more extreme flat-dayers had stopped taking their ten-off-the-eight, and were now refusing to even contemplate clocking off work until four thirty at the earliest. Moreover, the previous day had been the first in living memory when no one in the entire Scheme had had their card signed before the end of their duty. This pearl of information was saved until last, and Keith seemed to take some pleasure from the uneasy stir that passed around the table as its meaning sunk in.
“But I thought you were an early swerver,” I remarked.
“Oh, I am,” said Keith. “Without a doubt.”
“So how come you look so pleased then?”
“Because there are still some who don’t realize the seriousness of the threat. Perhaps this’ll shake them up a bit.”
Harold sighed. “Do you know we’ve only had one early swerve at this depot in all the time we’ve been here? That was when Nesbitt turned up on Christmas Eve and said we could go home at half past three.”
“Nice of him.”
“But all the rest of the year we’re de facto flat-dayers.”
“Speak for yourself!” snapped Martin. “I haven’t made up my mind which side I’m on yet.”
In the past week I’d decided for definite that Harold and Martin must be father and son. Not only were their appearances similar, but they often tended to bicker in the way people do when they spend a lot of time together. It was common at Eden Lacy to hear Martin’s high-pitched voice raised in objection to some comment made by Harold. These squabbles weren’t usually over points of high principle, however, and more often referred to petty matters such as how many spoonfuls of tea should go in the pot. I was surprised, therefore, that Martin had taken exception to being labelled a “de facto flat-dayer”. It was unlike him to be concerned with anything so esoteric. On the other hand, there was no escaping the fact that an important issue was at stake, as Keith had so rightly pointed out. For every man who believed firmly in working the full eight hour day, it seemed there was another whose sole intention was to get his card signed and go home early. Furthermore, the two sides were finding it increasingly difficult to see eye to eye. At the moment, this tiny depot lay on the periphery of the debate, with few outside influences. Things were likely to change, though, when the new schedules were introduced. After that the number of crews arriving each day would multiply greatly, and they were bound to bring their opinions with them.
On my return trip that afternoon I found myself closely scrutinizing every UniVan I passed, to see if any bore the flat-dayers’ emblem. I counted five that did even before I got back to the Ring Road, and these included two vehicles from our own circuit. What also caught my attention were the groups of drivers I saw standing by their vans in the various lay-bys and pull-ins along the way. Previously I’d supposed these gatherings to consist of friends and acquaintances discussing external matters such as sport or the weather. Now, though, I began to wonder if they weren’t drawn together by a common cause. For it struck me that if the flat-dayers had started to associate more closely, then the early swervers would have no choice other than to follow suit.
I peered at the assorted groups and tried to work out which side they were on. Oh yes, it was true that all these men looked the same in their blue shirts, but I knew for a fact they were divided into two distinct types.
The flat-dayers had the advantage, of course, because they already had a campaign underway. This point was confirmed when I passed beneath the railway bridge at Fiveways Junction. The bridge had a vast steel span that had been plastered with slogans and symbols for as long as I could remember. Most comprised odd words such as ZILCH and BANOPS, whose meanings were known only to those who wielded the paintbrush. There was also a depiction of a smiling, noseless face, and a splodge that roughly resembled a camel. It must have taken a feat of daring for anybody to get up there, but, to tell the truth, I’d seen these daubings so many times I hardly took any notice of them. Today, however, I spotted a new addition to the motley collection, namely, a gigantic figure eight set inside a square. Someone certainly meant business. This being a Friday, I thought it might be an idea to beat the traffic and get back to Long Reach in good time, so I put my foot down and rolled into the yard around three o’clock. The place was quiet, with the afternoon rush yet to begin. Given all the rumours I’d heard during the day, it would have been interesting to observe the other UniVans as they returned, to see who’d got an early swerve, for example, or to identify any noticeable differences in the way the flat-dayers clocked off. Trouble was, it involved hanging round for at least half an hour, so in the end I decided that further behavioural studies could wait. Instead, I parked the van opposite the loading bay, handed in the keys, and went home.
On Monday morning my interest in the subject had to be set aside once more. George was back from his fortnight’s holiday, and he quickly reminded me that his concerns lay elsewhere.
“Trace is going to skin you alive,” he announced, when I met him outside the duty room.
“That’s a relief,” I said. “I was expecting much worse than that.”
We shook hands.
“How was your break?”
“Terrible,” said George. “She had me running round like a headless chicken, trying to get those cakes sorted out. What happened to our arrangement?”
I told him about the timing runs and my daily trips to Eden Lacy.
“And how long’s it going to go on for?” he asked.
“There’s a few more days to do yet.”
“That explains why I’ve been stood down.”
“Oh well,” I said. “Looks like you’re in for a nice easy time.”
“I don’t want a nice easy time!” he protested. “I want to be out on the road! I’ve got a huge backlog of orders to work through! I’ve got cakes waiting to be collected from Sandro. I’ve got Ken Scanlon on my back about all those boxes in the workshop, and on top of all that I’ve got Trace complaining night and day.”
“Sounds like a bit of a headache.”
“It is, mate,” he said. “I assure you it is.”
As consolation I took him over to the cafe for a cup of tea and a doughnut. Then, to take his mind off the problem of the cakes, I told him what had been happening while he was away. When he heard about the flat-dayers’ activities he remarked that he’d noticed no di
fference during his time off.
“The Scheme looks just the same from the outside,” he said. “UniVans driving round and round in the mornings, and parked all over the place in the afternoons. Nothing new there.”
“But these are serious developments,” I insisted.
“Yah,” said George. “You’re probably just imagining it.”
A little later he went up to the games room to mope and fret about his cakes, while I headed off for yet another run to Eden Lacy. By now I had a good “feel” of how long the journey would take in each direction, along with a comprehensive list of times, and, to tell the truth, further trips were completely unnecessary. Nevertheless, Ray Coppin had suggested I did the timing runs for ten days, so ten days I would do. I was in no particular hurry to return to normal duties, and decided to make the most of my privileged status while I still had the chance.
Someone else just back from his holidays was Richard Harper. I passed him and Bill on the Ring Road at about half past ten, and guessed they must be on a return journey from Rudgeway. The familiar sight of the two brothers working together reminded me of the recent incident at the vehicle wash when I’d inadvertently crossed Bill. I still hadn’t cleared that up with him, and it then occurred to me that I had hardly spoken to anyone from our own depot in over a week. Except for the odd brief conversation I’d remained aloof from the day-to-day affairs of Long Reach, preferring grandly to speculate about The Scheme in general. All of a sudden I realized I’d become cut off from my colleagues. As the Harper brothers’ UniVan went past I flashed my lights in greeting, but there was no response. This was disquieting because Bill was a friend who went back a long way. He’d been the first person to speak to me when I started at the depot, and I didn’t want to fall out with him over a minor episode. I decided, therefore, that the situation would have to be put right at the first possible opportunity.
Having said that, I had to admit I was enjoying my role as roving envoy. It was a pleasure having a UniVan to myself, and especially so with UV61. The vehicle offered one of the most comfortable drives in the fleet, and as the road unrolled beneath its wheels I began to toy with the idea of taking a more circumlocutory route this morning. Maybe, I thought, I could go to Eden Lacy via Castle Gate, just for a change. With this in mind I left the Ring Road earlier than usual and headed north along New River Way. According to my regional map, this would take me onto the Northern Loop, which passed fairly close to the Gate. It was some while since I’d been up this road, but I was sure it would be all quite straightforward once I’d recognized a couple of landmarks. My optimistic plan started to go wrong, however, when I saw a red-and-white sign that said DIVERTED TRAFFIC BEAR LEFT. As I was unaware of having been diverted, I decided this didn’t apply to me and continued going dead ahead. After another couple of miles I came to an unmarked T-junction. Here I turned left, assuming that I was now on the Loop, and that even if I wasn’t, I was bound to meet up with it eventually. My assumption proved wrong on both counts. The road I’d chosen turned out to be nothing more than a link between a series of roundabouts, whose only purpose, apparently, was to hinder my progress. I could find no trace of these roundabouts on the part of the map where I thought I was, so I stopped using it and continued to follow my nose instead. Only when I saw a sign directing me back to the Ring Road did I accept that I’d gone the wrong way. This in itself would have been tolerable, though rather irritating, if the van hadn’t then begun to lose power. I’d already noticed once or twice during the journey that it wasn’t going with its usual vigour, and now, as the engine failed, I realized why: I was out of diesel.
Now I should say immediately that it wasn’t my job to put fuel in UniVans. This was The Scheme for Full Employment, don’t forget, and such tasks were supposed to be taken care of nightly by the shift engineers. As a matter of fact, I’d been aware that the fuel gauge had indicated empty from the moment I’d taken the van out, but since it had said the same thing for the whole of the previous week I’d supposed it to be faulty and ignored it. Today, however, it didn’t just say empty: it said very empty. With a dying moan the engine fell silent and I came to a halt at the roadside.
I got out and looked round at the place I’d inadvertently chosen to stop. Brilliant! Not a cafe in sight! No newsagent! No library! Not even a nearby park with a convenient bench and a duck pond! In short, nowhere to pass the time while I waited to be rescued. I was surrounded by industrial units, all set back from the road behind ugly security fences. With a sigh I began searching for a phone box. This took some doing, but eventually I found one, then fumbled in my inside pocket for the engineers’ emergency number. A few seconds later I was speaking to Rob Marshall. When he heard I was out of fuel, he sighed too.
“Where are you exactly?”
“In a phone box,” I replied. “Friendship Drive, it says here.”
“Never heard of it.”
“No, nor me. I think I’m quite near the Ring Road, though. Haven’t you got a map in that office of yours?”
“Course we have,” he said. “Alright. Stay with the van and we’ll come and look for you.”
I wandered back, knowing that I wouldn’t see Rob for at least two hours. Engineers couldn’t just drop what they were doing and come out in search of stranded vehicles, so I resigned myself to sitting in the cab in the middle of nowhere, and waiting. Really I should have known I was on the wrong road by the lack of UniVans swanning past. I hadn’t laid eyes on one for some while now, a sure sign that I’d run into some backwater. In one way, however, this was a blessing in disguise, because if I’d broken down on a busy thoroughfare I’d have had to put up with the taunts of passing drivers for running out of diesel.
I settled down in the dummy seat with my feet up on the dashboard, trying to get as comfortable as possible. Then I glanced around the van’s spartan interior, at the huge steering wheel, the handbrake, and the set of simple controls, whose configuration was so familiar to me.
Stencilled in black, just above the windscreen, were the vehicle details:
HEIGHT: 10' 2"
WIDTH: 8' 0"
LENGTH: 19' 6"
I gazed at these figures as I’d gazed at them many times before. I gazed through the windscreen at the factory units, looking for signs of life. And I gazed into the wing mirror. To my surprise there was a man standing there. For a moment I thought Rob Marshall had somehow managed to arrive in complete silence, but dismissed the idea the instant I saw the newcomer’s clothes. Instead of blue engineers’ overalls he was dressed in a faded suit that appeared to be one size too small for him. He also carried a sort of shopping bag with long handles, and when he put this down and produced a notebook and pencil, I knew at once that I’d been targeted by an enthusiast. Where he’d appeared from I had no idea, since I’d noticed no other pedestrians when I walked to the phone box. Perhaps, I thought, he belonged to one of the buildings nearby. Hoping he’d think I was asleep I remained sitting very still, watching through half-closed eyes as he began an inspection of the vehicle. Fortunately, these enthusiasts were far more interested in UniVans than the people who actually drove them, so I thought it unlikely that he would bother me. Indeed, he marched round as if he owned the thing, jotting down various observations in his book before getting out a camera to take a photograph. From the silence of my cab I watched as this preoccupied man scurried round pursuing his hobby, and wondered, not for the first time, how anyone could devote their whole life to the study of UniVans! At one stage he looked directly at me. Unable to avert my gaze quickly enough, I decided the best thing was to acknowledge him with a casual nod. In return I received a ghastly grin, which confirmed my long-held belief that all the enthusiasts were barmy.
Finally he wandered off, presumably in search of yet another UniVan to record in his notebook, while I eased back for a quiet doze. Couldn’t complain really, being paid to sleep, and I had to admit the dummy seat was quite comfy. I slumbered for well over an hour, before being woken by the double b
eep of a horn. Rob had arrived in the service van.
Blearily I got out to say hello, expecting him to berate me for not reporting that the fuel was low. Instead, however, he began making excuses for the engineers, saying they were run off their feet dealing with UniVans on normal duties, and that my vehicle wasn’t actually scheduled to be on the road this week. Having thus avoided the question of blame, we shared a few derogatory remarks about “the management”, and then Rob opened the back doors of his van. Inside were several cans containing enough diesel to get me through the rest of the day. I watched as he replenished my tank, and a few minutes later I was ready to go. Inevitably, there was a docket to sign, which Rob described as unimportant but necessary, and at last I could continue my journey. Very carefully I checked my map to make sure I didn’t go the wrong way again, then I said cheerio to Rob and set off.
