by Magnus Mills
An added complication lay in the fact that the flat-dayers were hopelessly divided amongst themselves. True, they occupied the higher moral ground because they adhered to the eight hours on which The Scheme was based. They were effectively split, however, between those who’d given up the ten-off-the-eight and those who hadn’t. Their cause, as a result, suffered from an inherent weakness. The ten-off-the-eight was a long-standing managerial concession, but a minority of extremists had sacrificed it for the sake of principle. This left a frustrated majority who accused them of “selling themselves down the river”. The larger group tended to congregate around the automatic vehicle wash, which they monopolized for those crucial minutes at the close of the day. The extremists, meanwhile, made a big show of working right up to the bell.
At the opposite end of the spectrum were the swervers, whose position was built on a vague notion of “fairness” and little more. They argued that the flat day was never intended as a rigid code. Instead it should be regarded as a flexible guide, with working hours being allowed to vary according to daily requirements. Needless to say, this was a romantic notion: strictly speaking, they didn’t have a leg to stand on.
Nonetheless, over the next couple of weeks we began to hear reports that swerves were being dished out once more. These rumours remained unsubstantiated for a short time, and then one afternoon Bryan Tovey arrived back at the yard a good hour before the rest of us. His card had been signed by a super from Rudgeway depot. After that, early finishes started to become more common again, and it seemed that things were returning to normal. Perhaps Les Prentice’s threat of a go-slow had achieved the desired effect, or maybe the management had simply decided that the recent curbs led to more trouble than they were worth.
Whatever the reason, I for one was glad that the hostilities were over and we could begin to enjoy life on The Scheme again. I hadn’t really liked seeing my colleagues falling out with each other, and hoped, for example, that Bill and Richard Harper would soon be able to resolve their differences. This appeared highly likely when I saw them both one evening, standing by the punch clock and chatting quite amicably. Next morning, however, I turned up at work to see a UniVan blocking the gate so that no other vehicle could get in or out. Then I bumped into George.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“They’ve called a strike,” he replied.
“But they can’t have!” I said. “They’ve got their swerves back. What more do they want?”
“Oh no,” said George. “It’s not the swervers this time. It’s the flat-dayers.”
Apparently they’d decided that the only way to save the eight-hour day was to go on strike and bring the matter to public attention. Similar action was taking place right across The Scheme, although the supers had made it clear that anybody who wanted to work would be allowed to.
George looked at me. “What are we going to do then?”
“Not sure.”
“No, nor me.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “Go and see Arthur for the keys and we’ll sit in the van and have a think about it.”
“Righto then.”
He headed inside through the swing doors as I continued across the yard. The whole of the loading bay was lined with UniVans, while yet more were parked on the standing area opposite. All had their engines switched off, and I suddenly became aware of how quiet the whole place was. Normally at this time of the morning there was no end of activity going on as the forklifts buzzed about getting everyone loaded. Today, though, there were just groups of men standing round looking aimless. UV55 was waiting where I’d left it the previous evening, halfway along the bay, so I wandered up and stood leaning against its side. After a couple of minutes, George came back.
“Our mind’s been made up for us,” he announced. “Arthur’s on strike and he won’t issue any keys.”
So there we all were: flat-dayers, swervers, everybody: the whole lot of us marooned at Long Reach and unable to work whether we wanted to or not. I guessed the situation must be the same at all the other depots, because even if the keymasters weren’t on strike then likely as not the fuel attendants would be. Or the forklift men. Or the duty clerks. Every job depended on every other job, but now the entire Scheme had ground to a halt.
“How am I going to get my cakes out?” George demanded.
“Don’t know,” I replied. “How many have you got outstanding?”
“None at the moment,” he said. “But you’ve seen how quickly the backlog can build up. I could really do with getting back to work as quickly as possible.”
Something told me George would be disappointed on this count. If the flat-dayers wanted their strike to be effective then surely it would have to be of some length, and I now began to think we might be in for a protracted dispute. I also wondered how many people had considered the full implications of the strike. All along the bay, and down in the yard, I could see crews standing next to their UniVans as if expecting matters to be settled within the next couple of hours. Some of them were passing the time by polishing their headlamps. Others simply lounged in the morning sunshine. Few seemed aware that they may be stuck here for quite a while.
At the far end of the bay I noticed Jonathan, to whom I hadn’t spoken for a few weeks. I knew, however, that he’d recently completed his term as a floating assistant driver, and had now teamed up on a permanent basis with Peter Lawrence. When he spotted me and George he came over.
“Marvellous, isn’t it?” he said. “I’ve only just joined The Scheme and I’m already on strike.”
“Are you a flat-dayer then?” I asked.
“Not really, but Peter is.”
“Yes, I thought he would be.”
“So I’m just going along with it, sort of thing. I suppose they’ll be sending us home soon, will they?”
“Why?”
“Well, we can’t do anything useful here, can we?”
“No,” I replied. “But you don’t qualify for strike pay unless you remain on the premises for the full eight hours.”
“What!” exclaimed George, plainly dismayed.
“Blimey,” said Jonathan. “I didn’t know there was any provision for strike pay.”
“There’s provision for everything,” I said. “I remember Bill Harper telling me all about it when I first started. Not that they’ve ever had any call for it, of course.”
“Until now,” said George.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Until now.”
At the realization that he was going to have to hang around all day, George began to look gloomy.
“Eight hours!” he said. “I bet the extremists are delighted about that!”
I looked at the clock and saw that it had ticked round to eight forty-five. On any other morning we’d be out on the road by this time, heading towards Merry Park, or Cotton Town, or wherever else our duty took us. Today, though, we were going nowhere, and all of a sudden four thirty seemed a long way away.
Inside the superintendents’ office I could see Horsefall, Collis and Meeks, all sitting round the desk with their heads down. It was going to be a difficult period for them too, and doubtless they were doing their best not to be seen throwing their weight around at this early stage. Besides, I’d long held the opinion that the supers were more interested in keeping each other in line than dealing with the requirements of The Scheme itself, a point which had been amply demonstrated during the Gosling episode. Presumably they’d decided to remain aloof and let the flat-dayers and the swervers sort things out amongst themselves. Joyce, I noticed, was nowhere to be seen.
“Fancy a round of darts?” Jonathan suggested.
George shook his head. “I’ve already had a look in the games room. There’s a queue just to get onto the board.”
“How about going up the canteen?”
“No thanks,” I said. “It’s far too noisy for me.”
“Aw, come on,” said George. “You can’t stay down here all day.”
“But it’s
ages since I’ve been up there,” I protested. “I’ll feel out of place.”
“All the more reason to go there then.”
He would brook no further argument, so the three of us trooped through the swing doors and up the back stairs. Even as we approached the canteen I could hear the clash of newly-rinsed cutlery being thrown into the racks by the catering staff, while plates were noisily washed, dried and stacked for immediate use.
“Why can’t they learn to do that quietly?” I murmured.
“Oh, stop moaning,” said George, pushing open another pair of swing doors and leading us inside.
It seemed that half the workforce had had the same idea as us. At almost every table there were groups of men sitting talking, drinking tea or enjoying an extended mid-morning breakfast. In most cases all three at once. Yet I could see straightaway that the flat-dayers and the swervers were having nothing to do with one another. They sat at separate tables, each party acting for all the world as if the other didn’t exist. The only contact would be when a sauce bottle or salt cellar needed to be passed from one table to the next, at which time a sort of icy politeness would accompany the transaction.
We sent Jonathan to the counter to buy the teas, then George and I found an empty table and sat down. Across the aisle from us were Ron Curtain, Derek Moss and Dave Cuthbert. They were all flat-dayers, and were sitting behind a small oblong sign that said STRIKE COMMITTEE in bold letters. Derek had a list of names in front of him and was going through them with a biro, putting a tick here and there. He gave me a nod as we took our seats, then resumed his examination of the list. A minute later we were joined by Jonathan.
“That all looks very serious,” he said, lowering his voice somewhat. “Do you suppose it’s a list of striking flat-dayers?”
“Could be,” I answered. “On the other hand it might be a list of non-striking swervers.”
“Hardly makes any difference either way,” remarked George. “We’re all stuck in the same boat.”
He put three spoonfuls of sugar into his tea and sat stirring it in a disconsolate manner. Meanwhile, I pondered whether I should go to the counter and order some breakfast now, or leave it for a couple of hours and call it dinner. To tell the truth I had no appetite as I hadn’t done any work yet, so in the end I decided to wait.
We’d finished our teas and been back for seconds when Bryan Tovey came and presented himself before the strike committee. He’d been sitting at a table over at the far side of the canteen, talking earnestly to a group of fellow swervers, when suddenly we’d seen him rise from his seat and march purposefully across the room. Now he stood gazing down at Derek, Ron and Dave.
“Don’t mind my asking,” he asked. “But who authorized you to hold this strike, exactly?”
“It was a majority decision,” Derek replied.
“You had a vote then, did you?”
“We had a show of hands, yes.”
“When?”
“Last night after you lot had gone home.”
“We also consulted several esteemed persons,” added Dave. “People like John Ford and Len Walker. They both gave the strike their full approval.”
“I see,” said Bryan. “And that justifies keeping us stranded here all day, does it?”
“Of course it does,” said Dave. “It’s necessary for the greater good of The Scheme.”
The sheer earnestness of this statement seemed to throw Bryan slightly, and he lapsed into silence for a moment, apparently lost for words.
And then a more general silence spread through the canteen. One of the swing doors had been opened slightly, and in the gap a head had appeared. It belonged to Ray Coppin. When we all looked in his direction he gave us a wan smile, and withdrew again.
12
The first day of the strike was the longest I could ever remember. By 11 a.m., time was dragging so slowly that I’d become convinced the clock on the wall had stopped altogether. Only when the big hand ticked forward by one minute did I realize I was wrong.
Having now consumed four mugs of tea apiece, George, Jonathan and I sat listening to the surrounding hubbub of voices engaged in ceaseless debate. Never had I heard so many people concur with one another so wholeheartedly, while at the same time totally disagreeing with their colleagues at the neighbouring tables. Why no one came to blows was a miracle, since there was hardly room in that canteen for two opposing forces. Instead, a perpetual stand-off existed, in which they all grumbled about how blinkered and unreasonable the other side was, compared to their own enlightened selves. Needless to say, I’d listened to all the arguments a hundred times before and didn’t need to hear them recited once again. Eventually, therefore, I decided I’d had enough and went back downstairs, leaving George and Jonathan to join the queue for darts.
On passing the key room I noticed the door was ajar, so I gave it a gentle push and saw Arthur sitting inside reading a newspaper.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, looking up. “I’m closed.”
“I know,” I replied. “But I was just wondering if I could borrow my van’s keys for a few minutes.”
“What for?”
“Well, I thought I’d stick it in the vehicle wash. Smarten it up, sort of thing.”
“I’m afraid the answer’s no,” said Arthur. “We’re on strike … or hadn’t you heard?”
“Yes, but it would only be for a short while. Then I’d bring them back.”
“Look,” he said. “If I lent you the keys I’d have to lend them to everybody else who came along here on some whim. I’ve just told you I’m closed. That’s why the hatch is down. If you want to wash your van you’ll have to get a bucket and mop and do it by hand.”
“Where do I get those from then?”
“Try the janitor.”
“Oh, right, thanks, Arthur. Sorry to bother you.”
He grunted and shut the door behind me as I left. When I got to the janitor’s cubbyhole, however, I found it was locked, and I could see no one behind the frosted glass. Then I realized the janitor was most likely on strike, same as everyone else. Arthur had probably sent me there just to get rid of me. Nevertheless, the idea of washing my van was now firmly stuck in my head, so I began wandering around the depot in search of a bucket and mop. When this proved fruitless I crossed the yard to the engineers’ workshop. Surely, I thought, they would have something on hand to deal with the occasional oil spillage.
I entered through the door we’d used when collecting George’s cakes over the past few weeks, but there was no sign of Rob Marshall, or any of the others. Silence reigned. Venturing further inside, I passed Ken Scanlon’s empty office, and then went into the workshop proper. This had no windows and was lit entirely by long fluorescent strips, suspended from the ceiling on thin brass chains. The building was deserted, but the sight I beheld brought me to an abrupt halt. There in front of me, raised up on the hydraulic ramp, was a half-assembled UniVan. Its wheels, panels, roof and cab had been removed, leaving only the chassis and the engine in place, with the headlights standing naked on their stalks. Scattered all around were replacement parts, as well as screwdrivers, wrenches and spanners, the job having apparently been abandoned the moment the strike began. An inspection lamp had been clipped onto the chassis, with crocodile teeth to keep it firmly in position. This cast a harsh glow over the stricken vehicle, and seeing it in such a reduced state caused me to feel an odd twinge of sadness, as if something cherished was about to be lost for ever. I stood for several moments absorbing the poignant scene. Then I left the workshop and went back out into the sunshine.
It was a warm day, and by now quite a few people had come down to the yard from the canteen. They were stretching their legs by strolling around in groups of two or three. I still hadn’t got hold of a bucket and mop, but these increased numbers began to make me think I should forget the whole notion of washing my van. After all, it wouldn’t really have done for me to be seen working in the middle of a dispute, especially when such important even
ts were unfolding all around me. The fact that I was neither a swerver nor a flat-dayer was irrelevant. This was the first strike in the entire history of The Scheme, and I realized I would have to go along with it whether I liked it or not.
The extremists, I soon discovered, took a completely different view. I’d assumed they’d be fully supportive of the flat-dayers’ action, so I was surprised when I heard that a group of them had taken over and occupied the games room. Their purpose was not to play darts, or cards, or snooker, however, but rather to protest against the strike. The news was broken to me by Dave Whelan.
“They’ve barricaded themselves inside,” he said. “Blinking spoilsports. Now we’ve got nothing to do at all.”
It seemed the occupation had been led by Richard Harper, whose followers believed the strike would turn national opinion against us. Moreover, they strongly objected to people enjoying the pursuit of leisure at such a critical time. The Strike Committee had asked Bill to try and make his brother see reason, but so far his efforts had been to no avail.
The early swervers, meanwhile, were highly equivocal about their attitude towards the strike. By their very nature, of course, they were inclined to welcome the idea of a few hours lounging around doing nothing, since this was how many of them spent their afternoons anyway. It was one thing, though, for a driver to pass his time parked in some discreet lay-by several miles from the depot. It was quite another to be confined within its bounds. And so it was that when three o’clock came and went, the swervers began to look increasingly uncomfortable. Normally around this time they would be making plans to waylay some unsuspecting super with the hope of getting their cards signed. Today, by contrast, they had no alternative but to wait until four thirty.
