by Magnus Mills
The last ten minutes were the longest of all. There was no question of claiming the ten-off-the-eight because it didn’t apply during a strike. Besides, the vans hadn’t been anywhere all day so there were no keys to hand in. Even so, the irony of the moment was lost on none of us, and I noticed a good few heads being shaken with sad resignation. At twenty past four, those who’d remained all day in the canteen came down and joined the crowd that was massing near the gates. At four twenty-nine the extremists emerged from the games room, taking care to padlock the door behind them so they could continue their occupation the next morning. Then finally, at half past four on the dot, we all left the premises, cheering as we went. At long last we could go home.
The next major development came a couple of days later when the canteen ladies decided to join the strike. Apparently, they’d had enough of serving tea to hordes of ungrateful men who did nothing but sit around the tables and talk. Their action, needless to say, put the flat-dayers into a quandary, as they clearly hadn’t bargained for such a turn of events. Indeed, some of them were overheard trying to dissuade the ladies from striking, no doubt hoping to preserve their supply of subsidized food and drink. They did not meet with success, however, and by the end of the first week the kitchen shutters were down. Fortunately, the Strike Committee managed to requisition a tea urn, so for the time being at least the threatened privations were kept to a minimum.
On the following Monday the depot received a visit from Nesbitt. He appeared while Jonathan and I were sitting on the edge of the loading bay, watching an impromptu game of football that was going on in the middle of the yard. Such matches had come to be frequent events as the strike wore on, and invariably took place between teams composed of swervers on the one side and flat-dayers on the other. The score was nil-nil when Jonathan nudged me and pointed to a figure in black, walking slowly round the periphery.
“Blimey,” I said. “It’s boiling hot weather and he’s still wearing his full uniform.”
Nesbitt had now come to a halt and was gazing across at the footballers, none of whom had noticed him.
“I wonder what he wants,” said Jonathan.
“Probably just having a nose about,” I suggested. “Something to occupy him while he thinks up new ways of foiling the swervers.”
“Well, it takes one to catch one.”
“How do you mean?”
“When Nesbitt was a driver he was the worst swerver of them all.”
“Who told you that?”
“Bloke I met over at Rudgeway depot. He used to know someone who worked with Nesbitt in the early days of The Scheme. Never did a full day for weeks on end, by all accounts. Got his card signed on a regular basis. Apparently the management were quite pleased when he applied to be a super. It meant they’d got him on their side.”
“Who was this bloke then?”
“Oh, I don’t know his name. But he assured me the story was true.”
There came a huge roar from the middle of the yard. The flat-dayers had just scored an own goal, and the swervers were running round congratulating one another as if they were taking part in the Cup Final itself. By the time play was resumed, Nesbitt had moved on.
We never did find out the exact reason for his being at Long Reach. Nor did I verify Jonathan’s story, and I eventually dismissed it as a piece of unfounded gossip. What I didn’t realize was that it was just the first of a stream of wild tales that became common currency as the strike progressed. Many of these centred around Gosling, whose continued absence only served to fuel the rumour mill. One such report claimed that he’d been put to work stoking the coal-fired heating system at some far-flung depot. Another said he’d been given the task of sorting through all the used duty cards, separating the ones with signatures from the ones without. The chore would take him several years to complete. Both stories were complete fabrications, of course, I knew that for a fact, but under the circumstances I thought it was probably wiser to say nothing.
Yet there was one rumour that appeared to have some degree of credence. It began circulating sometime during the third week of the strike and I heard it from more than one source. Seemingly, a group of enthusiasts had approached the management and offered to drive the UniVans until the dispute between the two camps was settled. This would be on a strictly voluntary basis, the work being unpaid, and they were ready to start right away. According to the rumour, their offer was “under consideration”.
Now it should be said that even though the strike was nationwide, it actually had little or no effect on the economic life of the country. It caused no shortages or disruption, and was even welcomed by the majority of road-users, who were no longer impeded by processions of sluggish UniVans. The purpose of the campaign was merely to draw attention to a perceived problem within The Scheme, but the enthusiasts’ proposal threatened to expose it to all manner of unwanted scrutiny. After all, if people were prepared to drive UniVans for nothing, then why pay wages to those who weren’t?
As a result, the rumour was accompanied by mounting disquiet. I first heard it on one of my rare visits to the canteen, where there had been some recent changes. During the preceding days the Strike Committee had been accused of monopolizing the tea urn, and giving preference to flat-dayers over swervers. Furthermore, they were shown to be thoroughly incompetent, running first out of sugar, then milk, and finally tea itself. At this point George had come forward and offered his services as provisional catering manager, much to the relief of the beleaguered committee, who’d accepted at once. It was his second day in his new role, and I’d decided to go and see how he was getting on. By now the canteen had become a crucible of ideological ferment, and it wasn’t long before I’d heard about the enthusiasts volunteering their services. Then I found an empty table and sat down.
“Now as you know,” said a voice nearby. “It’s my opinion that all voluntary work should be banned.”
The speaker was John Ford, whose reputation as a flat-dayer was well known throughout The Scheme. As usual he was conducting his conversation in the manner of a general forum, addressing his remarks not only to the three companions at his table, but also to anyone else in the vicinity who might be listening. In this he reminded me of a schoolteacher vainly assuming that he had the attention of the whole class. A quick glance round the canteen told me that, in fact, no one was taking the slightest bit of notice of what John had to say, except for his immediate neighbours, and me. This, however, was enough to satisfy him that his words weren’t being completely wasted, and when he realized I’d absorbed what he’d said he gave me an appreciative nod.
“Unpaid work has no part to play in a modern economy,” he continued. “Because if people work for nothing, then you can guarantee that someone somewhere is being put out of a job!”
“So what’ll happen if the management accept the enthusiasts’ offer?” asked Chris Darling, who was sitting opposite.
“We’ll just have to blockade the gates,” John announced, as though the solution was obvious. “Then there’ll be no vans going anywhere.”
Obviously three weeks of strike action had done nothing to blunt John’s fervour, and at that moment I realized both sides were still as entrenched as they’d ever been. How long, I wondered, could this deadlock continue? The only person apparently profiting from the situation was George, whose catering operation was in full swing. Yet when I spoke to him a few minutes later, it turned out that even he had problems.
“Sandro’s been in touch,” he explained, while pouring me a second mug of tea. “He wanted to know when we’ll be getting back to work so he can start doing Trace’s cakes again.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said I had no idea how long the strike was going on for, and then he told me it was delaying all his plans for expansion. He might even have to lay Gosling off.”
“Oh, we don’t want that,” I said. “Much better for him to stay where he is, out of everyone’s sight.”
“I know,” s
ighed George. “And I’ve got Trace pestering me all the time, of course.”
He looked seriously concerned, but I couldn’t see any way out of the present impasse. After murmuring a few platitudes about things “probably sorting themselves out in the long run”, I headed back downstairs towards the yard. For some reason I decided to go by way of the main corridor, and when I passed the notice board I saw that a new set of schedules had been posted there. This suggested that the management didn’t expect the strike to last indefinitely, and that they were getting on with the everyday business of running The Scheme. On closer examination I was pleased to see that the new duties included journeys to Eden Lacy. It set me wondering how Harold, Martin, Eric and Jim would be coping with the effects of the strike. Did they still pass their days playing cards round that table at the end of the loading bay? And eating platefuls of Martin’s sandwiches? Or were they involved in endless debates on the finer points of flat-dayism?
For my part, I had to admit that I was heartily fed up with the strike, and wanted nothing more than to return to work. Oh, how I yearned for those glorious days when we would cruise along the Ring Road, replete with tea and doughnuts, exchanging greetings with our fellow workers, and calling in at depots with proud names like Merry Park, Cotton Town and Rudgeway! Maybe there was a better life to be had than sitting for eight hours behind the wheel of a UniVan, but just at the moment I couldn’t think of one.
The door to the duty room swung open and Bob Little emerged, looking most agitated.
“You know what’s wrong with this country?” he asked, when he saw me. “Cooperation, that’s what. No one cooperates with anybody else: they just make things as difficult as possible for the next person.”
“I’d never thought of it like that,” I said.
“Well, mark my words, it’s true,” said Bob. “Look at the way this dispute’s dragged on and on. It could have been settled to everyone’s satisfaction weeks ago if only people would cooperate with one another. Instead, you’ve got flat-dayers and swervers at loggerheads; you’ve got supers saying it has nothing to do with them; and you’ve got the management holding their breath and hoping it’ll all go away. Then on top of that there’s the enthusiasts waiting like vultures in the rafters. Have you heard what the public are saying about us?”
“No.”
“They’re saying we don’t know what work is. They’re calling us skivers and whingers. Us!! It’s diabolical! I can remember when this Scheme was the flagship of industrial society, but these days it’s in danger of sinking without a trace!”
Once he’d got it all off his chest, Bob quietened down a bit and told me that the only solution was to put representatives of the two sides in a room together and get them to sort things out. He’d already been on the phone to John Jones at Merry Park, and John had agreed to ring round a few depots to flush out some suitable candidates.
“Les Prentice is a definite,” Bob announced. “And I think John Ford is another one who could present a balanced view.”
He ran through a list of names, several of which I recognized, and suggested a “round table” format for the meeting. Jumping at the opportunity of having something to do at last, I immediately offered my assistance in getting the idea off the ground.
“Where are you planning to hold this gathering?” I asked.
“Well, Merry Park would be the natural location,” he replied. “But there’s a bit of a swerve bias up there, and it probably wouldn’t be deemed fair. Actually, I’ve had a word with Ray Coppin about using the Hospitality Room here, and he’s given me the nod.”
I had to admit I was impressed with Bob’s initiative. Not only had he conceived the idea of the meeting, but he’d already gone a long way to getting it organized. Even so, it clearly wasn’t going to happen overnight, as some of the invited delegates would be coming from distant parts of The Scheme. It was going to take a day or two to bring them all together. In the meantime, the Hospitality Room needed preparing, and Bob asked if I would be so kind as to get a start on that.
The room was down at the end of the main corridor, adjacent to the swing doors. It had been set aside for visiting dignitaries, which meant, basically, that it had a carpet instead of linoleum. There were no windows, but nonetheless a set of heavy velvet curtains hung where the windows would normally be. In the corner was a stack of leather-seated chairs and a large circular table. I found a vacuum cleaner in a small ante-room, gave the carpet a once-over, then moved the table and chairs into the middle. Bathing in the light of an electric chandelier, it now looked the perfect venue for a summit.
While I was getting all this done, I received occasional visits from curious passers-by. It seemed that word had spread about the forthcoming meeting, and now everyone wanted to offer advice and opinion.
“Tell Les Prentice from me,” said one driver, “that the early swerve is non-negotiable.”
“You’ll need ashtrays,” cautioned another. “Lots of ashtrays.”
After about the tenth incursion by individuals who treated me either as a messenger boy, or as an unpaid butler, I closed up the Hospitality Room and locked the door. Something told me that the chosen representatives were in for a turbulent time, and I hoped I’d played a useful role in providing an atmosphere of sanctuary. When I saw Bob Little he told me the meeting was fixed for the following Monday at ten thirty.
That weekend the fine weather which had so far accompanied the strike broke at last, and by Monday morning it was raining lightly. As a result, every single one of the arriving delegates was wearing a mac, and as I watched them turn up it struck me how similar in appearance they all were. Les Prentice and John Ford I knew by sight, of course, but to tell the truth there was little to distinguish them from any of their colleagues. They were all typical Scheme men, and it was difficult to imagine that they held such strongly opposing views.
The swervers had come with a prepared Opening Statement, in which they proposed that early swerves should in future be built into the schedules, with a guaranteed three o’clock finish at least once a week. This was scoffed at by the flat-dayers, whose appointed spokesman described the proposal as “illusory”.
His name was Andy Powell, and he was addressing a damp pre-summit assembly of supporters from beneath an umbrella. They were gathered in the vicinity of the vehicle wash, but because he was using the now-customary loud-hailer, his words could be clearly heard right across the yard.
“Sometimes,” he boomed, “I think our friends the swervers live in some kind of never-never land. They’ve never worked a full day, and what’s more they never intend to!”
The accusation brought a round of harsh cheers from his audience, and thus encouraged he continued in a similar vein for several minutes more. By the time he’d finished he had run through the whole gamut of insults, gibes and insinuations, leaving the early swervers seething with indignation. Shortly afterwards they issued a Secondary Statement that described his comments as “derisory” and “unhelpful”.
It was in this uncompromising climate that fourteen chosen men were ushered into the Hospitality Room at ten thirty a.m.
“Nice start,” remarked Jonathan, as the door closed behind them.
The main corridor was crowded with onlookers keen to be first to hear the outcome of the meeting. As time passed, however, many of them drifted off to the canteen, eventually leaving just me, Jonathan and Bob Little, plus a few diehards. Not a sound could be heard from inside the room, and the rumpus we’d all expected appeared to have been avoided. Around one o’clock the door opened by two inches, and Bob was called over.
“Any progress?” I enquired, on his return.
“Not yet,” he replied. “They’ve asked for beer and sandwiches to be sent in.”
“That’s a good sign,” I said. “At least they’re being convivial.”
“Yes, well we got a case of beer in anticipation,” said Bob. “Do you think George can provide the sandwiches?”
“I’ll go and s
ee,” said Jonathan, darting through the swing doors and up the canteen stairs. He was back in a jiffy. “No he can’t. He says he’s far too busy.”
“Well, what are we going to do then?” Bob asked.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I know just the man for the job.”
13
Martin’s arrival, some forty minutes later, was like the appearance over the horizon of the cavalry. By this time the delegates had twice repeated their request for sustenance, and, according to Bob, were showing signs of increasing irritation. When, at last, he was able to assure them their sandwiches were being prepared, they settled down into a sort of expectant calm.
Martin had come equipped with a large basket containing all the necessary ingredients, as well as plates, knives and a breadboard. He set himself up in a room not too close to the canteen (so as not to aggravate George), and soon the sandwiches were being churned out thick and fast.
“Cheese and lettuce for the first round,” he announced. “Followed by egg and cress if they require seconds.”
Each plateful was accompanied by a bottle of beer, and delivered personally into the Hospitality Room by Bob and Jonathan, who had now become Martin’s eager assistant. I noticed that several not-so-helpful hangers-on had also shown up at about the same time as Martin. They hovered around his preparation table with the apparent hope of being fed, so that when Bob returned he was obliged to shoo them away in no uncertain terms.
“Blinking gannets,” he remarked. “Got no shame at all, some people.”
