by Magnus Mills
Despite his gruffness, Bob was clearly pleased with the effect the refreshments were having on the representatives, and he encouraged Martin to cut a reserve supply of sandwiches for later in the afternoon. These were then covered with white napkins and placed under strict guard until required.
If anyone thought agreement would be easily reached, however, they were in for a disappointment. The men behind the closed doors may have been mellowed by their lunch-time treat, but collectively they were hard nuts to crack and in consequence the arguments persisted throughout the afternoon. Quite a few strikers went home at half past four, knowing that their fate was now in the hands of others. This left a hard core of swervers, flat-dayers and extremists, who kept sullen company together as evening arrived and the caterers began to clear up.
Martin had just finished packing everything into his basket when George paid him a visit.
“I’ve brought you a cup of tea,” he said. “Expect no one else thought to get you one, did they?”
This was enough to overcome any potential rivalry which may have developed between the two of them, and within the space of ten minutes they were comparing notes on the best way to spread butter. Meanwhile, the meeting dragged on. The extra sandwiches were called for at six o’clock, along with further bottles of beer. When Bob took them in he made sure to inform the delegates that the cupboard was now bare. The idea was to try to speed them up a bit, but his efforts were of little avail. Not until some time after ten did the door open and a gaunt-looking John Ford emerge, followed by Andy Powell and the twelve others. They gathered in a group at the end of the corridor, then John and Andy stepped forward to make an address.
“It’s been a difficult day,” John began. “But thanks to the efforts of Bob and the rest of you we’ve managed to come to an accord. Both sides accept that a prolongation of the strike would achieve little, and therefore after much consideration we’ve prepared a Joint Statement which my colleague will now read out.”
There was a pause while Andy Powell slowly unfolded a sheet of paper he’d been clutching in his left hand. One or two onlookers shuffled their feet in anticipation. Others cleared their throats on Andy’s behalf. Then he held the statement before him and read aloud:
“We’re unanimous that the principle of the flat-day should be adhered to, but that early swerves can be granted if and when circumstances dictate.”
Another pause followed.
“Is that it?” someone asked.
“Yep,” Andy replied. “That’s it.”
“What about the ten-off-the-eight?”
“The ten-off-the-eight still stands.”
This brought a general cheer, and the fourteen delegates then indulged in a long round of hand-shaking, back-patting and mutual self-congratulation.
“In other words,” murmured George. “We’re back to where we were in the first place.”
The return to work was a dignified affair. On Wednesday morning, after a day of “consultation and agreement”, the entire staff clocked in as though there had never been a strike. Then, at half past eight, a column of UniVans headed out through the gate, led by a vehicle bedecked with pennants. Warehousemen of both persuasions watched from the loading bay and combined to give them a rousing send-off. In this way they signalled that the conflict was well and truly over.
Even so, the reappearance of UniVans on the roads and streets didn’t have quite the effect most of us expected. It had been widely assumed that the end of the dispute would be welcomed by the populace at large. George and I were surprised, therefore, by the number of funny looks we received as we began our journey along the Ring Road. We lost count of the amount of times people glanced at us and then shook their heads with disdain, as if to say, “What a disgrace going on strike like that!”
Meanwhile, our fellow motorists seemed less forgiving of UniVans than they had been in the past, and indeed some were downright obstructive. At first I thought they simply begrudged giving up the road space they’d enjoyed during our period of idleness, which was fair enough. After having been deliberately carved up for the fifth time, however, I realized there was a degree of malice in the action.
“What’s the matter with everyone?” asked George, as a car overtook us, and then braked to turn left.
“We appear to have lost our popularity,” I replied.
“But we’ve just endured a three week strike in order to safeguard The Scheme!” he protested.
“That’s not how the public see it.”
Fortunately, the sheer volume of the operation meant that UniVans soon held sway on the roads again. By early-afternoon the harassment had fizzled out and we’d begun to merge back into the fabric of daily life. Nonetheless, it was a relief finally to turn off the Ring Road and head in a new direction. The revised schedules were now in place, and our latest duty included a run to Eden Lacy. With the weather brightening, we cruised merrily along as I pointed out the various landmarks I’d noted during my days on the timing run.
Yet although George paid some heed to the location of certain pull-ins and cafes, it soon became clear that his chief interest lay in his forthcoming meeting with Martin. He was eager to see him operating on his home turf, as it were, having been most impressed by the sandwiches he’d produced. I had a feeling George was more concerned with Martin’s methods than the ingredients he used, but even so I was pleased to share his sense of anticipation as we approached the entrance to Eden Lacy depot. The place looked quieter than ever, and at first sight appeared totally unaffected by the imposition of the new schedules. Then I noticed that standing on the bay talking to Harold, Martin and Eric was a super in a smart, new uniform. We drew up in the yard to be met by Steve Moore, freshly promoted and looking most satisfied with life.
“You kept that quiet,” I remarked, as I got out of the cab.
“Thought I’d better,” he replied. “Didn’t want to make anyone jealous, did I?”
“You here full time?”
“Yep,” he said. “The first superintendent to be permanently attached to Eden Lacy.”
I looked at his silver badge, glinting in the sunshine, and realized that life for Harold and the others would never be quite the same again. The office door that had been locked for so long now stood open and ready for Steve to begin his tenure. This meant, for the time being at least, that there’d be no more languid games of cards, lasting for hours on end. The card table had already been discreetly folded away, and the three warehousemen were occupying themselves by giving the floor a sweep. Then Harold boarded the forklift and came to unload us.
“We haven’t stopped all day,” he said. “There’s been a van here every twenty minutes.”
“Well, at least you’re on the map now,” I replied. “What’s Steve Moore been like?”
“He’s a bit zealous to tell you the truth. Keeps marching round checking on everything.”
“Oh dear.”
“Not to worry,” said Harold. “We’ll soon have him softened up with tea and sandwiches.”
The very schemishness of this remark suggested that, despite the change in circumstances, all was well at Eden Lacy. As usual, Eric was wandering around with a big smile on his face, and I had no doubt that over in the engineer’s shop Jim would be whistling while he worked. Meanwhile, George and Martin were deep in conversation on their favourite subject.
“I prefer a diagonal sandwich where possible,” Martin was saying. “Although the square cut is better for lunch boxes.”
“Medium sliced?” George enquired.
“Where possible, yes.”
“And would salt be optional?”
“Naturally.”
The arrival in the yard of another UniVan interrupted their discourse, but all the same I could see that a new friendship was burgeoning. Over the coming days I would get quite used to hearing talk of bread knives, cheese slicers and the crispness of lettuce, as if the two of them were aiming to revolutionize the catering trade. Whether they’d actually do
anything about it was an entirely different matter. The idea of leaving The Scheme, with all its safeguards, and venturing into the world outside, was unthinkable to most employees. I could barely remember half a dozen people who’d made such a move, and in each case they’d returned to the fold after a few months. Nevertheless, the pair continued with their optimistic plans. Within a week George had made contact with Sandro and reestablished the cake run. Not long after that he took Martin home to meet Trace, and they all looked set to live happily ever after.
On the morning of the 1st of June, Bob Little called me over to his counter and told me not to bother clocking in.
“Got a special duty for you today,” he said. “It’s the annual weight test and they need an empty van delivering.”
“Oh, right.”
“Do you know where the weighbridge is?”
“Yep.”
“OK then,” said Bob. “There’ll be a few officials present, so you’d better take George along with you.”
The test wasn’t until eleven o’clock, which gave us time to enjoy a leisurely breakfast before we collected the keys for UV55 and set off. We arrived with ten minutes to spare.
“Looks like quite an occasion,” George remarked.
There were about fifteen people attending the ceremony, and I saw straightaway that they were divided into three distinct groups. The first consisted of assorted depot managers, including Ray Coppin, who gave me a nod of recognition when we pulled up. These managers all looked roughly the same, wearing the same kind of crumpled suits, and they stood around laughing at each other’s jokes. A short distance away was the second group: the superintendents, all in full uniform. Nesbitt was there, of course, and beside him stood a tall, thin man whom I took to be Scapens. They were accompanied by a handful of lower-order supers, including Horsefall. He was clearly delighted to be taking part in such an important event, and as he rubbed shoulders with his Gold Badge superiors we could almost see his tail wagging.
Also present was Joyce. She was standing not with her fellow supers, but amongst the third group: a cluster of slick-looking individuals that I wouldn’t normally have associated with The Scheme. There were five of them in all, and they each carried a glossy black attache case, and paid no attention to anyone outside their immediate circle. Surprisingly enough, Joyce appeared completely at ease in their company, and as I gazed at her it struck me that she seemed taller than I remembered. Then I noticed that instead of her usual sensible black shoes, she was today wearing high-heeled boots. She was engaged in conversation with the others, and at one point she removed her peaked cap, causing her hair to tumble around her shoulders. She looked magnificent, and at that moment I realized the future belonged to people like her.
The man in charge of the weighbridge, by contrast, had Scheme stamped all over him. After taking ages to emerge from his hut, he then fussed self-importantly round the mechanism as if he were about to weigh gold dust at some oriental bazaar, rather than just a common or garden UniVan. On his instructions I drove onto a large iron plate, then George and I got out of the cab and walked round to watch proceedings from a polite distance.
There was little possibility of seeing the details of what was going on, however, as the more important witnesses had already gathered in front of the indicator gauge, thereby obscuring it from view.
After a long delay George said, “They seem to be taking a long time. Is it coin-operated or something?”
“Don’t know,” I replied. “Maybe it’s not working properly.”
As if to confirm this, one of the supers came over and asked me to reverse the van off the weighbridge, then back on again. I did as he asked, then rejoined George. By now there was a lot of head-shaking and murmuring going on, and the only people who looked pleased with the outcome were those grouped around Joyce. The rest appeared slightly downcast, and I noticed that Horsefall’s imaginary tail had ceased wagging.
Finally, we were approached by Nesbitt. “Alright, thank you lads,” he said. “You can go and have your dinner now. Expect you’re both quite peckish, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, off you go then. And make the most of it.”
We got back into the van, started up, and trundled off the weighbridge. The official party remained where it was, all eyes on us as we departed.
On the way home a thought occurred to me.
“You know that pallet trolley we’ve been carrying round for weeks?”
“Yeah?” replied George.
“Do you think it could have made any difference to the weight test?”
“Shouldn’t think so,” he said. “One of Trace’s cakes maybe, but not that trolley.”
I was on The Scheme for five years, three months and four days. I know this because a fortnight after the weight test I received a letter telling me as much. It also informed me that because the test had been failed The Scheme would have to be wound down over the coming months.
“In other words, they’ve pulled the plug,” said George, who’d received an identical letter, except that he’d only done two years. “Quite handy really.”
“Handy?” I said. “How come?”
“I’ll get two years’ worth of redundancy, won’t I? Just right if you’re starting up a business.”
So George, at least, was happy. And Martin as well. Which just left the rest of us. General consensus was that the people at the top had simply been looking for an excuse to close us down, and the weight test had done the trick perfectly.
The letter went on to say that, in any case, the national mood had swung round. There was no longer any public support for a Scheme that produced nothing, and the buildings and capital would be better used if sold off to the private sector. The letter was signed by a Miss J. Meredith.
Resistance, of course, was futile. Over the following days several mass meetings took place at which calls were made for immediate industrial action. Unfortunately, as we’d discovered during the strike, we wielded no economic clout. Therefore such measures would be of little effect. Besides, hostile voices were soon heard saying that employees on The Scheme had had it far too easy for far too long, and that we’d finally got what was coming to us. The times had changed, they said, and the quicker we accepted this the better.
When the enthusiasts found out what was happening they launched a campaign called Save The UniVan. At long last they made direct contact with the workforce and some talks were held, but nothing came of them. Then, when the enthusiasts realized they’d probably be able to buy unwanted vans for discount prices, they suddenly quietened down. In due course a couple of hundred vehicles were put on the open market, and the higher-quality models were snapped up at once.
All the same, a huge surplus remained. These were ferried over to Merry Park, which had now become an elephant’s graveyard for UniVans. They stood in silent lines, rank after rank, watched over by John Jones (who’d somehow managed to retain his job in the gatehouse). A few of the other depots were bought by property developers. Most, though, were of no use for anything. Long Reach was shut down in the last days of September, by which time weeds and small saplings had begun to emerge through the cracks in the concrete.
As for the staff, well we all got a bit of money. Not much, but enough to stop us moaning. Even so, the swiftness of the closures had come as a profound shock. No one expected The Scheme to collapse overnight. We really thought that it would go on and on for ever, a procession of UniVans leading the way into a bright and promising future. Instead, we squandered everything with our petty bickering, our inertia, and our stubbornness. Then we watched helpless as the whole vast edifice was dismantled before our eyes. We’d been warned and we’d taken no notice. Now all was lost. The cold winds were returning. It was the end of our glorious summer.
DEPARTMENT OF SUPERINTENDENTS
GOLD BADGE
Breslin
Nesbitt
Scapens
Wilkin
SILVER BADGE
&nb
sp; Askew
Atkinson
Bamford
Bland
Booth
Charnock
Collis
Cowan
Crowe
Dawson
Gosling
Hackett
Harris
Hogg
Horlick
Horsefall
Hoskins
Huggins
Knapp
McCabe
Meeks
Mercer
Meredith
Moody
Osgood
Podmore
Pick
Sedgefield
Smart
Spender
Strickland
Trant
Warren
Watts
