by Timothy Lea
‘He’s our shop steward. He’s very hot on demarcation is Mr Umbrage. You so much as lay a hand on that key and the whole factory will be out.’
‘All right, all right,’ says Sid. ‘We’ll stay with your mate and you can go and open the gate.’
Fred’s mate shakes his head. ‘Can’t do that. It’s a two-man job. One opening, one looking. If I open it and somebody belts out and does themselves an injury then I’m up the spout aren’t I?’
‘One of us can look.’
‘You’re not even on the pay roll!’ The man’s voice rises sharply. ‘Are you an agent provocative, or something?’
‘I’m just trying to get into the factory,’ says Sid. ‘I don’t want to cause any trouble.’
‘In that case, you’d better sit down and bide your time. Nobody is going in and out of that gate until my mate and I are in a position to supervise their passage. If you don’t like it you should have been more careful before you came in here bandying four letter words about.’ He nods as if nutting the final nail into our coffins and returns to his mate. ‘Hang on Fred. Only another half hour to dinner.’
In the end we don’t get through the gates until ten past two. Fred does not feel well enough to open the gate until 1231 hours and by that time it is his dinner time. This means that nothing can be done until 1330 hours without offending the rules of the Sedan Chairs And Bedmakers Union — S.C.A.B.s for short — one of the oldest craft unions in the country.
‘And very crafty to boot,’ says Sid flexing his toe thoughtfully.
At 1331 Fred has a relapse and it takes him another half bottle of brandy to summon up the strength to cross the road. Sid and I aren’t allowed to help him because this would obviously interfere with the demarcation agreements. By five past two he and Arthur — that is his thirsty mate — have got the gate unpadlocked, and at ten past, it swings open and knocks an old lady off her bike. This upsets Fred and Arthur so much that they immediately retire to the Workers United to calm their nerves. Sid and I help the old lady on to her bike and drive into the yard. It is noticeable that the car is now without hub caps and has lost its wireless aerial.
‘I don’t know why you still want to go through with this,’ I say. ‘I’m amazed this place could afford the advertisement in The Times.’
‘Shut up, faint-heart!’ snaps Sid. ‘Can’t you see that this is just the kind of challenge I’m itching to grapple with? If I can get this place moving then it will serve as a Belisha beacon to the whole of British industry.’
With these proud words he pulls up beside a sign saying ‘Parking Reserved For Executive Personnel’ under which has been scrawled ‘Get stuffed!’. I don’t say anything because I am a bit choked about missing dinner. We had a scotch egg in the boozer but it didn’t amount to much. I saw a fly walk across it and start cleaning its feet immediately afterwards.
I wonder where Rightberk is?’ says Sid. ‘Ah, this sturdy son of toil will no doubt be able to tell us.’ I look around the yard but the only person he can be talking about looks as energetic as an attack of sleeping sickness. He glances contemptuously from Sid to the car and then back again as if he cares for neither of them.
‘Excuse me,’ says Sid, preserving the unnaturally polite manner that has so far been a feature of his visit to U.I.B. ‘Can you direct me to Mr Rightberk?’
‘You must be desperate for company if you want to see that twat,’ says the man in a voice that does not suggest a promising future playing Father Christmas to highly strung children. ‘Past the workshops and at the top of the office block. That’s where he hangs out when he’s not playing golf.’
He slouches on his way and Sid shakes his head. ‘Classic example of a breakdown of confidence,’ he says. ‘We’ve got to restore this firm’s belief in itself.’
It is strange, but though we follow the direction in which the man was pointing a couple of fingers, we do not seem to be passing any workshops. There is a room in which a lot of men are stretched out on beds and another in which groups of men are sitting around playing cards and reading papers. There are some work benches and baulks of timber in the second room but nobody is touching them.
‘Must be their dinner break,’ says Sid.
‘A quarter past two is a bit late to be having dinner, isn’t it?’ I say.
‘It is strange,’ agrees Sid. ‘Maybe they work staggered shifts.’
‘That would figure,’ I say. ‘Some of them were staggering and they all looked a bit shifty.’
Sid pays little attention to my amusing joke but strides purposefully through the door of the office building and begins to ascend the stairs two at a time. There is a door at the top with a cracked glass panel bearing the name Rightberk followed by a crudely drawn exclamation mark. Beyond the door is an outer office with a desk, typewriter and a wall full of post cards from exotic places such as Sitges, Rimini and my old stamping ground, Cromingham. As we enter, a man backs out of the inner office carrying a set of golf clubs. He is unaware of our presence and addresses someone at floor level.
‘Better get your knickers on, Carole. There’s just a chance that the mugs might still show up. If it’s nice tomorrow I probably won’t come in.’
Sid coughs discreetly and the bloke whips round and bashes his nut on the door in a manner that would have drawn a warm glow of approval from Oliver Hardy. He has a clothes-brush moustache that goes through half a dozen shades between dirty brown and off white, a ruddy complexion and a boozer’s conk. His eyes are bloodshot and his teeth as yellow as the Chinese football team. All in all, he is quite a riot of colour.
‘Mr Rightberk?’ Sid does not wait for an answer but steps forward to look into the inner office. I step with him.
There, at floor level, I witness one of the most beautiful sights that can smite the mince pies of man. A luscious dolly is leaning forward to encase her generous knockers in a bra whilst her long pins willow forward invitingly without encumbrance. The lack of cover extends to her minge fringe which quivers invitingly before disappearing behind a modest knee.
‘You left one of your balls behind.’ Sid reaches between the lady’s legs and retrieves a golf ball which he buries in Rightberk’s palm.
‘Mr Noggett!? What a truly marvellous surprise. We’d given you up for lost. The mugs I was referring to were of course for the office staff’s morning coffee. I’ve noticed quite a lot of chipped cups lately. Most unhygienic. I think mugs will be much sturdier, don’t you?’
‘They’ll probably stand up to a bit more knocking about,’ says Sid without taking his eyes off Carole. ‘Sorry we’re late. We had a bit of trouble getting into the place.’ Sid outlines the nature of our problem and Rightberk hurls his golf clubs to the ground ferociously.
‘Filthy idle swines!’ he snarls. ‘Most of them refuse to clock in unless they get danger money. They’re terrified of spraining their wrists when they pull the handle. I don’t know why I go on pouring money and time into this business —’ He slows up when he sees me nudging Sid — ‘not, of course, that there aren’t some wonderful pickings to be had. That’s what makes it so tragic.’
‘Do you have good relations with the unions, here?’ asks Sid. Rightberk swallows hard and closes his eyes for a second.
‘There’s only one union. One of their rules is that you can’t have members of any other union in the same building. Our relationship varies from day to day.’
‘Do you have a Personnel Manager?’ asks Sid.
‘He shot himself. I mean—I’m certain it was an accident. He was cleaning his brother-in-law’s revolver on the parapet of Tower Bridge.’
‘So you handle staff relations?’ Carole has now closed the door of the inner office in Sid’s face and we both turn and face Rightberk.
‘Yes, I do. Of course, it doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t be prepared to designate if you came into the business.’
‘No, of course not.’ I can see Sid wondering whether designation stunts your growth.
‘You
probably noticed that I laid on something for you?’ Rightberk jerks his head over his shoulder.
‘For us?’ says Sid.
‘You didn’t put in an appearance so Miss Gotcher and I got down to it.’
‘I did wonder,’ says Sid.
‘Unfortunately, the clotted cream exploded all over her. You know how it can, sometimes?’
‘I’ve seen photographs,’ says Sid.
‘I don’t know if you’ve had anything, but if you still feel like a nibble there’s plenty left.’
I can see that the idea appeals. ‘I’ve never had anything.’ Sid turns to me. ‘But what about him?’
‘I’ve never had anything either,’ I say. I did have this throbbing pain once but it didn’t amount to anything.
‘Splendid,’ says Rightberk. ‘Then I’ll ask Miss Gotcher to accommodate both of you.’
‘Here! Hang on a minute,’ says Sid — but it is too late. Mr Rightberk flings open the door of his inner sanctum and waves towards a trolley weighed down with plates of meat — I mean plates of meat, not feet — and trifles and the like.
‘Ah, Miss Gotcher,’ he says. ‘Would you mind catering for these gentlemen’s appetites? Have you got those marks off your blouse yet?’
‘There’s one big one,’ she says. ‘I don’t think it’s going to come out.’ She gives a little pout when she says that and looks straight into Sid’s mince pies. I can see that he could well become putty — or possibly, something more substantial — in her hands.
‘Oh I see,’ says Sid. ‘You laid on some grub for us. That’s very kind. I wouldn’t say no. Ta.’ He gets stuck into a slice of egg pie and nods appreciatively. ‘Was this made on the premises?’
Rightberk shakes his head. ‘No. The cooking here is of a somewhat fundamental nature to accord with the men’s desires. Bungers and mush, that kind of thing.’
‘Bangers and mash!’ corrects Miss Gotcher.
‘Something like that,’ says Rightberk airily. He has a very twittish accent and I can see him getting up people’s brackets so far that he defoliates them.
‘Now,’ says Sid. ‘Let’s talk turkey.’
‘The ham is very good as well,’ says Rightberk reaching out for the plate.
‘I was referring to The Universal International Bedding Company,’ says Sid. ‘There are one or two things I want to ask—’
But Sid never gets the chance because the outer door bursts open and a man of about fifty wearing a knee-length, beige storeman’s coat strides in. He has a droopy moustache and a big nose.
‘You won’t get away with it!’ he says.
Rightberk looks at his visitor coldly. ‘I didn’t know you had an appointment, Mr Umbrage?’
‘I don’t need one when the workers’ interests are being massacred, do I? Do you realise that the labour force were locked in during their dinner hour? They were unable to purchase those small remedial articles which ease their passage through this moving vale of tears.’
‘I heard about the incident,’ says Rightberk. ‘Mr Noggett and his assistant were unable to gain access to the factory because those two drink-sodden geriatrics you insist on us employing were incapable of opening the gates.’
‘The men will be paid double time for the hour and a half they were detained against their will or the whole factory comes out. We’re not slave labour, you know.’
‘It wasn’t the fault of the management,’ bleats Rightberk.
‘Nothing is the fault of the management,’ says Umbrage sarcastically. ‘You’re too busy pigging it up here to care about what happens to the workers.’
‘Excuse me,’ says Sid. Unfortunately, he has a mouthful of egg pie at the time and he spits it all over Umbrage’s coat. Umbrage looks down at the little bits of white and yellow and an expression of extreme distaste spreads across his mug. ‘I’m sorry,’ continues Sid. ‘What I wanted to say is that I sympathise with your problems.’
‘You chose a funny way to do it,’ says Umbrage.
‘I know there’s right and wrong on both sides,’ says Sid. ‘None of us is perfect and there’s nothing that can’t be settled by us getting together round a table.’
‘Wait a minute! Wait a minute!’ says Umbrage. ‘Who’s negotiating for management now, then? You got yourself a new boy, have you, Mr Rightberk?’ He stresses each syllable of the name to get the best out of it.
‘I think that maybe I had better explain Mr Noggett’s position,’ says Rightberk, putting down his golf clubs. ‘You see —’
‘Oh, Mr Rightberk, sir. May I have a word with you?’ The speaker who has just burst into the room is wearing a blue pin stripe suit and a harassed expression.
‘What is it, Twitterton?’ says Rightberk wearily. ‘Can’t you see that I’m up to my eyes?’
‘Sorry, sir. But it’s about the “Our policy is one of continuous improvement” signs.’
‘What about them, Twitterton?’
‘They keep falling off the beds, sir.’
‘Twitterton is one of our management trainees,’ explains Rightberk as if he doesn’t go overboard for the idea. ‘A very keen lad.’
‘Is Mr Twitterton levelling a charge of incompetence against the operatives in question?’ says Umbrage menacingly.
‘Of course not, of course not,’ says Rightberk jovially. ‘But they told me to —’ Twitterton checks himself and glances nervously at Miss Gotcher. ‘I don’t like to say in front of a lady. I think it’s a pretty poor show if we can’t —’
‘Quite, quite,’ interrupts Rightberk. ‘Very praiseworthy concern but I don’t think we need worry too much. It says on the signs that we reserve the right to make changes without giving notice, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, but —’
‘Right. From now on we don’t have the signs.’
‘Wait a minute!’ growls Umbrage. ‘Are you suggesting a course of action that could lead to redundancies?’
‘Very well, we’ll continue as we are. The signs fall off after a while. We’ll make it part of our “Built In Obsolescence” programme.’
‘In that case the men will want a bonus for creative craftsmanship,’ says Umbrage firmly.
Mr Rightberk’s reaction to that suggestion is never made known to us because a spotty youth wearing a dirty white overall runs into the office. ‘The professor’s floating down the river!’ he gasps.
‘Oh my God!’ Rightberk kicks his golf clubs savagely and hurls the ball Sid gave him into the corner of the room. ‘Can’t I ever get any thinking time around here? What is the old fool up to now?’
‘One of the water beds broke away from its mooring,’ says the youth.
‘Water beds?’ says Sid.
Rightberk turns to him as if he had temporarily forgotten that he was there. ‘Oh yes. Marvellous invention. The ultimate in comfort. You feel as if you’re floating on water. Just one or two little bugs to iron out and then we go into production.’ He winks at Sid conspiratorially.
‘How does it work?’ says Sid.
‘Well, first of all, you fill your bedroom with water. Not right to the top of course, because then you wouldn’t be able to breathe. Then —’
‘He’s disappearing under Vauxhall Bridge.’ Miss Gotcher is peering out of the window.
‘Damn,’ says Rightberk. ‘I’ll have to tell you later. We’d better go and retrieve the — the old — er, chap.’
We are all springing for the door when it flies open and a large blonde with a bright red mouth hurtles into the room.
‘Lunch all right?’ she chirps cheerfully.
Rightberk kisses her long and earnest on the cheek. ‘Super. Can’t stop, I’ve got to fish someone out of the drink. Somebody will give you a hand to clear away.’
He looks pointedly at me and Sid takes the hint. ‘Be of assistance to the lady, Timothy,’ he says, like he registered the way Rightberk referred to me as his assistant. ‘I will confer with you later.’
‘As thou wilt, mighty one,’ I say. ‘Take care tha
t your bonce does not get wedged in the door as you go out.’
Sid chooses to ignore that remark and sweeps down the stairs followed by Rightberk, Umbrage and the youth. I notice that Rightberk picks up his golf clubs before leaving.
‘I don’t think I know you,’ says the new bird. ‘I’m Prudence Packer. I supply this lot with lunches and assorted goodies.’
‘Just them?’ I ask.
‘No. I service a number of clients. My, my, you’ve hardly touched my lovely quiche.’
I don’t know what her lovely quiche is but she has a number of items I would be delighted to touch. Delicious knockers and a beautifully curved pair of back bumpers that would snuggle into the palms of your hands like a couple of melons. I can just imagine their warm, rounded weight playing pat-a-cake with my marble bag.
‘Mr Noggett didn’t arrive in time for lunch,’ says Miss Gotcher. ‘That meant there was rather a lot to finish. In fact, we didn’t really start, if you know what I mean — or rather, Mr Rightberk started …’
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ says Prudence. ‘I got stuck here with him one afternoon when you were on holiday. He just wouldn’t let me go. He kept saying that it was a pity you weren’t here as well.’
‘He’s said that to me before now,’ says Carole. ‘About you, I mean. He obviously fancies a bit of troilism.’
‘I wouldn’t mind, myself,’ says Prudence, almost wistfully. ‘But it would have to be with the right person.’
‘Or people,’ says Carole. She looks at the front of my trousers. ‘Shall we start taking them down?’
I am just trying to remember whether I put on a clean pair of underpants when I realise she is talking about the nosh.
‘No hurry,’ says Prudence. ‘I wouldn’t mind having a bite myself. I’ve been rushing about all morning.’
‘I’ll join you,’ says Carole. ‘We won’t be seeing my boss again today. I might as well relax a little.’ She picks up a bottle of white wine and turns to me. ‘Do you like Riesling?’
‘I don’t know,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve never riesled.’
Both girls laugh and Prudence shakes her head. ‘Is that original?’ she says.
