Read I'm All Right Jack Online
Authors: Alan Hackney
I'm All Right Jack (16 page)
“Turn it up. You can’t do that yet; you haven’t been built up yet. Let’s have your version.”
“Well, it was something of a misunderstanding, really——”
“Did you actually work at this rate they say isn’t possible?”
“Yes, I——”
“How long you been in the job?”
“A fortnight. I——”
“Why’re you doing a manual job?”
“It’s the money. I——”
“What do you think of the people you work with?”
“Oh, first-class. I——”
“No ill feeling?”
“Oh no, I——”
“Any plans?”
“Not specially. I had been thinking of getting married——”
“Anyone we know? Lady in Society?”
“Only the Amalgamated National Technical and Engineering Guilds Society.”
“How’s that again?”
“ANTEGS. Now may I have my breakfast?”
He withdrew his head and leaned exhaustedly on the door, ignoring the ringing, which after a minute or so ceased.
He opened and read his father’s letter.
My
dear
Stanley,
I
note
from
this
morning
’
s
newspapers
that
there
appears
to
be
some
industrial
unrest
at
the
factory
where
you
are
employed.
No
doubt
this
is
the
work
of
Communist
infiltrators
in
the
unions,
and
I
hope
you
will
continue
to
do
your
duty
to
your
country
and
not
have
anything
to
do
with
it.
Every
working
day
lost
is
another
nail
in
the
coffin
of
freedom,
and
those
responsible
for
stoppages
of
this
kind
must
bear
the
guilt
of
their
treachery.
It
is
up
to
people
like
yourself
to
show
a
good
example
by
resisting
pressure
for
higher
pay,
and
by
working
harder,
thus
bringing
down
prices
to
consumers,
particularly
consumers
like
myself
on
fixed
incomes.
The
declining
quota
of
sunlight
normal
for
the
time
of
year
means
an
increase
in
our
indoor
activities,
and
I
shall
have
less
time
to
write.
Kindly
give
my
regards
to
your
aunts.
Your
affectionate,
Father
“Stanley,” said Great-Aunt Mildred confidentially, “there’s something I want you to do for me. I’ve got to go out today: I’m taking two of the canaries to Cheam to look at another stud and as you’re home I’d like you to take Dolly out in your car. I don’t want the dogs anywhere
near
the breeding pens, and you know what Dolly’s like.”
“Where shall I take her? Kew Gardens?”
“That should do admirably. You both need fresh air and exercise.”
When they got back from Kew, some men from the BBC were waiting.
“Now, Mr Windrush,” said one with the microphone, “they tell me at the factory you were the driver all the trouble’s about. Are you prepared to work to the new schedule?”
“Oh, it all depends.”
“Do you want to go back to work?”
“Oh rather. It’s rather a bore doing nothing and I need the money.”
“Thank you very much, Mr Windrush.”
“How nice. Perhaps you’ll be on the news,” said Dolly.
*
In the evening they listened to a talk on the Third Programme in the series ‘A Thousand Years of the Dignity of Labour’, and switched on the television for the news.
“
A
new
development
occurred
today
in
the
London
factory
strike.
Proposals
were
made
by
ANTEGS,
the
Amalgamated
National
Technical
and
Engineering
Guilds
Society,
who
supply
the
mechanics
who
maintain
the
fork-lift
trucks
which
are
the
cause
of
the
dispute
,
that
the
work
might
be
reorganized
by
the
mechanics
becoming
driver-mechanics
responsible
for
the
trucks
at
all
times,
instead
of
just
when
they
are
not
in
operation.
To
find
out
reactions
to
this
we
sent
our
reporter,
Godfrey
Whyte-Peanut.
”
“Oh, there’s Charlie Prince,” said Stanley. “He’s the ANTEGS man.”
“
Now,
Mr
Prince.
These
proposals
of
yours
have
caused
quite
a
stir.
Is
this
just
union
rivalry?
”
“
No,
”
said Charlie Prince. “
It
raises
a
matter
of
demarcation
which
is
a
matter
between
the
two
unions
involved.
However,
I
am
confident
a
settlement
can
be
reached.
”
“
Favourable
to
ANTEGS?
”
“
Well,
favourable
to
GEEUPWOA
as
well,
naturally.
”
“
How
would
that
be?
”
“
I
am
not
at
the
moment
disposed
to
comment
in
detail
on
matters
still
under
discussion
by
the
various
committees,
but
more
satisfactory
demarcation
arrangements
than
at
present
should
be
arrived
at.
The
arrangement
we
propose
should
simplify
procedure
and
lead
to
greater
efficiency,
but
that
is
a
matter
under
democratic
discussion.
”
“
Your
union
is
not
out
on
strike,
is
it?
”
“
That
is
correct,
no.
”
“
Will
that
be
the
case
tomorrow?
”
“
I
am
not
prepared
to
make
predictions.
Thank
you.
”
“Well, that’s a fine thing, if they come out too,” remarked Stanley. “I wonder what Uncle Bertram thinks of all this.”
“
Questioned
by
our
reporter,
one
of
the
directors
of
the
firm
‚
Mr
Tracepurcel,
made
the
following
comments:
“
As to this proposal by Mr Prince of ANTEGS,” said Bertram, “I’m all for any suggestion that might help end the dispute. If the members of ANTEGS can show they could do the job better—and perhaps they could—well, that’s a matter for the two unions to decide. As it is, their members are going rather short of work because of the strike by GEEUPWOA.”
“
And you’ve
lost
the
big
export
order?
”
“
I’m
afraid
so.
But
our
hands
are
tied,
particularly
if
the
unions
start
squabbling
among
themselves.
”
The scene now shifted to the branch headquarters of the General, where Godfrey Whyte-Peanut asked Kitey:
“
Will
this
proposal
mean
a
clash
between
your
union
and
ANTEGS?
”
“
It
will
be
a
matter
for
study
and
discussion.
I
would
not
go
further.
”
“
If
both
unions
come
out
to
fight
over
this
issue,
then
the
public
will
suffer?
”
“
No,
that
is
a
fallacy.
The
public
will
benefit,
in
view
of
the
clarification
of
demarcation
arrangements,
resulting
from
the
friendly
discussion
that
will
ensue,
thereby
decreasing
the
industrial
tension
otherwise
inevitable
under
a
system
of
private
ownership
and
profit.
”
“Well, I imagine only Kitey can understand
that
,”
said Stanley. “And here’s me.”
His image, looking strangely eager, told the countless viewers of his keenness to get back to work.
“
The
contract
which
Missiles
were
to
have
done
for
the
Agyppian
government
will
not
after
all
be
lost
to
this
country
,”
resumed the
news reader. “
It
has
been
secured
by
another
British
firm
with
the
spare
capacity
to
undertake
the
work.
”
“Oh, good,” said Stanley. “I haven’t messed up the export drive.”
“M
Y
G
OD
,” exploded Mr Hitchcock. “Have you seen this?”
The newspapers were full of the strike, treating it in their different ways. The pictorial ones had large human interest photographs of the pickets. One showed a striker stroking a cat and was captioned
PUSSY WAS ON PICKET TOO
, another showed a baby born to Perce Carter and his wife under the heading
DAD STRUCK LUCKY—HELPED AT HOME INSTEAD
, but what had annoyed Mr Hitchcock was a paragraph in
the
Daily
Rapid
’s editorial column, and it was this he took in to Mr Waters.
“Salute Stanley Windrush!” [read Mr Waters.] “Why? Because this man did in one hour what his workmates did in two. What did the union do? They sent him to Coventry. Was he working too hard? No. He was working more efficiently. What a reward. Does he forgive them? Yes, he does. ‘They are first-class chaps,’ he told us. Here is an example to us all.
BUT—THIS FOLLY
MUST END
.”
“An example to us all!” echoed Hitchcock bitterly. “The man’s a sheer lunatic. Absolute Charlie. The General are out and the Amalgamated’ll be out after this morning. Look at the rest of it.”
“What has Windrush done wrong? Nothing. He is saving to get married. But what a world for him to bring his children into. For he is trapped. Trapped between two great unions squabbling over his job. Listen to them: see them on TV. Stanley Windrush is between the upper and nether millstones, and his freedom will be crushed.”
(The proprietor of the
Rapid
approved of Biblical allusions, and of individual enterprise except in matters of prose style. All the leading articles were written in this special way.)
“You see what you’ve started with your damn-fool ideas about efficiency? Of course, anyone who wasn’t such a Charlie as Windrush would’ve spotted you right away. God knows, I’ve kept those two unions apart for years, and now you and Windrush have got them at each others’ throats.”
“I’ve been a bit worried about it,” admitted the Time and Motion man.
“You’re as big a clown as Windrush,” said Mr Hitchcock. “A bit worried! I’m going to reorganize this place.”
*
“There’s a Mr Knowles on the telephone for you, Stanley,” said Great-Aunt Mildred.
“Oh? Good. Hullo, Knowlesy.”
“Hullo, Squire. Seen you on the telly last night.”
“Yes. Kitey too.”
“All the boys was looking at the telly; they always look in a lot when there’s a stoppage.”
“So Mrs Kite told me. How’s things?”
“Mussengrumble. You’re in all the papers this morning, Squire.”
“I know. Where are you speaking from?”
“Near the works. Charlie Prince is just holding a bit of a parliament. Looks as if they’ll be out too, like the papers say.”
“Oh good. That means Cynthia’ll be free for the day. I’ll come down.”
“Young Cynthia? No, Squire. Kitey was saying she give her cards in yesterday. Got a new job, dancing.”
“On television?”
“——d if I know. Old Kitey seemed very narked about it, though. You corning to draw your strike pay, Friday?”
“Do I get any, in Coventry?”
“Course you do. I shouldn’t worry about that Coventry lark, Squire. They most likely forgotten about that already, now we’re trying our strength with the Amalgamated. Seen that about Perce Carter’s baby? Not a word in the papers about Taff Griffiths, you’ll notice.”
“Who’s Taff Griffiths?”
“Lives with them. Course, it
may
be all right, but Perce was away last December, so there you are. Well, I’ll go and have another look at Bonny Charlie’s meeting. See you.”
*
Uncle Bertram hummed a little tune to himself. Things were developing nicely, with the Amalgamated out now. Except for a tiny minority belonging to minute unions like MICE and WUWU (Mechanical Instrument
Constructing
Engineers and the World Union of Women Udometricians, who tested moisture-recorders), all the employees of Missiles were at home or picketing the main gates. Bertram had gone to the Board Meeting that
morning
, taking full responsibility for the failure of the policy of
toughness he had advocated, and offering his resignation as the only honourable course. The Board, despite their troubles, had been impressed by his taking the full blame without excuse, even inventing excuses for him, and
brushing
aside the idea of his resigning.
None the less, another director was given the task of coming to terms with the unions.
The prospect of this coming about within any reasonable time was unlikely enough for Bertram to feel private satisfaction. Nor would it ruin the company: it was quite strong enough to survive setbacks of this sort. Bertram did not propose to sell his shares—he would not have to. He thought, too, that he had cut exactly the right sort of figure on the television interview; poised, polite, on good enough grounds not to have to appear self-righteous, a man in whom the public at large would see sense and have confidence. And in the course of the week, a tax-free twenty thousand each for himself and Cox and Mr Mahommed.
In the suburbs, at Shipshape Harpoons Ltd, the
production
run for the Agyppian rockets was getting fairly smoothly under way. After the small-batch production of harpoons, javelins for Olympic teams and seasonal runs of fireworks in the autumn months, it was a pleasurable challenge to the management to have a good steady month’s run at full capacity, and the prospect of further orders from a satisfied foreign customer, supposing this run went
according
to plan. New life blood had been injected into the firm at just the right time. It had been very enterprising of the Managing Director to grab the rocket order at precisely the right moment. The Works Manager’s former suspicions of Mr Cox had clearly been groundless. The shares had rocketed up on the Exchange.
*
Cox, too, was very pleased with himself. The
Kite-baiting
policy of Bertram and himself had paid off
handsomely
; the contract for Shipshape Harpoons was secure and the first payment would be arranged in the next day or two; the strike at Missiles had hogged the publicity so that the contract to Shipshape had received only a suitable
bare mention. He had even been able to do young Stanley a good turn: if Cynthia wanted to marry him she would be bringing him a nice income from her engagement with the Toppers. It was useful knowing people—it hadn’t been too difficult getting her in.
*
The following day Stanley received a further letter from his father.
My
dear
Stanley,
My
attention
has
been
drawn
to
a
number
of
pictures
and
articles
in
several
of
today’s
newspapers
which
concern
your
part
in
the
unpatriotic
stoppage
of
work
by
the
staff
of
Missiles.
I
fail
to
understand
why
you
should
have
sought
this
publicity,
or
at
least
not
avoided
it.
It
has
brought
me
endless
inconvenience
here,
where
I
have
been
unremittingly
questioned
by
a
number
of
our
members,
some
of
whom
are
of
the
opinion
that
you
are
playing
a
mischievous
double
game
with
two
trade
unions.
Please
make
your
position
clear.
Thank
Heaven
we
are
well
clear
here
of
the
internecine
strife
which
for
years
has
been
sapping
the
vital
strength
of
our
country.
It
is
far
different
here,
working
harmoniously
as
we
all
are
for
the
promotion
of
healthy
physical
and
mental
repose.
Your
affectionate,
Father
His father’s contention that it was different at
Sunny-glades
was reminiscent of Wallace Hardy-Freeman’s ‘It’s different in Bangkok’ and Kitey’s ‘It’s different in the Soviet Union’. The only difference—though a significant one—was that Mr Windrush’s was not a vision
of a far country: he was actually there. Stanley had just sat down to write, making his position clear, when the telephone summoned him.
“Mr Windrush? This is the Features Editor of the
Daily
Rapid.
”
“Oh yes. Yours is the paper that’s saluting me. What can I do for you?”
“Well, Mr Windrush, the proprietor’s very keen on running a series on strikes and how they affect the ordinary
worker in industry. A rush job, starting tomorrow, and what we’d like is an article by you—human interest—just as the common man struggling to get on and work your way up but kept down by restrictive practices and so forth. You with me?”
“I think so.”
“Right. Now, I dare say you haven’t done any writing and we’ll send a man along to help you get straight on with it. OK? I take it you’re quite free at the moment?”
“Yes. Pretty well, but——”
“To be finished this evening and trimmed up a bit so we can put it in tomorrow while the thing’s still hot. OK?”
“We-e-ell, I——”
“Say a hundred pounds?”
“Oh. Well, I’m a bit short of money, so——”
“Two hundred and fifty, then. Six hundred words, certainly not more than eight, and signed by you. I’ll send a man down straight away to help you on with it.”
“Well, I’ll certainly accept that,” said Stanley. “Only I’d rather do it myself and get it to you by when? Six?”
“Five. And come straight up to sign the usual agreement. That’s just a line or two, allowing us to make necessary alterations. All right?”
“Very much all right. Expect me at five, then.”
“Right you are, Mr Windrush. But we must have it by five, remember.”
Stanley got straight on with his article. He sorted out one or two back numbers of the
Daily
Rapid
to get the hang of their quaint prose style, and with Dolly’s dogs gnawing with quiet persistence at his ankle, and Mildred’s birds shrieking uninterruptedly in their breeding cages, he wrote out a rambling and quite unsuitable description of his happy times at Missiles.
“Fine,” said the Features Editor, when he took it to the
Rapid
building in the bubble car. “I’ll get one of the Editorial to go straight over it.”
“Oh good; my spelling’s not awfully strong,” said Stanley. “Let me know if you ever want any more articles.”
“I’ll do that. Excuse me now, will you?” The Features Editor curled his neck and right shoulder into a clamp to hold a telephone, lit a cigarette, and gave Stanley a curious crooked nod of farewell as he withdrew.
“In here a minute, Roger,” he said down the telephone, “and bring in that article you wrote for Windrush. I’ve got his here so you can put in a bit or two from it.”
*
Stanley went straight off to do something he had had to put off all day because of the article. He drove to the Kites’ house to resume his suit with Cynthia.
Mr Kite opened the door. When he saw it was Stanley he said: “The only thing I want to say to you is, I want those books back I lent you.”
“Yes, of course. Tell me, can I see Cynthia?”
“That’s all I’m saying.”
The voice of Mrs Kite came from inside.
“Who’s that at the door, Dad? Don’t keep them on the step.”
“It’s nobody.”
“Oh, look here, surely you can say if she’s in?”
There were somewhat testy noises from within and Mrs Kite appeared in the hall.
“What d’you mean, nobody?” she asked. “Stanley, take no notice of Dad; getting a bit above himself. Cynthia, was it, you wanted?”
“Oh, hullo, Mrs Kite. Yes. I’ve not managed to see her for a day or two.”
“Oh, what a shame; she’s not in, Stan ducks. One of the girls was sick and she’s standing in for her, dancing. Comes on at nine on the BBC. You got a telly at home or’d you like to look at ours?”
“He’s not coming in this house,” came the muffled tones of Kitey from the front room. “I’ve got me self-respect.”
“Oh, we’ve got one. If she comes in late, will you tell her I’ve got enough money for what I had in mind? I had thought of taking on another job while the strike’s on, but of course the firm’s got my cards.” (An outraged noise came from Kitey.) “But anyway, I wrote a thing for the
Daily
Rapid
and they’ll be sending me quite a lot of money when it’s published, so will you tell her I’ve got enough now?”
Mrs Kite smiled delightedly.
“Of
course,
duck,” she said, “soon as she comes in. It’ll be late, I expect, but I won’t forget. ’Bye.”
When she closed the door Kitey came out of the front room and said angrily: “Taking on another job! And writing for that capitalist rag, the
Rapid.
To think I nearly had him along to a meeting of the Party.”