Confessions from the Shop Floor. Timothy Lea

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СКАЧАТЬ This way, with you going in right at the bottom, there can be no complaints, can there? It’s democracy in action.’

      ‘Uum.’ I don’t say anything because I can’t really think of anything to say. I could dive out of the window but Sid has started the car again.

      ‘Just think of it,’ he raves. ‘The Queen’s Award to Industry.’ Sid is wearing his light blue, collarless, two piece, slim fit and I think that he has got a better chance of receiving ‘The Industry’s Award to Queens’. Still, I don’t say anything. Sid is always at his most sensitive when on the brink of a great enterprise — or cock-up as we in the business call them. I try to comfort myself with the thought that nothing is settled yet and that he may not go through with the deal but when I look in his gleaming eyes I have a nasty feeling that he is already choosing his office furniture.

      ‘Here we are. Universal International Bedding Company. Henceforth to be known as Slumnog.’

      ‘Slumbernog,’ I remind him. ‘Slums are broken down, disgusting places where no decent person would —’ My voice trails away as I look through the padlocked gates into the squalid courtyard littered with rubbish and beyond to the crumbling buildings. ‘I don’t know, Sid. Maybe it is quite a good name.’

      ‘It slips off the tongue a sight quicker than Slumbernog,’ says Sid. ‘Now, I wonder how we get in?’

      ‘There’s a sign on the gates,’ I say. ‘It says “For admittance call opposite”.’

      We bend our eyes across the street and there is a broken down boozer called the Workers United.

      ‘Looks more like Manchester United,’ I say. ‘Blimey. They can’t mean that, can they?’

      ‘Better have a look,’ says Sid.

      We park the car, decline the offer made by a couple of kids who want 50p to stop anybody removing the hub caps, fail to do business on the basis of them paying us 50p to avoid a clip round the earhole, and go into the pub. It looks like nobody has bothered to clean up since the Waco kid last hit town and has had no difficulty in resisting the temptation to tart itself up into the muzac and moquette bracket.

      ‘Can you tell us how to get into U.I.B. mate?’ says Sid to the ferret-faced geezer behind the bar.

      ‘You looking for work?’ says the bloke suspiciously.

      At the word ‘work’, one of the old men who is playing dominoes in the far corner makes a high pitched squawking noise, clutches his throat and collapses across the table.

      His partner stands up aghast. ‘It’s his heart,’ he cries. ‘Quick! Brandy.’ With remarkable speed for a man of advanced age he rushes across the room and snatches the bottle proferred by the alarmed barman. Tearing out the cork he proceeds to drink greedily.

      What about him?’ says Sid, indicating the gulper’s stricken friend.

      ‘Give him half a chance and he’ll drink the lot,’ says the man. ‘Worst thing for him.’

      ‘Give us a glass,’ says Sid. He fills half a tumbler from the man’s bottle and then proceeds to knock it back. ‘That’s better. I can’t stand seeing people suffering. It makes me feel quite ill.’

      ‘He should never have mentioned that word,’ says the man nodding at the barman.

      ‘You mean work?’ says Sid.

      ‘Aaargh!’ Immediately, the old man’s head falls back amongst the dominoes and he slowly slides under the table.

      ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ The old man’s friend springs to his comrade’s side and proceeds to go through his pockets.

      ‘Has he got some pills?’ says Sid.

      ‘Of course he has. Though he doesn’t have much cause to use them, these days. What a damn stupid question. Ah, here we are.’ The man removes a bulging wallet and places it in the inside pocket of his jacket.’ That should relieve the pressure a bit.’ He takes another gulp of brandy and then, almost as an afterthought applies the bottle to his friend’s lips.

      ‘Are either of you anything to do with the factory?’ asks Sid.

      ‘I’m the gatekeeper and he’s my mate.’

      ‘What are you doing in here, then?’ I ask.

      ‘Keeping an eye on the gate, of course. Lovely view from here.’ We follow his eyes through the pub window and it has to be agreed that by looking over the frosted glass it is possible to see the gate.

      ‘You’re a bit old to still be on the books, aren’t you?’ says Sid.

      ‘Semi-retired, Fred and me,’ says the man. ‘But we like to do our bit for the old firm. I’ve been here man and idiot for nearly sixty years now.’

      ‘And it don’t seem a drop too much,’ croons his friend who has made such a determined assault on the brandy that there is now only a couple of inches left at the bottom of the bottle.

      ‘Can you let us in please,’ says Sid. ‘We have an appointment with Mr Rightberk at twelve.’

      ‘I can’t leave Fred,’ says the man. ‘Look, he’s finished that brandy and he still isn’t moving.’

      ‘Well, give us the key and we’ll let ourselves in.’

      ‘I couldn’t do that.’ The man sucks in his breath sharply. ‘Oh no. I couldn’t do that. Mr Umbrage wouldn’t be holding with that, oh dear me no.’

      ‘Who is Mr Umbrage?’ asks Sid patiently.

      ‘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 — СКАЧАТЬ