Confessions from the Shop Floor. Timothy Lea
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should think the overheads will all be at floor level anyway,’ I say. Sid slams on the brakes and pulls into the kerb.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ I say.
Sid turns off the engine and bashes his nut on the windscreen because he hasn’t taken it out of gear first. He curses softly and faces me. ‘You’ve got to change your attitude. All this fas-fash-vas —’
‘Vasectomy?’ I prompt.
‘Facetiousness has got to stop. If you’re going out on the shop floor you’ve got to do so in the right attitude. Serious, alert, responsible —’
Hang on a minute,’ I say. ‘Shop floor? I thought you were taking over this place?’
‘And you thought you were going to end up with some cushy number sitting behind a big desk?’ Sid shakes his head. ‘Oh no, Timmo. It’s not going to be like that. That’s the besetting sun of British industry, that is. Management up there, workers down there. With me at the helm, it’s going to be different.’
‘You mean it’s going to be Sid up there, Timothy down there?’
Sid bashes his mitt on the dashboard. ‘There you go again. You can’t be serious, can you? What I’m saying is that we’ve got to integrate ourselves with the labour force. We’re all working to the same end. We’ve got to understand their problems, feel their grievances. And you can only do that by working alongside them.’
It has not escaped my attention that the “we” has changed to “you” at a very crucial moment. ‘Are you going to work on the shop floor, too, Sid?’
‘Up here,’ says Sid. ‘Up here.’ A fanciable bird is passing the car and for a moment I think he is saying “Up her!” Then I see that he is tapping his nut. ‘In my mind I will always be shoulder to shoulder with the workers. Their struggle will be my struggle, their sweat will be my sweat —’
‘Their money will be your money. Come off it, Sid. Who do you think you’re kidding? Why don’t you go on the shop floor and I’ll do what you’re going to do?’
‘Experience, Timmo. That’s all it is. I’ve been forced into a role. You remember the position I held at Funfrall Enterprises?’
‘It was on page forty-three of the Perfumed Garden, wasn’t it?’
‘Management, Timmo. That’s my forte. We’ve all got to do what we’re best suited for. I’m not condemning you to the shop floor. I just feel that you should have the opportunity to come to grips with industry at all its levels, to work your way up through the organisational structure. Think of the effect it would have if the two of us came into the company and went straight to the top? You would understand dissatisfaction running rife, wouldn’t you? 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