Confessions from the Shop Floor. Timothy Lea

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 — 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.