Читать книгу The Earlier Trials of Alan Mewling - A.C. Bland - Страница 7

There was no one in the bay occupied by the Committee Support Section when Alan returned to it.

“They’ve all gone to a union meeting,” said a woman behind Alan.

Azure Faraday, the most junior member of the Business Management Unit, was walking along the corridor with a can of soft drink in her hand.

“If you’re quick,” she said, “you’ll still catch them.”

The black T-shirt and jeans she was wearing would have been unthinkable office attire only a decade earlier but standards had declined so much, since Alan’s first day as a public servant, that he more often expected to be vexed by the bizarre than comforted by the appropriate.

“In the tea room,” Azure added.

“Thank you,” said Alan. He saw no reason to be impolite to a young woman, simply because the sides of her head were shaved and the remaining hair had been plumped and gelled into an erect black strip strangely reminiscent of a cassowary’s casque. “I don’t suppose you’d like to join us … in the cause of workplace harmony?”

Azure’s refusal to join the clerical workers’ union had been a source of disquiet since her very first day in the branch. Union membership may have been steadily falling in other departments but in Multifarious, Extraneous and Artistic Affairs, all the ancient tricks were in use to keep the numbers high.

“You know I’m only moonlighting, until things pick up, musically” she replied in a faint, abbreviated echo of her usual assertions to the effect that membership of the clerks’ union shouldn’t be imposed on minstrels whose public sector employment was intended to be of the briefest duration (and who were, in any event, financial members of the musicians’ combine).

This “only moonlighting” declaration sat uneasily with Alan – not because he saw any special merit in compulsory unionism or because he knew the bureaucracy to be filled with creative types who’d only intended to stay ‘until things picked up’. No, the statement disturbed him because he couldn’t understand how anyone, once exposed to the vitality and excitement of day-to-day public administration, could regard the bureaucratic calling as a lesser or secondary avocation. How such persons could persist with other aspirations or ambitions was beyond him.

And how an activity largely carried out in daylight hours, albeit under supplementary fluorescent illumination, could be described as ‘moonlighting’, was no less bewildering.

“No offence, dude,” said Azure, probably mistaking Alan’s puzzlement for dismay. “You’re a cool guy, in your own way.”

No one had previously described Alan as “cool” or as being of a temperature other than “tepid”, and he abhorred being referred to as “dude”, even though he’d have freely admitted to knowing nothing about cow poking (except that it was the principal activity of prairie herdsman and a pastime quite unrelated to the love that dare not bleat its name).

For all that, he bore Azure no ill will.

“I’ll do my best for you at the meeting,” he said, in anticipation of the usual motions to have the young woman declared a “bourgeois individualist” (despite her membership of a musical ensemble), “a despiser of the masses” (despite her desire to be idolized by the very same multitudes), and a “Trotskyite wrecker” (despite the fact that her guitar was the only thing she was clearly committed to destroying … and then only at the very end of a performance à la Messrs Hendrix, Townshend et al, once she was sufficiently rich and famous to afford a ready supply of replacements).

“We’ll catch up when I return,” said Alan, hurrying away.

For the second time that day he arrived for a meeting almost eight minutes late and a little early. Nearly thirty of his colleagues from the Publicity and Advisory Branch – most seated in the body of the room, some standing at the sides – were chatting to each other in twos and threes. At the front, facing the attendees, sat Escher Burgoyne, the senior clerks’ union delegate for the department. At his sides were the two equally obese workplace delegates: Winsome Wheelwright and her sworn enemy, Clytemnestra Cooper.

Alan sensed someone follow him in and, twisting his neck, observed Quentin Quist, still with the black eye he’d been sporting the previous week, in a peculiar half crouching position behind him. Quist raised an index finger to his lips in the traditional gesticular entreaty to silence as Escher Burgoyne tapped a teaspoon against an empty champagne glass to bring the gathering to order.

“I declare this emergency meeting of Publicity and Advisory Branch members of the Clerks’, Legal Officers’ and Clerical Assistants’ Association open,” said Burgoyne, “and –

“A point of order, chair,” said an intense young woman from the front row. “There is someone in attendance who isn't permitted to be here.”

She pointed in Alan’s direction and all heads followed. Alan turned to look at Quist, and Quist swivelled to look in the direction of the rear wall, as if the interloper was behind him.

“I am referring, chair, to Comrade Quist,” said the intense young woman.

Alan stepped sideways to reveal Quist to the assembled members but the intruder moved with him. Alan took a further step to the right. Quist, again, followed. Alan ducked. So did Quist. Finally, Alan took two quick steps to the left, as did Quist.

Realising at this point that he was being expertly limpeted, Alan surprised himself with a display of quick thinking and unprecedented agility by dropping on to all fours.

“Comrade Quist, is that you?” said Burgoyne, when the identity of Alan’s shadow was at last evident to all.

Quist looked to the right and left, as though he was not the person being addressed by the chair, and as if he had not been identified with any certainty. He then placed a hand over his face and peered through splayed fingers at the front of the room.

“Comrade Quist,” said Burgoyne, “I can see you.”

“Really?” said Quist.

“Really,” said Burgoyne.

Quist dropped his hand, as Alan rose and dusted himself off.

“I’ve just popped in to get a cup of camomile tea. Is this a union meeting?”

“Comrade Quist, you know that members of the department’s industrial relations section are expected to absent themselves from union meetings.”

“But I’m only a temporary member of that unit,” said Quist, “for the purpose of career development, grooming for senior executive duties, accelerated advancement etcetera.”

“He still shouldn’t be here, chair,” said the intense young woman.

“She’s right, chair,” said a bald, cross-eyed man sitting next to the intense young woman.

“I’m a member in good standing,” said Quist, bristling. “I’m financial.”

“But you’re working in the Industrial Relations Section, aren’t you?” said Burgoyne.

“He most certainly is,” said the intense young woman.

“The counter-revolutionary filth,” said Winsome Wheelwright.

The degenerate class traitor,” said a middle-aged man with a lisp.

“The rightist swine” said Clytemnestra Cooper.

Members of the Industrial Relations Section were black banned and ignored, if they weren’t members of the union but, once financial, were expected not to attend union meetings, and routinely had the worst Stalinist insults heaped upon them.

“I move that Comrade Quist be expelled from the meeting,” said a woman with dyed black hair, from the left of the room.

“Seconded,” said the cross-eyed man.

“All those in favour,” said Burgoyne.

“A point of order, Chair,” said Quist.

“All those in favour,” said Burgoyne, a second time.

Alan’s hand (restrained by Quist’s) was the only one, apart from those of chair and spy, to not shoot into the air.

“A point of order, chair,” said Quist.

“Those against,” said Burgoyne.

Quist’s left hand rose at the same time as his right attempted to force Alan’s up.

“Passed unanimously,” Burgoyne announced. “Comrade Quist is required to leave the meeting.”

“I refuse to go,” Quist said. “I absolutely refuse. Point blank. Nein, Non and Nyetski. In fact, absolute Nyetski.”

“But you can’t refuse to leave,” said the intense young woman.

“Make me…” said Quist.

“Then Comrades Cooper and Wheelwright will forcibly remove you,” said Burgoyne.

“I’m still not going,” said Quist.

The two fat women rose to their feet.

“I’m still here,” said Quist.

“Throw him out,” said Burgoyne.

“Still present.”

The big pair lumbered forward.

“Lay so much as one fat finger on me and I’ll sue.”

The approaching duo barely hesitated.

“All right, all right,” said Quist. “But you’ll be sorry.”

“Toss him out,” said Burgoyne.

Quist turned to go.

“Thanks, Alan,” he said, under his breath. “Thanks very much.”

The two fatties followed the interloper to the door and waited there once he was gone, in case he attempted to re-enter.

“Now, where was I?” said Burgoyne.

“You’d declared the meeting open,” said the cross-eyed man.

“Get on with it, Burgoyne,” said a red-headed, older male with a grating voice.

“Thank you for your encouragement, Comrade Wyner. I will, I can assure you, get on with it. I most certainly will. Indeed, what I was going to say, comrades, before that unfortunate incident, is that I don’t need to tell you why we are meeting today.”

“Then, why bother telling us?” said Comrade Wyner.

Burgoyne ignored the interruption. “Yet again, the workers are the victims of the anarchy of laissez-faire capitalism with its cut-throat competition, rapid changes in the methods of production and the complete absence of planning.”

“Nonsense,” said the man with a grating voice.

Alan rather thought Comrade Wyner had a point; the only cutthroat competition to be observed in the department was between those at the top of the hierarchy; working methods changed at a snail’s pace, and planning was something they did to excess, even when most plans proved – year in, year out – to be completely irrelevant in the shortest order.

“We produce nothing in an industrial sense,” continued Comrade Wyner. “We’re under attack because someone in the new government hates us.”

This, too, seemed to Alan to be very likely.

“It’s important to understand what is happening here, Comrade Wyner,” said Burgoyne, patiently. “We happen to be enmeshed in the classic symptoms of exploitative productive relations: conflict and antagonism between, on one hand, the controllers of the means of production and, on the other, the overburdened, downtrodden workers.”

“Twaddle,” said Comrade Wyner.

Alan silently agreed. He didn’t think there was much in the way of conflict and antagonism in day-to-day relations with management – resigned compliance was the usual state of affairs – and he didn’t think of himself or his colleagues as, on average, 'unduly overburdened'.

“Now is the time, comrades, for us to rise up and throw off the yoke of capitalist exploitation,” Burgoyne continued. “Now is the moment for us to seize the means of production from the property-owning classes and dispense with the tyranny of commodities.”

“Poppycock,” said Comrade Wyner.

Alan didn’t think there was much to be gained by the seizure of desks, files and in-trays, and, in consequence, found himself in agreement, once again, with Comrade Wyner.

“Then,” Burgoyne continued, “under the systematic organisation of communism, man – using the term in its broadest non-gender specific sense – will emerge as the conscious Lord of all nature, no longer dominated by things – and it is things, comrades, yes, things, which are the greatest impediment to our mastery of our destiny, as a class.”

“Bollocks,” said Comrade Wyner.

“Comrade chair,” said the intense young woman, “what has our organiser, Angry Eric – Comrade Nesbitt – had to say about this morning’s announcement …. and what does he propose to do about it?”

“And shouldn’t we be finding out what the journalists are going to do, with a view to unity and solidarity?” asked the cross-eyed man.

“The journalists are puppets of the capitalist expropriators,” said a woman with a huge nose: “unrepentant agents of hegemony.”

“Comrades,” said Burgoyne, “I hadn’t yet got to the bits of my opening address about unity and solidarity but I was, I can assure you, on my way there.”

“I move that we take industrial action,” said the woman with the huge nose, “to let those management running dogs know how serious we are and to show them we aren’t going to take this lying down.”

For some reason Alan’s mind wandered to the old saying about the consequences of snuggling up to canines.

“I move that we take immediate industrial action,” said the woman with the huge nose.

Everybody present seemed to have a view about this proposition; hardly anyone was silent.

“Order, order,” said Burgoyne, tapping his teaspoon against his flute.

“In answer to the question put to me by Comrade Bright, I am able to tell you that Comrade Nesbitt, our organiser, is almost speechless with rage. He has told me that he will not tolerate the loss of so much as a single job. He is – not to put too fine a point on it – livid, and he is talking to the secretary as we speak.”

‘Angry’ Eric Nesbitt was infamous both for his temper tantrums and the unmitigated depravity of his vocabulary. Alan wasn’t the only person in the room to feel sorry for the secretary.

“A point of order, chair,” said the cross-eyed man. “There is at least one motion before the meeting, proposing industrial action.”

“I think that you’re referring to things that were more suggestions regarding ways ahead than formal motions, Comrade Sidcup. And, in any event, they employed emotive language entirely inconsistent with scientific socialism and they failed to specify what sort of industrial action should be taken.”

“I was carried away with revolutionary zeal,” said the woman with the huge nose. “I withdraw the motion or both motions but still think we ought to be sticking it up the management pigs.”

“Thank you,” said Burgoyne. “Motion or motions withdrawn and, in answer to the question directed to the chair about joint action with our journalist comrades, I’d say that on past form it may be some days before the position of their union becomes clear.”

“The double-dealing deviationists,” said the intense young woman.

“Then I formally move that we withdraw our labour immediately,” said the woman with the huge nose, “until such time as management guarantees there will be no terminations of any staff, permanent or temporary.”

“But I want to be made redundant, comrade chair,” said one of the two young men named Adrian from the Business Management Unit.

“And so do I,” said the second Adrian.

“We have entrepreneurial aspirations,” said the first Adrian.

“Selling books and music by computer?” said a woman Alan couldn’t see, prompting widespread amusement.

“Bottled water, actually,” answered the first Adrian, prompting even more hilarity.

“I call the meeting to order,” said Burgoyne.

“Why would people buy bottled water when they can get perfectly good water straight from the tap, for free,” said Morton from the third row. “It makes no sense.”

“It’s an idea that only a public servant could come up with,” said someone to the far left.

“Water, coffee and bread are the high-volume consumer commodities of the future,” said the second Adrian, to uproarious laughter.

“Do I have a seconder for the motion before the chair,” asked Burgoyne, “for the motion that we strike with immediate effect?”

No one indicated support for the motion and Alan suspected that imminent Christmas bills had something to do with their silence.

“Why can’t we do something like ban overtime, to send a shot across their bows,” said someone from the left-hand side of the room.

“Because we never get any overtime,” said someone from the right.

Multiple voices sounded at once, proposing bans on punctuation, on photocopying, on the preparation of ministerial correspondence and on a range of other activities, including, at last, thinking.

Burgoyne called for order.

“Why should we bother with industrial action at all?” asked the cross-eyed man. “It never does any good. And anybody for the high jump who wants to stay will be able to swap with someone whose job is safe, anyway.”

“The motion lapses for want of a seconder,” said Burgoyne, “but I would remind the meeting that a strike – in circumstances where we are, once again, the victims of irreconcilable class differences resulting from unjust economic relations – is an entirely appropriate response from downtrodden workers.”

“Tosh,” said Comrade Wyner. “Absolute tosh.”

“I want to be made redundant,” said one of the Adrians.

“And so do I,” said the other.

“Me, too,” said an elderly man, who was wearing a bow tie, even though he wasn’t an architect.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Neville,” said the intense young woman to the old man. “What would you do if you took a redundancy?”

“I’d retire, as it so happens.”

“But you never do, do you?” the cross-eyed man scoffed. “Every time you complete the paperwork, you chicken out.”

“Order! Order!” said Burgoyne, before other redundancy enthusiasts could reveal their plans.

“What about solidarity with your comrades?” the woman with the huge nose said to the elderly man with the bow tie (who still wasn’t an architect).

“Bugger my so-called comrades,” he responded, “figuratively speaking. I’m prepared to go and I’d be a significant saving.”

“What about the working conditions and workloads of those you leave behind?” said the man with the lisp.

“I won’t give a stuff about them, sitting poolside in some tropical paradise with a gin and tonic in hand.”

Uproar followed. Burgoyne yet again called for order and, spying Morton with his hand up, invited him to address the meeting. “The chair recognises Comrade Morton.”

“Thank you, comrade chair. It seems to me that if Angry Eric is talking to the secretary, we should wait to be informed about the outcome of those discussions, before doing anything precipitate, while reserving our right to take industrial action if those outcomes aren’t to our liking.”

Murmurs of agreement could be heard on all sides.

“And, perhaps,” Morton continued, “we could start considering the concessions – modest, insubstantial things – that we might offer up if management has to appear to gain something in order to back down.”

Further murmurs of agreement could be heard.

“But without stepping back from possible industrial action, later,” said Burgoyne.

“Of course, comrade chair,” said Morton.

“And not rejecting the possibility of a redundancy or two,” said the more entrepreneurial of the two Adrians.

“These are but early days in the struggle,” said Morton. “Anything is yet possible.”

Morton was invited by Escher Burgoyne to formulate a motion embodying his various suggestions. With an amendment appointing Alan as the person to whom suggestions of modest concessions should be sent by the close of business, the resultant proposal was duly put and passed.

“With such unity of purpose, comrades, it can only be a matter of time before the flag of the proletariat flies over the citadel,” said Burgoyne, “and the entire apparatus is in our hands.”

“Cobblers!” exclaimed Comrade Wyner.

“How about concluding with a rousing rendition of the Internationale?” asked Burgoyne.

Comrade Wyner blasphemed loudly and others seemed to accept that this was, in fact, a signal that the meeting was over, even if it hadn’t been formally closed. Some participants rose from their seats, some stretched and looked around, while others began chatting with their neighbours.

“Just a couple of stanzas?” Burgoyne pleaded. “We wouldn’t have to sing all six.”

Without any acknowledgement of the damned of the earth, the prisoners of starvation or the enslaved masses, the departing union members streamed past Alan on their way back to work.

“I could help you out with some “Silent Night” or a bit of “Jingle Bells”, said a triple-chinned woman from the Coordination Unit, who Alan had long suspected of gross intellectual impairment.

“Thank you all the same, comrade,” said Burgoyne, “but I declare this meeting closed.”

Thus it was that the assembly came to an end without the usual debate as to whether work-based child care should take precedence over breastfeeding leave in the next log of claims (the original reason for the Cooper/Wheelwright feud), without deliberations on action to be taken against Azure Faraday (in her capacity as clerical union recusant) and without even the habitual dispatch of fraternal greetings to other oppressed workers (mostly in foreign climes). Alan, though generally supportive of custom and of established ways of doing things, was not disappointed by this turn of events.