Reject

CHAPTER 1

He was in early. I have made my mark! he said to himself as he sat at his desk. Today, they will all know that they have an Administrative Officer. Not 'the Admin. Officer', or 'Melksham from Admin.', but Mr Melksham the Administrative Officer. He insisted upon it, just as it appeared on the plate on his door which opened on to the Executive Corridor, hushed and still at this time of the morning - a silent river of red plush magnificence which flowed all the way from the Technical Director's doorway to his own.

His eye fondled the brand new grey-painted filing cabinet, impressive but empty because he also possessed a document destroyer, the envy of the department, which crouched beside his desk like a tailless, mechanical dog, its A4 mouth wearing a permanent, humourless grin exposing a double row of intermeshed steel teeth. Its appetite was inexhaustible.

He gave it an unopened memo from Mr Folklore for breakfast, absently timing it with the stopwatch he had stolen from a time-and-motion study man and which resided in his 'in' tray for that very purpose. Bit slow, this morning, I must get the engineers to oil you, he informed it.

He gazed thoughtfully out of the window. The early morning sunlight cast long shadows from the row of gleaming metal chimneys on the roof of the building opposite which housed the Plant, pointing accusingly, like so many fingers at the piles of scrap, hastily dumped into the yard after Saturday's experimental run.

Another bonanza for the scrap contractor, he mused and another £700 or so down the drain. How does Folklore justify it?

Along the vast, windowless wall of the Plant building, 26 parking spaces had been marked out. He had instructed the painter to number them off in a neat, orderly row, and so it was, interrupted only by his own car alongside the No.1 spot which he had allocated, naturally, to Mr Millar, the Technical Director. As Administrative Officer it was his vital function to ensure that everything in the Department ran smoothly and in an efficient, tidy fashion and he gladly made himself responsible for sorting out the sloppy disorder of the car park. From now on, each would know his place. The five spare bays might have provoked some comment as to the point of the exercise had he not conceived the brilliant idea of marking them reserved for visitors, not that they had many. The memoes had gone out on Friday so that this morning he would be able to witness his handiwork coming into operation.

As he watched, the first of the factory workers began to trickle in through the gates, Bobski the expatriate Pole with a hernia who ran the pilot plant, weaving between the barrels of chemicals across the slippery yard on a bicycle and his oppo Ernie trailing along behind with the tea things. A few moments later, George the Plant Supervisor pulled into No.16 in his beloved beetle, to be joined by his assistant, Pete in No.17 before he had time to open the car door. They disappeared together through the nearby side entrance into the Plant and Melksham smiled inwardly, ticked them off on his master copy and settled back in his chair. By eight o'clock all the workers had crossed and the yard was once more deserted.

Without any hint of warning, the peace of the morning disintegrated. As if an airliner was taking off outside his window, the Mighty Fans in the Plant building wound themselves up to their endless task of sucking out TDI fumes, discharging them through the metal chimneys. He sighed and closed the window just as Millar, his biggest test, came into sight. With sinking heart he saw the bright, deep scratches on the front of the Jensen Interceptor, the open bootlid banging angrily up and down on the wreckage of a pair of wrought iron gates as he hurtled in at five times the permitted speed to halt in No.14 with a screech of brakes, audible even above the roar of the Fans. The emaciated Scot climbed out, banged the door shut without bothering to lock it and stamped off in the direction of his office.

Guess who was on the bottle last night, he thought moodily, it'll take the entire contents of the Cona machine to pass down his neck before I dare ask him to move it. Bit of extra work for Sage's engineers, too!

Millar's door had just slammed shut at the other end of the corridor when Dik's Ford special drifted in silently with its engine shut off. He always made a point of removing the keys from the ignition as he entered the premises, waving them at the gateman before putting them into the pocket of his jeans, an operation which filled Melksham with admiration for its sheer dexterity, even though the reasoning behind it mystefied him. (The intention was to prove that he couldn't possibly be breaking the Company's speed limit as he had once been accused. One day, he borrowed his father's car which was fitted with a steering lock and the Works Manager refused to have the gatehouse wall repaired so that its scars would act as a reminder of Dik's foolishness). He held his breath until the car stopped in No.3, beside his own, expelling it slowly with a hiss of annoyance. Dik, engrossed in a silent struggle with his colon ignored the gesticulating figure at the upstairs window and made a beeline for the departmental toilet.

In his wake, Sage's NSU Prinz (in his own words, 'the poor man's MG') came by, fleeing before the Folklore Rover to pull up inches behind Dik's Ford. He carefully engaged first gear, pulled on the handbrake as hard as he could, using footbrake pressure to gain an extra notch on the ratchet, checked that the doors and windows were securely fastened, and set the burglar alarm for good measure.

While he was thus preoccupied, Mrs Folklore stopped with a lurch against the kerb. Mr Folklore reluctantly unfastened his seatbelt, leaned over and dutifully kissed her on the cheek (Melksham shuddered) before emerging, pale but immaculate in Homburg and Pinstripe, real leather briefcase in one hand and precisely furled umbrella in the other. With a farewell backward glance and wave at her loved one, she dropped in the clutch, the heavy car squealed in agony, reared up on its springs turning in a haze of smoking rubber, brushing Sage contemptuously aside and was gone before he could draw breath to protest.

As the car park filled up, so the telephone calls began.

Sage was first, demanding to know why Grey, the Assistant Technical Manager had been given No.4 instead of his own deputy and was he to assume, therefore, that his section was inferior to the Test Tube Brigade downstairs?

Peddle was next, politely explaining that as the painter had missed out No.7, he had parked in No.8, and scarcely had he put down the handset when the Chief Inspector was on the line to complain that Peddle was in his place and he had been forced to park in No.9 ("For God's sake, they share the same office!)

The Works Manager's Secretary primly informed him that he had incurred her Master's displeasure by failing to consult him on what was clearly a Works matter and since traffic flow within the factory was currently under review by the safety committee, of which the Works Manager was Chairman, a written note of apology was the least that he could do to make amends.

Melksham had failed to realise that the staff never parked in the area he had designated as bays 7,8 & 9 so that the road tankers would have room to back round before entering the Plant loading bay. Saturday's experimental run had drained down the TDI tank and the day's production could not begin without a fresh delivery. Pike, the Production manager was in such fury that he stumbled over his own words.

I've shifted Peddle and the Chief Inspector, who ought to have had more sense than to listen to a twit like you, but that man Smith has left his car in No.9 and gone off with one of the salesmen to see a customer. Now you listen to me, Muddlesham, if that car isn't moved pretty damn quick, I will have it dragged out with the fork lift truck. You mark my words!

He was still reeling from the impact of Pike's onslaught and had just mentally registered the fact that Smith had traded in his old banger the previous week for a brand new Cortina when the arrival of the post girl distracted him. She handed him three internal memoes.

Folklore was demanding to know why he had been excluded from the parking list (He could not drive).

Sage was complaining that some person had had the audacity to park in his place and enclosed a copy of a stroppy missive entitled 'To Whom It May Concern', presumably for him to pass on to Dik.

These passed easily into the stomach of the document destroyer but the third was less easily digestible. It was a note from the Chief Security Officer pointing out that bays 14 to 16 inclusive obstructed access to a fire hydrant and should be cleared FORTHWITH as the factory could be held to be in contravention of the Fire Regulations and have its fire insurance invalidated. He timidly rang Millar's number, accidentally bypassing his secretary to find himself talking to the irascible Scot in person. I always park there because it's nearest the door and the pair of you ought to be able to find something better to occupy your time with. Good day to ye! and he was left holding a buzzing handset.

The combined efforts of the lab staff had failed to find a way to move Smith's Pride and Joy so that it now seemed inevitable that Pike would carry out his threat. The fork lift truck was manoeuvering close by it while the looming bulk of a tanker lorry, its engine snorting impatiently, heralded imminent disaster. The Jensen was still in No.14. He was in the act of swallowing a Librium tablet when the Works Manager's Secretary telephoned again. I have to inform you the voice was haughtily amused that as you have allocated 21 parking spaces and there exist only 20 useable bays that one person will have to be refused permission to bring his car on to the premises. He has instructed me to tell you that as it was all your bright idea in the first place, you are the lucky one. He suggests that you avail yourself of the multi-storey car park at the other end of the industrial estate. Good morning!

He took a second tablet before burying his head in his hands and his groan of anguish was driven back into his aching skull by the remorseless roar of the Mighty Fans.

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Bobski's first task was to go round the pilot plant, switching on the various pumps, tank heaters and odds and ends of machinery which drowned out the calm of the morning with a whirring and clanking medley of noises, combining to make up a demonic orchestra which would not cease until they knocked off at the end of the day. Ernie, meanwhile switched on the battered electric kettle and threw the grouts of Saturday's tea out into the yard before clearing a space on the unbelievably filthy, rickety wooden desk which served as the pilot plant office. He groped into the back of the equally grimy and tattered, doorless wall cupboard to find the chessboard which had, itself, seen better days. He was still lining up the chessmen when Bobski completed his circuit. The usual?

Bobski nodded and slapped a two pence piece on the table. You not take white? Ernie shook his head with a grimace of disgust. Oh well, is all the same to me. I beat you quicker!

The eighth white pawn had been broken and crudely repaired by dipping into moulding compound so that it was now a shapeless grey lump which only Bobski was prepared to have amongst his pieces in exchange for the advantage of starting the game.

Ernie donated his 2p with a show of weariness as Bobski made the inevitable P - K4 opening. He sniffed, wiped his nose on the sleeve of his once white lab coat and automatically played P - K4 back. His ears pricked up Dozy bloody Pole, you forgot the fans!

So I did. My mind not on things, I have bad cough from TDI keep me awake all night.

Bin on the nest, more like. You blasted foreigners are all the same.

Maybe onetime, but I drunk too much wodka since then. Anyway, I have rupture. He went off, pressed a button and the wind instruments added their own subtleties to the overall cacophany. He returned to the board. Ernie, sighed and mentally abandoned the game as his opponent's hand settled on his King's knight. (It had long since passed into legend that Bobski had spent the War Years on the run from the Germans, during which time he had acquired an insatiable appetite for chess and hard liquor, discovering a lifetime's affection for the indirect and devious moves of the knight).

They were hard at work when the big wooden outer door swung back in the grasp of a black, rubber gloved hand to reveal the deceptively wraith-like figure of Dan, Dan the Catalyst Man. His wellington boots left an imprint, visible even through the layers of grease on the floor and, as his hand released its grip, four dark blue fingermarks remained like shadows on the woodwork. Running red, this morning, are we? quipped Ernie. Dan looked at the besmirched door with an air of bellicose puzzlement. Use yer bloody eyes!

What you want? Bobski removed a pawn with his knight before looking up. Is a check!

You bin at 'em agen. I 'ad fifteen on Friday an' I only got thirteen left this mornin'

So you come blame me. What for I want your bloody buckets?

You was in doin' experimentals.

I put all back just like was before, clean and tidy. You ask Ernie, he say I tell you true.

What? Ernie was transfixed, staring unbelieving at the knight which pinned his King and Queen.

See, he agree with me. Go look for yourself if you want

Dan departed, muttering to himself like a mother hen who has discovered the loss of her chicks, leaving a blue thumbprint to accompany his fingermarks as Ernie knocked over his king with a self-pitying shrug of his shoulders. Did you have 'em?

Oh yes, I hide till Pike give him bollocking, then I give back.

Dan's buckets were a kind of extension of his personality. In contrast to the rest of the Plant, which everywhere bore the indelible imprint of his passage, he took inordinate pride in them, ritualistically washing them in solvent after use and stacking them up one inside the other so that they formed into a gigantic gleaming yellow phallic symbol, a monument to himself. They were twice the size of an ordinary bucket and a full one in each hand was as much as most would care to lift, though Dan could be seen at almost any time of day toiling to and fro about the Plant with them like some black boiler suited, scraggy milkmaid. He was terrified of Pike who made a point of braving the filth of the catalyst room in order to inspect them at the end of each day in the hope of catching him short so that he could issue him with a bollocking, the most exquisite form of torture he could inflict upon him.

It was part of the initiation rite of any new lab assistant to be sent to get two buckets of flame retardent from the barrel in the catalyst room. He would set off, eager to please and quite soon locate the buckets and the barrel on its stand beside them, conveniently fitted with a tap, and there his troubles would begin. The buckets possessed seemingly magical powers in that if he tried to pull them apart, they would weld themselves into a monolith, defying any attempt at separating them and he would eventually return sweating and empty-handed to the lab. On the celebrated initiation of Little Mike, he dragged all 15 of them back to the lab (no mean feat in itself) and set about them with a crowbar. The secret is very simple. A quick puff from the compressed airline which dangled beside them for that very purpose and they would pop apart with insolent ease. Encouraged, he would put one beneath the barrel tap, turning it full on, only to find that a tiny dribble of treacle, scarcely more than the thickness of a spider's web was all that would come out, despite the fact that it was obviously full. No amount of jumping up and down on it would persuade it to flow any faster, until, after a suitable period of suffering it would be explained to him that it was necessary to open the tiny air vent at the top of the barrel. The final humiliation would come when he tried to lift the full buckets, only to discover that they would not budge from the floor, hardly surprising since flame retardent had twice the density of water and each bucket was enormously heavy. Dan would then be summoned to show him how it was done. Muscleless arms would carry them with studied nonchalance and the new lab assistant would follow him back to the lab, head bowed in shame.

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Dave paused to inspect the coatstand which had appeared in the entrance lobby. It stood as high as himself, a slender, dignified object with a smooth black metal stem spreading at the crown into six curving swan necks each ending in a red, pear shaped plastic knob, like so many tulips in bud.

Good morning, he addressed it politely. I wonder who you belong to. The coatstand obligingly fluttered the label which had been tied round one of its necks. It read: 'Mr Melksham, Admin. Officer'.

I really think you're making a bit of a mistake, he told it. Melksham is such a bore. Why don't you come along with me, we've got plenty of lab. coats in the office you can hide behind and you can help us with the crossword each morning. He gleefully tore off its label and made off with the coatstand to the chemist's office just along the downstairs corridor.

Hello, said Mike looking up from his copy of the 'Telegraph' crossword. Who's your friend?

I found it in the lobby, looking for Melksham, but I persuaded it to come and join us instead. Let me introduce you. Mike, this is a coatstand. Coatstand, I'd like you to meet Mike!

He placed it in the corner next to his battered filing cabinet, took a padlock and chain from the top drawer of his desk, wrapped it twice round its stem and secured it to a convenient water pipe.

Pat, as usual, had visited the photocopier en route to the office on his way in. He handed a copy of the crossword to Dave before flopping into his chair.

Heavy night? enquired Mike.

Heavy enough! he grunted, scrutinising the clues through bloodshot eyes.

Nasty anagram for 3 across, murmured Dave.

Got it!. Mike jotted a few scribbles on his memo pad. Morning sickness!

Must you? Pat threw down his copy, put his feet up amongst the papers on his desk and draped a newspaper over his head. Wake me when it's teabreak. His muffled voice trailed off into the beginnings of a snore which was just out of key with the distant bellow of the Fans. The air of academic calm which descended over the office was interrupted only minutes later by Dik bursting in, pale and trembling, to collapse into the spare chair.

What the Hell happened to you?

I got caught in the bog with the Old Bastard, didn't I! He sniffed and took out his tobacco tin, rolling a few wisps into a tube scarcely wider than the match he used to light it with, inhaled to the bottom of his lungs, consuming a third of it, coughed a huge racking cough and then turned deep red in contrast to his former pallor. That's better he wheezed, sending a blue cloud in Mike's direction.

Bad timing on your part, he waved the fog away with his copy of Mr Folklore's American Report. He's regular as clockwork since he's been on that high protein diet.

It was an emergency. Didn't want to risk a Worthington Fart in the office, not with Grey in the mood he's been in lately.

Due to a design error the departmental toilets had been built too close together so that before the partition wall between them had been put up, it would have been