Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Clink Street Publishing
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
A wry look at the 1978 winter of discontent, seen through the eyes of a trainee personnel officer in a militant Liverpool car factory. An insight into the vanished world of a polarised society of petrol queues, three million unemployed, public service strikes and a socialist government unexpectedly trounced by Margaret Thatcher in May 1979.
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 367
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
Striking for Ford
Alan Dixon
Contents
— 1 —
Eavesdropping
I had been in my new job three hours, when I was told there was going to be an indefinite strike. ‘For God’s sake,’ I said to myself, as I was ushered into the Personnel Manager’s office at the sprawling car factory in Liverpool. Twenty personnel staff were crammed into a tar yellow, dingy office, listening intently to someone from Head Office in London on a tabletop speaker phone.
Eric Moore, the Personnel Manager shouted into the phone, ‘We’ve just been joined by our new labour relations trainee Frank Thomas, it’s his first day in the factory.’
‘Welcome Frank,’ laughed a cockney voice over the speaker, and I waved weakly as everyone turned to look at me.
‘Unbloody believable, starting work the day of an indefinite pay strike, that’s gotta be a first even for Liverpool. That’s cheered me up that has. Eric, call me when the stewards have reported back to their members,’ and still laughing, he rang off.
Eric stood and beckoned me to the front of the room.
‘Frank, that guy leads the company pay negotiations with the blue-collar unions in London. Now, Jim’s your mentor and he’ll introduce you to everyone later, but as time is of the essence, can you write in the dark?’
‘Write in the dark?’ I said.
‘Just get yourself a clipboard and go with Jim to the press shop canteen.’ I noticed a wry grin on his face. The shop stewards’ committee’s meeting in the canteen to decide on recommending or rejecting today’s pay offer. You and Jim are going to hide in the kitchen and take notes about what they say.’
‘What, like spying on them?’ I said.
‘No, eavesdropping. Now, Jim will show you the ropes and by the way, welcome to industrial relations.’
The others sniggered as we left. Jim, the colleague assigned to lead my induction and I walked towards the factory floor. We passed the factory personnel offices, known apparently as the ‘piggeries’. I was only just into the job and was beginning to wonder about my career choice, but then thought of a college friend who had also accepted a traineeship, only to be offered redundancy a month before she’d even started.
I had a new suit from a cheap high street chain store and felt out of sorts in a shirt and tie after three years at college but was determined to stick at a professional job. I needed the money and good jobs in the depressed British economy were like gold dust. I followed Jim deep into the car factory, assaulted on all sides by mechanical noise, insanely bright fluorescent strip lights, continuous spot-welding flashes and the sickly smell of cutting oil. Cars rolled slowly down the lines, swarmed over by an army of workers in boiler suits.
‘Stay close,’ said Jim in his strong scouse accent, as he unlocked the door to the canteen. He led me across to a second door next to a shuttered serving hatch, unlocked it and went in, pulling it shut on the latch. We were alone in a windowless kitchen, with barely enough light to see by.
‘When the stewards come in, get your ear as close to the hatch as possible and write down everything they say, exactly mind.’
‘Won’t they check in here?’ I whispered.
‘They’ll rattle the door, see it’s locked and carry on. If they find us, they’ll go apeshit.’
‘Are we listening to see how many stewards vote to recommend the pay strike then?’ I said.
‘Nah. A strike is an absolute cert. Senior management just want to know if the stewards blame the company or the government’s pay ceiling.’
I frowned and looked through the gloom at Jim’s greasy blue suit, his curled-up lip and face that looked in the half-light like one of those gaunt underfed images from war photographs. He was about forty years old, with round shoulders and a lopsided grin. Is this me if I stay working here? I sat on the serving counter near to the shutter.
‘Shush… they’re here,’ Jim said.
I jumped as someone rattled the kitchen door and could hear my heartbeat above the muffled voices assembling in the main canteen.
‘Lads, even our union officials are saying the company is hiding behind the incomes policy to offer a piffling 5% across the board,’ a tough sounding Glaswegian boomed out.
‘As ye know, last year we got just 2% above the guideline and this year we want 20%.’ A murmur of approval rippled round the room. Behind the shutter I lost my balance and rattled the shutter. There was silence from the stewards outside.
‘Jack, check that door, I would nae put spying past the excuses for management we’ve got.’
We held our breath as the door handle rattled heavily.
‘It’s locked la, must be the wind or the canteen rats,’ said Jack, whoever he was.
I could hear the muffled laughter from the stewards,
‘Bloody hell,’ I whispered.
The union convenor must have turned to face the other way as it was then only possible to hear fragments of speech.
I wrote down the few words I could hear, the pen shaking:
‘Inflation’s over 16% and we also wanna line workers’ allowance… mass meeting Speke football ground between shifts as normal… show of hands will do…’
The meeting was winding down and the stewards were filing out. As I eased myself off the counter, the door handle rattled loudly again, followed by a shoulder charge against the door.
‘Just leave it, you’ll damage the door, knobhead,’ said an unknown voice.
‘There’s some twat in there I swear,’ it sounded like Jack.
We froze, waiting fifteen long minutes before Jim carefully unlocked the door. I could feel the sweat running down my back, my bri-nylon shirt would soon be sticky. Jim peeped around the door and immediately shut it again and said, ‘They’re still standing by the main door in the corridor, we’ll use the rear fire escape, the bastards.’
We groped our way out towards the back of the kitchen preparation area, where Jim unlocked yet another door. I flinched at the bright factory lights but followed Jim carefully down a steel fire escape emerging somewhere inside the factory, completely unknown to me. We walked quickly back to the main offices.
‘Close run thing that, nearly shat myself there,’ Jim pronounced, sounding relieved as he went to brief Bill. I raised my eyebrows, acknowledging my gaffe with the shutter door then relaxed into my new chair, glad the incident was over.
I felt excited about my first ever office even though it was more like a large cubicle. I sat on a worn green swivel chair, spun round, and took in the small space. It was aluminium framed, with half-windowed partitions, a metal desk and a second chair for visitors. Five yards away from the corridor outside the office, was the entrance to the factory. As people came and went, I could hear the distant crashes of the jigs dropping car bodies into place and I became aware of an emerging migraine. I wasn’t sure if it was due to the stress of the canteen eavesdropping or having to get up at seven o’clock that morning. I wasn’t used to being awake before ten o’clock in my last year at college. I pompously decided to take my first ever work decision and wrote ‘buy another suit’ in my desk diary. I didn’t want my only suit going greasy like Jim’s.
A sharp knock on the glass separating the office from the one next door startled me. An Asian-looking girl about my own age peered over holding up two cups of Klix coffee. I nodded as she came round to the door.
‘It’s hot and wet.’
I took in the full smile and dark bob, noticing the smart black skirt and jacket with shoulder pads. I blinked; she was a sight for sore eyes in this dump.
‘Hi. I’m Anita, I was due to do your factory tour now but it’s off,’ she said with an unusually posh Birmingham accent.
I vaguely recognised her from the meeting in the personnel office earlier.
‘There’s a mass meeting on the pay strike for blue collars starting soon,’ she continued, ‘so nothing will be working.’ She brushed off the metal chair and sat down, smoothing her skirt.
‘Of course. That’s what Eric said earlier isn’t it?’
She nodded slowly and arched an eyebrow,
‘Bill said that we should plan to be doing security duties from tomorrow, like patrolling the perimeter to deter thieves.’
‘Really. So, the security men are unionised staff I guess,’ I said. ‘I’d better get some overalls rather than another suit,’ I laughed self-consciously.
‘Pardon?’ said Anita.
‘Oh nothing, long story,’ I said, regretting saying it. ‘I thought I might be heroically resolving disputes or averting strikes rather than acting as a security guard.’
Anita laughed, ‘In your dreams.’
We both looked round as Jim came in with another man, Bill Budd, the Senior Personnel Officer who had interviewed me for the job. Bill was about thirty and looked like a young Rod Stewart with a drooping moustache and feathered haircut.
‘Jim’s just updated me on your narrow escape this morning,’ said Bill grinning.
‘It unfortunately sounds like the stewards blame the company rather than the government but give me your notes when you’ve typed them up.’
‘It was pretty hairy, scrabbling around in the dark like a burglar,’ I said.
‘Well, the good news is that you, Anita and Jim are going to the union mass meeting on the strike vote. It will be at Speke football ground, you’ll be listening in from the top of the hill behind the main stand.’
I looked across at Anita, who seemed as alarmed as me.
‘You’re taking the mick…’ I said.
‘No, deadly serious this, but this time you’ll be on public display so they’ll see you, they might even give you a welcome “fuck off personnel” over the microphone.’
Jim laughed, but Bill continued with a serious face,
‘Everyone in personnel needs to plan to be doing twelve-hour security shifts from 6 a.m. in the morning and then 6 p.m. in the evenings, alternating weekly. It means you will be crossing the picket lines too. Ok?’
Anita sighed, ‘Crossing picket lines. Great. Does that mean we will be spat at and jostled like the miners and dockers?’
Bill cut across her. ‘No, you use the inside perimeter fence management car park in strike situations so you cross the picket line in your car. If there’s any damage to your car, the company will pick up the bill.’
‘That’s a bonus,’ I said trying to be funny. ‘I definitely need a new driver’s door, so let’s hope they kick that one in.’
‘Ha. Well, it’s pretty good humoured normally, but not always. The bastards,’ said Jim, turning round to leave.
‘The van factory down south, and the engine plant in Wales have already gone on strike, so our vote’s a formality,’ said Bill as he followed Jim out.
Anita and I sipped the lukewarm coffee and looked at each other. We were lost in our own thoughts about what we’d just heard. Anita rummaged in her handbag, giving me the opportunity to stare. What drove a girl to work in this industrial environment I wondered? I managed to stop myself from directly asking her where she was from, and how she’d got here.
She looked up and saw me staring. ‘What?’ she said, slightly aggressively.
‘Oh nothing,’ I said.
‘Well at least we won’t have to run round asking individual staff if they are prepared to work, like we do with unofficial strikes,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure if it’s an official strike though.’
‘Not necessarily,’ I said, anxious to show I was not a complete greenhorn. ‘Unions like to avoid calling strikes official so they don’t have to pay strike pay.’
Bill’s head appeared round the door, ‘Off you pop you two. Public Relations just rang down to say ITV and the BBC will be at the vote, along with that militant local MP, what’s his name. Don’t get yourselves on TV and you are not authorised to say anything on behalf of the company just in case they approach you. Got that?’
Bill smoothed his moustache and left. I followed Anita out towards Jim’s car. Anita’s coat was a smart brown camel hair affair, a far cry from my own shabby overcoat. I got in the back of Jim’s new Ford Cortina, with its metallic silver paint and black vinyl roof, leaving the front seat free for Anita. She really is gorgeous, I thought. We drove out of the factory gates and as we turned right, I noticed the grim council estate over the road, shuttered shops with graffiti and rubbish blowing everywhere. I looked away out of a strange respect; I’d grown up on one.
I decided I wasn’t that nervous about this new task. I’d only met Jim today but he’d showed this morning he knew what he was doing, and he must have had years of strike experience. We drove on through the damp terraced backstreets of Liverpool towards the football ground. Leaving the car parked on some waste ground, we climbed the hill behind the main stand of the tiny stadium. I was surprised to see hundreds of staff being addressed over a PA system by two men who, Jim said, were the Body and Assembly Plants Union Convenors.
‘And a warm welcome to the management lackeys who’ve joined us at the top of the hill.’ A loud jeer went up from the workers and many turned and gave V signs.
Jim laughed and waved back as Anita and I instinctively ducked down behind the advertising boards.
‘First time I’ve been called a management lackey,’ I said to Anita. ‘It’s like I’ve joined the wrong side or something.’
‘Better than being called an uppity black twat,’ said Anita.
I stared at her, ‘Who called you that?’
‘Oh, a steward last week when I suggested he was worse than useless in a disciplinary hearing.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I exclaimed. We gazed down at the meeting. The Labour MP was speaking, fragments of his speech drifting in the wind up to the top of the hill.
‘Brothers, we’ve accepted three years of pay constraint with this unfair social contract, but Liverpool has had enough… the company is hiding behind it… it made huge profits last year. The company’s saying the government will take sanctions against it if it breaks this unjust income policy, do not listen to their lies.’
We gradually lost interest with the fragments of rhetoric we could hear, and when it came to the show of hands on taking strike action, it took thirty seconds, and no one voted against. I was surprised the staff were unanimous in their voting and after watching the crowd disperse, we scrambled down the hill to Jim’s car. I was shocked to see one of the convenors who had been speaking waiting by the car.
‘Willie,’ said Jim.
‘This yon new apprentice?’ looking dismissively at me, he passed a brown envelope to Jim and walked off.
‘What did the convenor give you there then, Jim?’ queried Anita in an innocent voice.
‘Match tickets,’ tapping his nose.
I was nonplussed. I sat back in the plush velour upholstery, it was my first day in the job what did I know?
We drove back to the factory. Built in the 1960s, it was a half-mile stretch of light brick buildings, with aluminium extensions jutting out everywhere. We parked up and went to brief Bill Budd, who as the Senior Personnel Officer had a much nicer office in the front office block rather than the piggeries. The previous good humour had drained away from both Bill and Jim. They were gloomy that the government pay policies issue made this different from a normal pay dispute which the company could manage on its own.
‘You might as well go home, there’s nothing working now and you all need to be in for 6 a.m. sharp,’ said Bill. We said our goodbyes. I decided to look in on the idle factory; no production lines were moving, but the lights still shone and groups of supervisors were sitting around chatting. Apart from the occasional hiss of compressed air from the abandoned tools, it was quiet. I sighed and headed for the car park. My car was an old blue VW Beetle that had cost peanuts at college, it was a poor starter and the source of continual anxiety. I turned the ignition, praying it would start and it just about clattered into life. I held the top of the wheel with relief and wondered how a first day at work could be so bizarre.
I drove towards Gateacre, a Liverpool suburb where I’d subleased a council flat from a college friend. The radio news headlines were full of the Ford strike, it was being seen as the first serious challenge to the Labour government pay policy. The first-floor flat was dismal. I had a mattress on the floor and a bookshelf consisting of a plank of wood laid across some bricks. It was freezing, my friend had said not to turn the underfloor heating on as the bills were crazy, and the carpet prevented the heat working anyway. I turned on my old black and white portable TV. The local news showed the strike vote, and I could just see myself far away on the hill. Fame at last, I thought. I made a filter jug of coffee and sat looking over the car park behind the flat. I could have left school at fifteen if I’d wanted to do security duties, I mused. I dozed off, exhausted, waking an hour later in the cold darkness. It would have to be a Chinese takeaway for dinner, sweet and sour pork and chips. Thinking over the day, I dismissed my concern over the fiasco in the canteen – after all, it had all worked out ok. But I still felt uncomfortable about being seen as a management lackey. I knew that by just taking the job, my left-wing college friends had already accused me of selling out, but this was really in the face. A management lackey with no proper bed, ice on the inside of the flat windows and a car where I had to bring the battery in at night. I made a mental note to visit a scrapyard, the car needed a new regulator, and I could see to it on Saturday if I wasn’t working a security shift.
— 2 —
Picket line
It was the first day of the all-out strike so while shaving with hot water from the kettle I worried about crossing the picket line. I’d been on plenty of college rent strikes, and anti-fascist demonstrations as a student activist and member of the Broad Left. I thought back to the one or two demos which had got violently out of hand, where the police were involved. Now, for the first time ever I was firmly on the other side of the fence and I felt repulsed by it. Rationally it was part of my new job and my new life. I had better get used to it or just bloody quit and stop feeling sorry for myself.
Approaching the main factory gate, I was sweating and gripped the wheel stiffly. It was a shock to see so many pickets in donkey jackets standing around cooking sausages on 45-gallon oil drum braziers. When they spotted me, the pickets spread out and blocked the road. I held my breath as they stared through the car windows. A shout of ‘scab, scab, scab’ arose as they gave me the V sign. The senior manager who was operating the barrier from inside the security office slid open the security lodge window and called out, ‘Lads, it’s our new personnel trainee, tell him to get a decent car!’
The pickets laughed and banged on the roof of my old car and let me through into the management car park. I knew they weren’t really interested in me, they were there to stop deliveries of car parts and the like, but I was still relieved there was no trouble. My hands were shaking; crossing the picket line felt like a betrayal of my principles and I wasn’t sure I was ready for it.
I walked back to the security lodge. Jim and Anita were already there, along with half a dozen others, and introduced me to John May, the press shop manager, ex-Dagenham site, who was managing the situation.
‘A lot of you are new to strikes,’ John said, ‘so here’s the brief. At all times there’ll be two people patrolling the perimeter fence in a car with a walkie-talkie looking for fence gaps and thieves stealing parts. No confrontations if you see anyone at it. Ring through and we’ll involve the police. Another two will be on continuous patrol walking the factory, checking fire hydrant pressures and roof leaks. That leaves the senior manager in charge, me today, and one other always in the security lodge. When the cars run out of fuel you go and get a new one from final assembly testing. There’re bacon butties in the canteen at eleven o’clock, the Canteen Manageress is un-unionised thank God. Frank, you don’t know the factory yet so Jim’ll show you round till you get an idea of the layout.’
The factory was eerie, almost silent, as Jim and I walked around. I had a notebook and drew a map of the locations of key operations. I’d worked as a welder in Vauxhall’s before I went to college so knew the basics like framing, subassembly and rough discing. When they got to the assembly and paint plant, it was all new to me, but this would not be part of my personnel patch anyway; I just needed the essentials for the security duties. It was common sense as it was obvious where engines, axles and seats were added to the cars. When it came to the press shop with its massive 1000-ton presses, I was used to that too, my Dad having been a press operator for twenty-five years. The presses looked like a scene from War of the Worlds, with names like Schuler and Vickers emblazoned on the sides in huge letters. Jim pointed out the long metal safety poles holding the presses open, as they worked on eccentric shafts that could turn over and crush a man even when switched off.
By now, it was time to go over to the canteen; on the way, I asked Jim why there were no foremen or general foreman in during the strike.
‘They’re white collar monthly paid like us, but they won’t cross picket lines like, even though the general foreman is one grade higher than us. Bastards. To the blue-collar staff, we’re all management, but to senior management the foremen are “production” management. We’re “proper” management, like ununionized.’
I thought this through and smiled to myself. Yes, industrial relations reality in one line and I was now ‘proper’ management, even if I was paid flyshit as a trainee. We collected two trays of bacon butties covered in foil and went back to the security lodge. When we opened the door, Anita and John May were slumped on seats looking pale.
‘You two look the colour of boiled shite,’ said Jim in his inimitable style, putting down the butties.
‘We just drove off a container bay and wrecked a car,’ said Anita, looking flustered, her head almost between her knees.
‘We? You mean you. I’m calling her Anita Knievel here on in,’ said John, and a burst of laughter went round the room. I offered him a bacon butty.
‘How about me?’ Anita asked forcefully. There was an ominous silence as eyes turned to Anita. I was embarrassed and said, ‘I didn’t think you would eat bacon…’
‘I’m not a bloody Pakistani, you wally.’
I could feel myself blushing but John just continued as if nothing had happened saying,
‘The car’s a right mess, lucky we had our belts on though. To be fair to Knievel, we need the lights on at the back of the container bays, we could see fuck all. Pardon my French.’
I gritted my teeth and sat down next to Anita saying, ‘Are you all right, you look well shaken up?’
‘Yes, I must be in shock.’
‘How’s the car?’ I regretted saying it as soon as it had come out of my mouth.
Anita frowned at me, shook her head, and looked down.
‘We left it with steam coming out, but it didn’t catch fire. I’ll be alright in a minute. Here have this, I hate bacon.’
I felt I was going red again but was saved by Jim this time.
‘Ok Frank, our turn for the car patrol. Let’s see if we can get one fitted with crash bars…’
Everyone laughed, except Anita who maintained a serious look. I was glad to be leaving the security lodge.
Jim and I walked back past the piggeries and turned left, heading towards final assembly. Jim explained in his laconic way that some bright spark had got a maximum pay out from the company Suggestion Scheme, just for reducing the fuel put in cars to half a gallon at the end of the line. ‘Bloody travesty,’ he loudly muttered, ‘means we’ll be lucky to get an hour’s driving before we need to go back for another car,’ he said. We got into a light blue Escort and Jim drove out and went clockwise round the huge perimeter road. I just sat quietly, basking in the new car smell. I didn’t think I’d actually ever been in a brand-new car before.
After a while, Jim pulled over. He was staring at a piece of damaged perimeter chain fence.
‘I thought some bastard’s cut that, but it looks like a stacker truck has reversed into it and bent it’.
We drove on and after a while I asked Jim if he thought the professional qualification for personnel officers was worth doing at night school, as I knew little about personnel work.
‘We had someone did it at Liverpool Poly last year, there was no time off and he only got his fees paid after he passed, not before mind. Mean bastards our company. He said most of the people on it were from the local council.’
I thought about the boring prospect of studying personnel management at night school until Jim pulled up at the ‘magic mushroom,’ a giant water tower that was a landmark for miles around. It contained all the water to run the site’s fire sprinkler system and we were to check that the chains on the valves were still in place. We swopped drivers, and I was chuffed to be driving a new car, though I never got higher than third gear. I could just see the container bays at the back of the factory where Anita had had her moment. There must have been thirty of them.
We eventually got back to the lodge and I reflected on my first ever shift. There were only six pickets left round the brazier, the others had gone. John said that all the supply lorries had long finished trying to deliver parts and I guessed with the factory at a standstill, the company didn’t want them anyway.
When I got home that night after twelve hours I was knackered. I cooked a Fray Bentos pie with oven chips and sat looking out over the uninspiring car park at the back of the council flats while it heated. I was still puzzling about my journey from fringe activist at university to management lackey. Was it only last year that I’d been on the Lewisham anti-National-Front march? Did I still have a piece of the Birmingham National Front banner I’d proudly torn down? Had I really been to the ‘Rock against Racism’ concert with the Tom Robinson Band in London?
I had a swig from a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale, I hated the stuff and realised now that I had only drunk it to fit in. The idealism I’d read so excitedly about in my teens, the TV pictures of Paris in 1968, the Grosvenor Square stuff in London, it had disappeared completely now. The factionalism and backstabbing within the Labour Government was horrendous to see and the country seemed to be declining before my very eyes. I stared outside, thinking of the recent nationwide humiliations with Denis Healey and the IMF. Now there was even Rolls Royce, Upper Clyde Shipbuilders and British Leyland all running to the taxpayer for money.
I opened a tin of mushy peas. Could the trade unions not see how the huge number of strikes was destroying confidence in the Callaghan administration? Now I was working and not a student, I was ironically part of the so-called British Disease. What a turn up for the books.
The weeks went on in endless monotony, the alternating twelve hour shifts six days a week with the usual five faces. Social conversations had mostly ended, and I had little in common with the football, horse and dog racing obsessions of the production managers.
Anita had long ago been transferred to the other shift, so I was really disappointed that I seldom saw her except for a few minutes at shift changeover. I toyed with the idea of asking her out for a drink, but that moment just never arrived.
I had got into the habit of buying a copy of the Morning Star from the pickets in the morning. One day there was a report from the Labour Party conference that the paper was actually siding with car industry management in resisting the Government’s pay restraints. The irony of it. However, reading the paper caused me a problem later one shift when I found myself paired up with the personnel manager who I’d met on my first day, the pipe-smoking Yorkshire man, Eric Moore. After we had secured a car from final assembly he’d said, ‘Frank, one of the Superintendents is saying you read the Morning Star every morning, is that your politics?’
‘You must be joking. It’s pro-Soviet rubbish, but there’s no other papers there, oh, except Socialist Worker which doesn’t even have any news.’
‘Well, good to hear it. When you eventually get to do some real personnel work, just remember there is a significant minority of stewards who see every little dispute as politicising the workers.’
The car suddenly shuddered, running out of petrol. We had no choice but to walk back for another and after so many weeks, the site was beginning to look like a multicoloured scrapyard for abandoned cars. We were on the far side of the site so went via the press shop, where there had been a roof leak and there were rows of body sides in racks rusting badly.
‘Will they be able to use those?’ I asked.
‘No, they’ll be scrapped, melted down and restamped,’ said Eric having a puff on his pipe.
After we had picked up a horrible custard yellow van, I plucked up the courage to ask about the impact of the strike.
‘I did a lot of economics at college, do you think the foreign shareholders will hold this strike against the UK factories when it comes to future investment?’
He looked sideways at me,
‘This strike probably not, they can see it’s about pay policy, it’s political. But the damage has been done by the hundreds of minor strikes we’ve had over the last few years, their attitudes are already hardened.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘It’s touch and go if the new model, project Arnold, is coming here. But look at the new Fiesta plant in Spain. It’s devastating Dagenham Fiesta production, and the Granada and Capri models have just gone to Germany.’
‘Have you told our staff about the new model issue, do they know?’ I asked.
‘The unions are short-sighted, they see all the capital invested here and think they’re safe. Some of them even write to the chairman and call for nationalisation without compensation,’ he laughed.
‘Well, maybe it’s just me starting a new job with an indefinite strike but the whole country seems to be in chaos. Everyone seems to be threatening strike action, firemen and social workers this week. If I can see how bad this is with no experience, why can’t everyone else?’ I said.
Eric looked at me. ‘Well, you’ve caught on quick laddie. Just drive around, the Triumph TR plant is in trouble, Pressed Steel Fisher bodies is, the Leyland truck business. They’re going to the wall monthly, I just hope this strike isn’t our death rattle too.’
‘So, have I joined a sinking ship then?’ I asked.
Eric smiled.
‘You’ll be ok. Do your industrial relations training here, and I’m sure all these strikes will look good on your CV. Anyway, if the worst happens, it’ll be many years before an investment this size runs down.’
We pulled over, Eric nodded at me and we went back into the security lodge.
That evening in the flat I felt incredibly low. I knew it was probably a combination of the prognosis on the factory future from the boss, the depressing physical environment and the exhausting twelve-hour shifts. It didn’t help that the radio news was blaring out the latest arguments from the ineffectual James Callaghan about the state of the country. I just had to open my front door to see the state of everything, I didn’t really need the news. The continual petrol queues because of the tanker drivers’ strikes annoyed me the most. Even my university sociology books propped up on bricks seemed pointless – Nicos Poulantzas and Louis Althusser. When I’d read them last year, I’d struggled to see what relevance they had to contemporary Britain. Now, in a society riven by industrial disharmony, I was beginning to think they were just left-wing academics writing for each other. No one in the unions, in management, even in the Labour Party read them. The thought of becoming an academic myself if the job didn’t suit, and writing stuff like that, became less attractive by the minute. I was beginning to nod off when the telephone rang.
‘Hi Frank, it’s me’ said Anita. ‘I wanted to ask if you’re not doing anything tonight, do you fancy some food out?’
‘Oh, hi,’ I said recovering from the shock of the phone ringing and Anita’s voice. ‘Yes, that would be great, not sure I’ll be great company after five weeks of twelve-hour security duties though.’
‘Everybody has had enough, so join the club! I’m off this nightshift so how about in town at the Philharmonic in an hour?’
‘Right, the one with the gilded urinals?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ she laughed.
I was over the moon at the invitation on such a grey weekday night. I knew a change of scene would cheer me up, and I could get to know Anita and her probably interesting background. I unplugged the car battery from the charger and thumbed through the Liverpool A to Z to check where I was going before I set off. As I drove into town it struck me again how down at heel Liverpool looked. When I’d arrived earlier in the year, I’d done some of the main touristy sights. I particularly remembered the bleak view from the tower of the imposing Anglican cathedral. Many streets still looked bomb damaged from the war, with scrapyards and car parks on waste ground that had not been restored. I parked up, making sure nothing was on show as Liverpool really was the car theft capital of England. I smirked at the thought that my car might be stolen as even kids wouldn’t be seen dead in it. It was hardly a 1600E Cortina, the thieves’ favourite.
— 3 —
Zorbas
Anita was already in the Philharmonic bar when I got there. I had only met her on the occasional shift changeover when our paths crossed in the security lodge. I was worried that I’d appear academic, even ‘snooty,’ as one manager had called me. He had said that I seemed to care a lot about politics, unions and the state of the country but not much about people, which he said was odd for someone intending to work in personnel. He also said I seemed switched off from the normal security lodge banter.
‘Hiya. Do you want another one of those?’ I said smiling at her choice of drink.
‘Yep, Babycham please.’ I came back with one and a pint of John Smith’s.
‘I thought only grannies in bingo halls still drank that.’
‘I know, never lost the taste of my youth. Well, I have to say you look pretty tired, bags under the eyes at your age?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘I’m really drained by these twelve-hour security shifts and then having to listen to superintendents rabbit on about football, horses and bloody golf. I can’t seem to sleep during the day when I am on nightshift, it’s really wearing me out. Anyway, that’s enough of me wallowing in my misery, how have you been finding security duties?’
Anita smiled. ‘I certainly know Jim and Bill better, I could tell you their wives’ ages and their kids’ birthdays.’
We both laughed warmly at our colleagues. The pub was lively and bright with old-fashioned Victorian velvet wallpaper and beautiful ceilings.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask, you know you said you were a Ugandan Asian, does that mean you were thrown out by Idi Amin a few years ago?’
Anita looked slightly taken aback.
‘Yes, I was about thirteen when we left, nice well-off family with maids and servants, landing in a small flat over a shop in Leicester.’
‘Where did you get your posh accent from then?’
‘Privately educated colonial school till I was thirteen I guess, tell me when the interrogation has finished?’
‘Sorry, I can get a bit intense but one last question, honest. How did you end up working in a car factory?’ Anita leaned back on the soft sofa, extended her legs with the Babycham in one hand. She smoothed down her trouser suit and casually said, ‘My family worked long hours to establish some corner shops in Leicester, I just wanted to try a large business, kind of contrast it with what I had grown up with. Eventually I did an MBA, there was a choice to specialise in marketing or personnel and it seemed a more natural fit for me. That’s it.’
Anticipating what Anita might say and never that happy talking about my background, I got up to get another round of drinks in.
‘Hold on, my turn,’ and Anita slithering back up like a snake. ‘I don’t like being in debt to anyone,’ she smiled, and went to the bar. I sat back down, slightly miffed, not by a girl going Dutch but the ‘not being in debt’ remark. When she came back, she looked at me expectantly.
‘And?’
‘Umm, nothing interesting at all, council house, comprehensive, late mum mostly a housewife, my dad a press operator in a car factory in Luton. Oh, I worked as a welder in the car factory before I went to college.’
Anita looked surprised.
‘Ah, that explains why you seem to know so much about car factories without seeing our one actually working…’
There was a sudden crash, we looked up to see two guys throwing punches and shouting at each other only two tables away. I stood quickly, helped Anita up and said ‘Let’s go in case they start throwing bottles.’
Holding Anita’s arm firmly, my eyes never left the fight till we were outside, walking away.
‘I’m starving. Shall we get something to eat? There’s a nice Greek in Hardman Street that does great retsina and kebabs,’ I said. Anita left her arm hooked in mine and I covertly looked at her as we strolled up the noisy street.
‘Phew, I’ve never seen a fight break out that fast before. Oh, “Zorbas”, it’s really called “Zorbas”, she laughed pointing at the sign.
‘I know, you really couldn’t make it up,’ as we went in and got a table for two overlooking the street.
‘Thanks for suggesting we meet, by the way,’ I said. ‘You’re the only person my age I’ve met so far in this job.’
‘Well, as we were saying in the pub, the strike can’t go on forever, and you don’t know what the job actually is yet do you? You’ll soon be a really old hand like me, with a year’s personnel rather than security experience…’ she laughed.
The retsina was cold and sharp, it made my eyes water.
‘If security is work, God help me,’ I said, raising my glass and tinkling it with Anita. It was hard to avoid noticing how attractive Anita was, with her petite figure and smart clothes. I looked away, it was seven months since my acrimonious split with my girlfriend. We chatted for another hour, discussing the state of the nation, the car industry, immigration, and our work colleagues. I had just enough self-awareness to not trust my instincts with women but thought we got on well. We were both on the morning shift for once, so we left at nine just as the restaurant was filling up. I felt like thanking her again for inviting me out, as it had really cheered me up. It sounded too fawning, so I didn’t. We departed for our cars, I looked back at Anita before praying my car would actually start, which it did.
Autumn became winter. Reading the newspapers in the lodge during security duties, I was staggered to see the firemen had got a 22% pay increase and then the heating engineers had got a 30% staged deal. These were huge figures and the TUC had finally rejected the Labour government’s joint economic statement so it looked like the country might descend into further chaos. Much of the talk in the security lodge was now about when our company would cave in to the union’s demands as the strike had been going on over eight weeks. After two months, the strike ended with a pay deal. It broke government guidelines and everyone dreaded what that might mean for the future of the factory.
— 4 —
Pram
For me, the first day back after the strike and the first day in my real job started with a short meeting for all personnel staff convened by the personnel manager. He’d arranged the meeting to warn that the Prime Minister had spoken in the House of Commons, threatening economic sanctions against the company for breaking the government pay policy.
