‘One minute you say you’d love to come to my place and the next you say you want to go home. Which do you want?’

  ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘All right, I’ll take you. You’ll have to show me the way because I don’t know where you live,’ Dagwood added, ungraciously.

  ‘It’s almost next door to Hilda’s.’

  ‘Oh Good God,’ said Dagwood, in exasperation.

  ‘There’s no need to be so rude. I don’t have to come to your place.’

  ‘All right. You don’t.’

  Caroline said nothing more except to give Dagwood curt directions, which he acknowledged with grunts. They passed the Judworths’. The cars were still parked outside. The lights were still blazing. Dagwood thought bitterly of his own exit from the party in such gleeful triumph, only a few minutes before.

  When the car stopped, Caroline jumped out quickly and slammed the door.

  ‘Mind that door!’ Dagwood bellowed. ‘You’ll have it off its hinges! ‘

  Caroline bent to the window. ‘Oh you stupid man,’ she hissed, and marched up the steps to her front door.

  Dagwood raised his eyebrows, opened his mouth to retaliate and then shrugged and drove off towards the farm. The whole thing was much too difficult.

  14

  ‘He’s met her,’ said The Bodger, significantly.

  ‘At the point-to-point, you mean,’ said Mr Tybalt, speaking in a low voice out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘I introduced them myself.’

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Bit cool at first but they all shot off to a party afterwards. I’ve great hopes.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Mr Tybalt huskily.

  ‘Why do you keep talking like Guy Fawkes, Frank? Anyone would think we were plotting something.’

  ‘Well, aren’t we? I feel kind of guilty about all this, Bodger. We can’t just marry the wretched fellow off for political reasons.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It all seems a bit like white-slaving or something,’ said Mr Tybalt, uneasily.

  The Bodger looked sternly at Mr Tybalt; so might Guy Fawkes have looked at a conspirator who pleaded to be excused on the critical night. ‘Anything that gives Seahorse a chuck-up is worth doing, isn’t it? She needs it, doesn’t she?’

  ‘That’s true,’ Mr Tybalt admitted, unwillingly.

  ‘Well then. I shouldn’t let it worry your conscience too much, Frank. We can’t really influence these things. All we can do is throw the raw materials together and hope they’ll gell.’

  ‘How did you come to know the wench, anyway? At the last showing you and Sir Rollo were not exactly en rapport,’

  ‘We’re not now, but Julia is on some women’s committee or other with Lady H-G. She hates racing and Sir Rollo was going to be tied up with being Joint Master and Steward and Lord High Everything Else and the regular boy friend hadn’t turned up so Lady H-G asked us to take Caroline. You should pay attention to these women’s committees, Frank. Julia tells me they’re an eye-opener. Julia says she can’t imagine why the press bother to turn up to council meetings and that sort of thing. If they really want to know what’s cooking she says they ought to hide under the sofa when the Lady Mayoress is entertaining the other wives to tea and scandal. And that reminds me, I’ve got a committee meeting myself this afternoon so I’d better not have any more of this stuff. I don’t want to go to sleep in the middle of it.’

  ‘What sort of committee meeting?’

  ‘Civil Defence.’

  ‘How did you come to be lumbered with that?’

  ‘My predecessor left it to me.’

  ‘To tell you the truth, Bodger, I didn’t know there was any Civil Defence in Oozemouth.’

  ‘That’s just it. Nobody knows and nobody could care less. Everyone says if the bomb goes off we’ll all be fried up anyway so why worry?’

  ‘It’s a point, you must admit.’

  ‘It’s absolute balls. There’s a hell of a lot you can do. If you can survive the first few days you might survive for good. It’s every citizen’s duty to survive!’ The Bodger’s voice rose in a sonorous rumble which made Guv look up anxiously from his stance at the other end of the bar.

  ‘Seriously Frank, this is a vital question which affects everyone. When I was in Singapore a few years ago I met an old Johnnie of an Engineer Captain who told me, between sobs, that one of his jobs was to organise Civil Defence in Singapore and in two years’ hard bashing his head against brick walls he had achieved exactly nil. Everybody patted him on the head, said There there, don’t worry about it old son, if anything happens we won’t be here, we’ll be miles away out of it all. They seemed to forget that last time anything happened most of them were still there and that in any case the fall of Singapore would affect them wherever they were. It’s the same in this town. Civil Defence-Wise, Oozemouth runs Singapore a close second.’

  Mr Tybalt sympathised with The Bodger’s problem but the whole subject was immediately driven out of his head by an event which eclipsed everything else in Oozemouth. The boilermakers and the shipwrights in Harvey McNichol & Drummond went on strike.

  The strike arrived like a thunderbolt out of a clear blue sky. Neither Ollie nor Dagwood knew anything about it until they arrived at the office after lunch and the Chief Stoker broke the news.

  ‘Heard about the strike, sir?’

  ‘What strike?’ said Dagwood and Ollie together.

  ‘Boilermakers and shipwrights arc all on strike, sir.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Noon today, sir.’

  ‘How did you come to know about it, Chief Stoker?’

  ‘My cousin told me, sir. Her brother-in-law’s a fitter in Maxwells and he came home to lunch full of it.’

  ‘What are they striking about, do you know?’

  The Chief Stoker shook his head. ‘Couldn’t tell you that, sir.’

  ‘Doesn’t your cousin know?’

  ‘No sir. Her brother-in-law says the strike’s the thing. It doesn’t matter what it’s about.’

  ‘I must try and find out what this is all about,’ Dagwood said.

  Dagwood could excuse the Chief Stoker’s cousin’s ignorance of the cause of the latest industrial unrest at Harvey McNichol & Drummond, but he was surprised to find that this ignorance was general. Nobody knew why the men were on strike. Furthermore, nobody cared.

  ‘ . . . Does it matter what they’re out for?’ said Mr McGillvray, bitterly.

  ‘ . . . It’s the time of year for it,’ said Happy Day.

  ‘ . . . Probably the full moon,’ said Sid Burlap.

  ‘ . . . I expect they just want to dig their gardens,’ said Sam Sollarwood.

  It was Mr Tybalt, as usual, who had all the details.

  ‘Come here,’ he said to Dagwood. ‘Come and look out of this window.’

  Once more Dagwood looked out of Mr Tybalt’s window at the gloomy ravine through which Christian must surely have trudged on his perilous path to Castle Despair.

  ‘ . . . Can you see that round man-hole cover down there, underneath that water tap, just by where that jet of steam’s coming out?’

  ‘Yes, I can see it.’

  ‘Can you see four holes drilled in it?’

  ‘I can’t say I can, sir.’

  ‘Just take my word for it, there are four inch holes drilled in that man-hole cover.’

  Mr Tybalt paused.

  ‘Well?’ said Dagwood.

  ‘Well, those holes are what this strike’s all about.’

  Dagwood searched Mr Tybalt’s face, expecting to see the tell-tale sign of a practical joke. ‘You’re pulling my leg, sir.’

  ‘My dear Dagwood,’ Mr Tybalt exploded, ‘I was never more serious in all my bloody life! It’s like this. Every manhole cover fitted in this yard for the last two hundred years has been made by a little foundry firm just down the road from here. They’re the same firm that replaces the iron knobs as they fall off the Great Iron Bridge. I’m told that those are their only two contracts so you can imagine they’re a pretty go-ahead, progressive sort of firm. Every man-hole cover is made of cast iron and comes here undrilled, that’s to say with no holes in it. But there’s a local by-law or something which lays down that every man-hole cover in the urban district of Oozemouth must have four or more holes or apertures in them. You may then ask, as I did when I first heard about it, why don’t the foundry drill the holes in the man-hole covers before they send them here? Ah, but that’s not the way they do things here. Whenever a new man-hole cover arrives in this yard the holes are, or were, drilled by Old Vic.’

  ‘Old Vic? He sounds like some sort of impresario.’

  ‘He’s only called Old Vic to distinguish him from his son Young Vic, the present foreman of slingers here. Old Vic was a very responsible official. He was no less a person than sole man-hole cover hole-driller for Harvey McNichol & Drummond’s. Mind you, they only had a new man-hole cover about once every twenty years so he didn’t exactly break his back doing the job. In between man-hole covers he was head plate-shop sweeper. But just lately, what with the new dock and everything, they’ve had dozens of new man-holes put in. I guess the strain must have been too much for Old Vic because he retired last Friday and the jackpot question now is, who’s going to take over from him?’

  ‘But anyone can drill four holes. I’d do it myself for five bob an hour and my keep.’

  ‘Dagwood,’ Mr Tybalt said patiently, ‘your naivety continues to astound me. Don’t you understand, this whole strike is about who should drill man-hole covers. It’s our old friend demarcation again. Way back in 1929 Old Vic must have had a sudden brainstorm because he joined the Boilermakers’ Union. He soon sobered up because he never paid his subscription, never attended any meetings and he doesn’t seem to have had anything more to do with them. But technically he’s still a boilermaker and boilermakers are like Red Indians. Blood brothers. Once an Apache, always an Apache. Once a boilermaker, always a boilermaker. Now that Old Vic’s gone, the boilermakers insist that he be replaced by another boilermaker. The shipwrights say it’s a clear case for a shipwright. So there we are.’

  ‘But they can’t be striking about who should drill holes in man-hole covers!’

  ‘This won’t be the first time whole shipyards have struck over who should drill holes in things, Dagwood, and it won’t be the last. I could tell you even more fantastic stories . . . But I won’t. Just believe me when I say that in about six weeks’ time this mighty yard will be at a complete standstill and all because of Old Vic.’

  Mr Tybalt made a gesture of irritation. ‘Devil take the man, if I’d only known he was going to retire I might have slipped him a fiver or two to keep going for another few weeks, at least until they’d finished stripping out your submarine.’

  ‘I still can’t quite believe it,’ said Dagwood, shaking his head.

  ‘I had the Director of Dockyards himself on the telephone just before you came in and if he believes it I don’t see why you shouldn’t. Now push off Dagwood, and leave me to me dark thoughts. I’ve got to try and recast your programme in the light of all this. And if you pass a man-hole cover on your way. . .’

  ‘Yes sir?’

  ‘Spit on it, will you?’

  The next time Dagwood went to ‘The Smokers’ for his usual pint and gossip with Daphne, he saw a new aspect of the strike. There were two strangers at the bar, both burly men in heavy overcoats and bowler hats. They both had florid heavy-jowled faces and were drinking double Scotches. They were talking so loudly that Dagwood could not help over-hearing their conversation.

  ‘Well, Bob,’ said the one nearer to Dagwood, raising his glass, ‘here’s to Old Vic.’

  ‘Aye, Fred,’ said the other, ‘sent from heaven, were Old Vic.’

  ‘Or t’other place,’ Fred said, with a laugh which reminded Dagwood vividly of doubtful jokes, told in low voices. ‘I reckon we did a nice job there, eh?’

  Bob shrugged his shoulders casually. ‘Fair,’ he said. ‘Not as good as t’power station last Christmas.’

  ‘Ah.’ Fred sighed, as though granted a glimpse of paradise. ‘That were perfect. A whole power station shut down over the Christmas peak period and for why? One lad comin’ to work wearin’ an earring! Old Ted would ha’ been pleased wi’ that, God rest him.’

  ‘Aye, do you remember the way old Ted did that waxworks job? That’s going back a bit now, though.’

  Fred threw back his head and laughed so violently that whisky slopped from his glass and splashed Dagwood’s foot. ‘Sorry brother,’ he said. Turning back to Bob, he said: ‘Shall I ever forget that waxworks? They’d never ‘ad a strike for a hundred years and then Ted has them all out over the colour of . . . what was it?’

  ‘Ramsay Macdonald’s eyebrows!’

  ‘Aye that was it! Ramsay Macdonald’s eyebrows! Ah, old Ted knew how to play on ‘em, all right. Like a ruddy violinist, he was.’

  Bob raised his eyes reverently towards the ceiling. ‘We’ll not see his like again, Fred.’

  ‘That we won’t. But that were not a bad job tha did thaself, with the buses. Timed it for August Bank Holiday, too. That were a chip off the old block.’

  Bob accepted the compliment gracefully. ‘You should talk. I’m thinking of your business with electric light bulb factory.’

  Fred grinned. ‘It were only lasses though. They thought they were striking for love money! Loss of matrimonial prospects through working in t’bulb factory! Love money, I ask you!’

  ‘It’s a good job folk are a bit mad, Fred, or we’d be out of a job, wouldn’t we?’

  ‘Aye, that’s true enough. Having another, Bob?’

  ‘No, I’ve got train to catch. I’ll see you . . . what was it old Ted always used to say?’

  ‘We meet at Philippi.’

  ‘Aye, that’s it. We meet at Philippi.’

  Fred stayed for a little while after Bob left, smirking to himself and winking at Daphne. Then he drank up his whisky and nodded to Daphne, who returned the nod coldly, hitched his shoulders inside his coat, patted his bowler hat on the crown, and left.

  ‘Who were they, Daphne?’ Dagwood asked, at once.

  Daphne grimaced. ‘I don’t know who they are, love. They’re always here when there’s a strike on. I think they must go round startin’ them up, you know. They’re as pleased as punch about it all. It’s a shame to take their filthy money, I say. But Guv says a bob’s a bob no matter who spends it. I suppose he’s right, really.’

  Dagwood did not know quite what he expected to happen during a strike. He had thought that at least the yard would be deserted, as though Bob and Fred had walked through it fluting like the Pied Piper. Dagwood was somewhat disappointed when there appeared to be no immediate change in the yard at all. There were still plenty of workmen about whenever he visited the submarine, the cranes still swung, the trains still trundled and the crowd pouring through the gates at noon and evening seemed undiminished.

  But the activity Dagwood had noted was misleading. The strike was a creeping paralysis rather than a sudden stroke. The yard carried on, just as a tree will continue to flower after its roots are cut, but the heart and sap had gone out of it. Men who belonged to unions who were not on strike carried on with their work until they reached a stage where they required the assistance of a boilermaker or a shipwright. There the work had to stop. Another job would be started, progressed to the same point, and then that job too had to stop. The tide of work slackened, thinned, and finally dried up.

  Dagwood’s own immediate concern, the electricians, were least affected and were still in employment after the rest of the yard was idle. But as the strike continued they too ran out of profitable work. The day came when not only was there nothing fresh for Dagwood and Ollie to see when they went down to Seahorse, but they were physically prevented from going on board. Interpol, the watchman at the gangway, refused them permission, pass or no pass, informing them that the firm’s security officers had locked up the submarine and nobody except a security officer was allowed on board.

  On the same day, the refitting ship’s company lined up outside Ollie’s office and announced that they had nothing to do. This was an event quite outside either Dagwood’s or Ollie’s previous experience.

  ‘They won’t let us down the boat, sir,’ said the Chief E.R.A., ‘and there’s damn all going on in the yard so there’s no point in going round the workshops. We’ve mustered all the spare gear and put in demands for what’s missing. Every book’s been amended up to date, we’ve all done the tank, we’ve all been X-rayed and we’re not due for any more leave until August. Half of us are making tea for the other half, sir.’

  ‘Very well put, Chief E.R.A.’ observed Ollie. ‘Well . . .’ he looked helplessly at Dagwood.

  ‘This is a new problem, I must say,’ Dagwood said. ‘Come back after stand-easy Chief, and we’ll think of something by then.’

  ‘It’s one long stand-easy, sir.’

  ‘Aren’t you lucky?’

  The sailors outside all sucked their teeth and made what Dagwood called ‘Rhubarb rhubarb’ noises.

  ‘It’s an interesting psychological phenomenon, isn’t it?’ he said to Ollie, when the sailors had withdrawn. ‘Ask any sailor in a running submarine what he would think of a job in refit where he turns to between nine and four, never wears a uniform, no duties and nothing, absolutely nothing, to do all day. It sounds like Jolly John’s idea of the promised land, doesn’t it? And now they’ve got it, they’re fed up with it!’

  ‘In the meantime,’ said Ollie, ‘we’ve got to find them something to do.’

  ‘I wonder if The Bodger’s got any ideas? Let’s give him a ring.’

  As might have been expected, The Bodger had an immediate solution at his fingertips. ‘Whenever you’ve got quantities of gash sailors, Dagwood, the standard service procedure is to send them all on courses.’

  ‘What sort of courses, sir?’

  ‘Any sort of courses! For goodness sake it doesn’t matter what the course is about! All courses are the same in the Navy anyway. You ought to know that, Dagwood!’

 

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