Reject

CHAPTER 12

  Watson was on the phone. "The Ford Process Engineer has just been on to me about a rush job they want our help with." (Dave had yet to discover that all Ford jobs were, by definition, rush jobs.) I'd like you to go and see him as soon as you can. Will tomorrow be OK?" It was a command, not a request. "Prescott, the Rep. will pick you up at Paddington from the train that leaves here at 0730 hours. Have fun and, for God's sake, don't wear that scruffy white coat!"

  He rose early, hung about for twenty minutes at the station so as to be sure not to miss the 'Pullman' and compensated himself for the hostile, draughty platform with a British Rail breakfast at the Company's expense. For the next three hours he read a paperback version of 'Catch 22' while the train ploughed steadfastly through a wet morning to deliver him at Paddington exactly on time to find Prescott looking for him at the ticket barrier. He was a tidy looking, phlegmatic sort of man, middle aged now and had obviously collected a good many of the Company's staff from this very train in the unvarying pursuit of selling foam to the Motor Trade. Strategically placed in London, he was in easy reach of Ford, Vauxhall and a number of lesser potential sales outlets. Prescott's reports, hand written and delivered through the post, were renowned for their directness and had landed more than one employee on his boss's office carpet when Prescott had considered it necessary to complain that they had not flown the Company's flag sufficiently well and high. He felt a little defensive.

  Prescott had parked his Cortina with a superior flourish amidst a row of taxis so that they had to walk a minimal distance from the platform. With the skill of a lifetime's London driving against the clock he took them at a cracking pace to the Ford Research Centre in Essex. Typically, the place was only accessible by car - even to walk from its motorway-style exit point off the dual carriageway would have taken ages. Prescott threaded his way knowledgeably through acres of car parks to find a vacant spot close by the chrome and glass entrance doors to the vestibule and the receptionist trimming her fingernails at her ergonomically planned desk to be signed in and collected by the Process Engineer's assistant. At 11.30 precisely they were delivered to the Process Engineer's desk.

  They were in a vast open working area which took up most of the third floor of the building. Along both sides, a continuous strip of windows looked out over the car parks on one side and the dual carriageway on the other. Overhead, the ceiling was one blazing mass of strip lighting all switched on even though the sun had now come out and gave a pitiless, shadow free illumination to the desks and drawing boards which were so numerous that they gave even this emporium a cluttered appearance. The central heating was set up to the high level normally encountered only in hospitals and the staff all worked in shirt sleeves and summer weight trousers. He found it claustrophobic.

  The Process Engineer looked nervy and on edge, his eyes flitting here and there. He had a habit of wringing his hands together and Dave wondered if he had heard the adage that Ford Motor Company's pension fund had grown to enormous proportions because very few of its employees lived long enough to draw anything out of it.

  "Good morning Mr Prescott", he also nodded to Dave. "I hope you had a pleasant trip down. We are giving the 309E a facelift. This is the modified part I want you to look at." He held out a hand worked foam cushion for their inspection. "Any problems moulding that?"

  "Nothing we can't handle" ventured Dave. "You won't get very good quality, though, if you insist on going for thin sections like these." He ran his fingers over the relevant parts.

  "Compounds are improving all the time. If you can get an acceptable result now, it will probably be very good, given a couple of year's experience."

  He felt put in his place. Probably the man was right and, when their techniques had improved to the point where they could easily cope with what he wanted, then they would demand something even more esoteric.

  "I have the drawing here" he continued, handing Dave a large blueprint. "Can you get me initial samples in three weeks?"

  His knowledge of such things was sketchy but he had a feeling that the man was asking a lot and he suggested as much.

  "I can rely on Marley to deliver in four, but I don't have that long - which is why I called you in. Of course, if you don't think you can manage, I'll have to go to them. I thought you'd welcome the opportunity to see what you can do."

  Dave glanced at Prescott, looking for help but finding none in his eyes, only a hint of the malice which could flow from his astringent pen if he should let the side down. His collar felt sticky in the hothouse atmosphere but he fought down the temptation to panic and opted to grovel instead.

  "Naturally we would, and I shall personally see the job through although I'm not prepared to guarantee three weeks even though I shall do my level best to achieve it."

  This seemed to satisfy the man and they departed on cheerful terms, his demeanour further softened by a couple of cup final tickets from Prescott. They were delivered back to the vestibule where the chrome plated receptionist was still pruning her talons. The clock on the wall read 11.34.

  "That was short and sweet!"

  "He didn't want lunch, that's why" replied Prescott. "It's all to the good, though - you can catch the earlier train back and I can make another call."

  "Bit of a waste of time, wasn't it? We could have done this over the telephone. Other than the tickets, that is - by the way, how on earth did you come by those? They're changing hands for œ25 a time through the ticket touts and they'll be up to œ40 on the day."

  "Watson sees to such things - all a matter of contacts in the right places. Actually, it's quite difficult to come up with the right sort of gifts for these people, you can hardly give them lumps of polyether foam or even cash. Our predecessors had it easier, you could have had the chief's daughter for a handful of glass beads!"

  "So we have to bribe him to let us do the impossible!"

  "You are beginning to catch on, I think. It's the same with this three weeks lark. They don't need samples for a couple of months yet. They're just testing us, as he implied. They expect us to jump at their bidding, so that's just what we do - you be certain to deliver that product on time even if you have to make the mould yourself!"

  "It's a bit of a tall order, you know, but Reeves has a very good relationship with the foundry and if anybody can get it through in time, he will."

  "I'm glad to hear it! Who's Reeves?"

  "He's our man who does all the mould ordering and progress chasing, I'm surprised you haven't run across him."

  "I'm not that closely in touch with the factory. It's one of the problems of being based in London."

  Dave and the blueprint returned home and he finished 'Catch 22'. It had been a long day but he was too new at the game to feel any resentment at being made to dash about like a madman to satisfy the whims of the motormen and the little bit he would make on the expenses was sufficient compensation in itself.

  Reeves's tirade lasted for about half an hour when he put him in the picture the next morning. The essence of it was that the pattern maker would have to alter his schedule and put a genuinely urgent production job behind. The mould makers would have to come in on Sunday, practically doubling the cost, and the foundry manager would 'do his nut' at having to give up his Day of Rest, thus eroding the very good working relationship which Reeves had fostered with him over the years. Having thus unburdened his breast, he proceeded to organise the job with such efficiency that two weeks and three days later he was able to inform Dave that the mould had arrived in the loading bay and had merely to be put on to one of the moulding lines in order to deliver the samples a day ahead of schedule.

  He rang the maintenance foreman and requested that the mould be put up on No.3 conveyor as soon as possible, feeling rather pleased at the way things had gone. He then asked Watkins to see that the samples were programmed for the night shift before sitting back and relaxing. Feeling distinctly self satisfied, he phoned 'Buzzer' Watson to tel
l him that the samples would be available the next morning and that he doubted if there was a quicker service anywhere in the UKThe Sales Manager's words of praise were sweet music in his ears and with his appetite thus whetted, he went on to report to Folklore and bask in the magnificence of his effusive congratulation. The latter, seeing personal kudos in his Department's achievement, was in fine fettle and Dave eventually left his presence in a kind of seventh heaven, a utopia in which he could move mountains. He went home, still glowing warmly and was at work bright and early next morning to collect the samples, sort out the best six and bag them up for urgent despatch via the guard's van of the 'Pullman' for Prescott who would be waiting to collect them at Paddington.

  There were no samples! The shift foreman helped him to hunt all through the night shift's output until, eventually, he checked the inspection records and found no mention of them. With rising fury he made his way to the loading bay but there was no sign of the mould so he tracked down the General Factotum who's job it was to move it on to the conveyor.

  "I couldn't find it" he replied defensively. "I looked all over for it, but if I couldn't find it, I couldn't take it up the moulding shop, could I?"

  "Why didn't you say something yesterday?"

  "Nobody told me it was important. I mentioned it to the maintenance foreman before I went home. It's not my fault if it's disappeared."

  Very hot under the collar, he went to see the maintenance foreman.

  "Can't understand it" he ventured. "Sid told me it wasn't there. There's no reason why anybody should want to move it. Have you checked with Transport to be sure it came in? You have. I see." He stroked his beard while Dave stood, clenching and unclenching his hands, as agititated as he had ever been in his life."

  "Can't understand it" he repeated. "Unless - " his eyes brightened "I wonder if the scrap man took it off by mistake!"

  "How could that happen?"

  "He comes in on a Wednesday, usually and we sell off any scrap metal to him. He takes old moulds sometimes."

  The foreman rang through to the buying office. "Did the scrappie call yesterday? He did. Did he collect any old moulds? Five. I see. Thanks a lot."

  "He picked up five old moulds from the loading bay yesterday afternoon. Looks like that's where it went. I'll check up with the gatehouse."

  It took only a minute for the gateman to check the previous day's despatch notes and discover that the scrap merchant had taken six moulds off with him. "I should get down there, if I were you."

  "Do you know where his yard is?"

  The foreman drew him a map, he ran to the car park, leapt into his car and hurled it furiously along country lanes, arriving at the scrapyard, red faced, flustered and with smoking tyres. The merchant was in the dilapidated shed which served him for an office.

  "I was up your way yesterday." He sniffed. "Hardly worth the petrol but I did it for a favour because I know your buyer."

  Dave tersely explained the situation.

  "Come with me, mate." The scrap merchant led him across his filthy yard, round piles of assorted junk to the far corner where a big machine converted scrap metal into neat two foot cubes. Stacked up beside it were several hundred of them. He kicked the nearest. "It's in one of these. Can't tell you which one, offhand. If you want it back, I'll drop it off next Wednesday - cost you a fiver!"

  His return journey to the factory was a time of dismal introspection. Prescott, waiting at Paddington, would be very nasty about it. 'Buzzer' Watson would likewise be very unpleasant. His First Rule of Business wasn't much help, either. He should have personally checked that the mould was delivered to the moulding shop and therefore the responsibility was undoubtedly his own. It was useless and unfair to try to cast the blame on to Sid or the maintenance foreman. Folklore, he realised, would be nastier than the others all put together because the situation reflected on him as Head of Department. He could almost hear the knives being sharpened as he drove into the Works but by the time he had walked over to the department he had made his mind up that he was going to take it squarely on the chin and face it out.

  The news had somehow travelled ahead of him and as soon as he entered Folklore's secretary's office she gave him a message to go at once to a meeting in the Boardroom - the look in her eyes told him what to expect.

  They were all there, including Anderson who happened to be visiting and sat at the head of the vast, polished table. A row of heads swivelled towards him as the Works Manager's secretary ushered him into the room and after a long and very uncomfortable silence, Anderson (as chairman) pointed him to a seat at the opposite end, a clear three spaces from the rest of the meeting. He pulled back the chair, noiseless on the thick red carpet and sat hesitantly on the edge of it.

  "I am told that the new and vitally important Ford Motor Company moulding went to the scrapyard by mistake" intoned Anderson heavily. "Perhaps you would care to explain."

  He attempted to clear a throat which had gone as dry as parchment, "I regret to tell you - ", he coughed behind his hand, found his voice and continued, " - to tell you that it was and the scrap merchant has already put it through his machine and crushed it into a two foot cube of metal."

  There was a sharp intake of breath around the mighty table and he felt the hairs beginning to rise on the back of his neck.

  "Why was it given to the scrap dealer?" demanded Folklore. "Who let him have it?"

  "That is immaterial" replied Dave. "What matters is that it is lost, destroyed and it was my responsibility once it came into the factory. I accept the blame totally for the loss and I can assure you that nothing remotely like it will ever happen to me again."

  A deep hush fell over the meeting. Folklore nervously tapped his pencil against a glass ash tray. 'Buzzer' Watson scrutinised his fingernails while the Works Manager carefully studied the ceiling above him. The tableau remained thus for an agonisingly long time until Anderson finally made a 'hrrumph' noise, then "anybody got any questions?"

  Another long and difficult pause before Watkins enquired "What can we do now?"

  "Get another mould from the same pattern. If the mould maker pulls his finger out we could have a replacement by Monday morning and samples to Prescott by Tuesday, putting us one working day behind schedule if you ignore the weekend."

  "You had better get on with it then."

  "I will, at once."

  Anderson nodded dismissal.

  "That's all?"

  "Anderson nodded again, uncomfortably and Dave left feeling more puzzled than relieved.

  "I can't understand it" he confided to Howell. "They were ready and waiting with the knives out to give me a going over but as soon as I accepted responsibility they went all subdued. Not one word of recrimination. Nothing!"

  "You upset the system, that's why" explained Howell. "You did the one thing that nobody ever does. You admitted that it was your fault and they don't know how to cope with it. They expected you to writhe and squirm and cast the blame on to all and sundry and especially those who can't defend themselves, like Sid, just as they would do themselves. Then, while you are wriggling, they snip little bits off you until there's almost nothing left. They enjoy it and they're very good at it. No doubt they expected to spend the rest of the afternoon on you and when they had finished, send you away to try harder to be more like them, only, of course, at the end of the day they won't let you.

  This one is different, he rejects with a smile."

  N.F. 1970