The Earlier Trials of Alan Mewling. A.C. Bland
“But I want to be made redundant, comrade chair,” said one of the two young men named Adrian from the Business Management Unit.
“And so do I,” said the second Adrian.
“We have entrepreneurial aspirations,” said the first Adrian.
“Selling books and music by computer?” said a woman Alan couldn’t see, prompting widespread amusement.
“Bottled water, actually,” answered the first Adrian, prompting even more hilarity.
“I call the meeting to order,” said Burgoyne.
“Why would people buy bottled water when they can get perfectly good water straight from the tap, for free,” said Morton from the third row. “It makes no sense.”
“It’s an idea that only a public servant could come up with,” said someone to the far left.
“Water, coffee and bread are the high-volume consumer commodities of the future,” said the second Adrian, to uproarious laughter.
“Do I have a seconder for the motion before the chair,” asked Burgoyne, “for the motion that we strike with immediate effect?”
No one indicated support for the motion and Alan suspected that imminent Christmas bills had something to do with their silence.
“Why can’t we do something like ban overtime, to send a shot across their bows,” said someone from the left-hand side of the room.
“Because we never get any overtime,” said someone from the right.
Multiple voices sounded at once, proposing bans on punctuation, on photocopying, on the preparation of ministerial correspondence and on a range of other activities, including, at last, thinking.
Burgoyne called for order.
“Why should we bother with industrial action at all?” asked the cross-eyed man. “It never does any good. And anybody for the high jump who wants to stay will be able to swap with someone whose job is safe, anyway.”
“The motion lapses for want of a seconder,” said Burgoyne, “but I would remind the meeting that a strike – in circumstances where we are, once again, the victims of irreconcilable class differences resulting from unjust economic relations – is an entirely appropriate response from downtrodden workers.”
“Tosh,” said Comrade Wyner. “Absolute tosh.”
“I want to be made redundant,” said one of the Adrians.
“And so do I,” said the other.
“Me, too,” said an elderly man, who was wearing a bow tie, even though he wasn’t an architect.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Neville,” said the intense young woman to the old man. “What would you do if you took a redundancy?”
“I’d retire, as it so happens.”
“But you never do, do you?” the cross-eyed man scoffed. “Every time you complete the paperwork, you chicken out.”
“Order! Order!” said Burgoyne, before other redundancy enthusiasts could reveal their plans.
“What about solidarity with your comrades?” the woman with the huge nose said to the elderly man with the bow tie (who still wasn’t an architect).
“Bugger my so-called comrades,” he responded, “figuratively speaking. I’m prepared to go and I’d be a significant saving.”
“What about the working conditions and workloads of those you leave behind?” said the man with the lisp.
“I won’t give a stuff about them, sitting poolside in some tropical paradise with a gin and tonic in hand.”
Uproar followed. Burgoyne yet again called for order and, spying Morton with his hand up, invited him to address the meeting. “The chair recognises Comrade Morton.”
“Thank you, comrade chair. It seems to me that if Angry Eric is talking to the secretary, we should wait to be informed about the outcome of those discussions, before doing anything precipitate, while reserving our right to take industrial action if those outcomes aren’t to our liking.”
Murmurs of agreement could be heard on all sides.
“And, perhaps,” Morton continued, “we could start considering the concessions – modest, insubstantial things – that we might offer up if management has to appear to gain something in order to back down.”
Further murmurs of agreement could be heard.
“But without stepping back from possible industrial action, later,” said Burgoyne.
“Of course, comrade chair,” said Morton.
“And not rejecting the possibility of a redundancy or two,” said the more entrepreneurial of the two Adrians.
“These are but early days in the struggle,” said Morton. “Anything is yet possible.”
Morton was invited by Escher Burgoyne to formulate a motion embodying his various suggestions. With an amendment appointing Alan as the person to whom suggestions of modest concessions should be sent by the close of business, the resultant proposal was duly put and passed.
“With such unity of purpose, comrades, it can only be a matter of time before the flag of the proletariat flies over the citadel,” said Burgoyne, “and the entire apparatus is in our hands.”
“Cobblers!” exclaimed Comrade Wyner.
“How about concluding with a rousing rendition of the Internationale?” asked Burgoyne.
Comrade Wyner blasphemed loudly and others seemed to accept that this was, in fact, a signal that the meeting was over, even if it hadn’t been formally closed. Some participants rose from their seats, some stretched and looked around, while others began chatting with their neighbours.
“Just a couple of stanzas?” Burgoyne pleaded. “We wouldn’t have to sing all six.”
Without any acknowledgement of the damned of the earth, the prisoners of starvation or the enslaved masses, the departing union members streamed past Alan on their way back to work.
“I could help you out with some “Silent Night” or a bit of “Jingle Bells”, said a triple-chinned woman from the Coordination Unit, who Alan had long suspected of gross intellectual impairment.
“Thank you all the same, comrade,” said Burgoyne, “but I declare this meeting closed.”
Thus it was that the assembly came to an end without the usual debate as to whether work-based child care should take precedence over breastfeeding leave in the next log of claims (the original reason for the Cooper/Wheelwright feud), without deliberations on action to be taken against Azure Faraday (in her capacity as clerical union recusant) and without even the habitual dispatch of fraternal greetings to other oppressed workers (mostly in foreign climes). Alan, though generally supportive of custom and of established ways of doing things, was not disappointed by this turn of events.
Chapter 5
He briefly conferred with Escher Burgoyne about the task his comrades had allocated to him, then left the tea room, feeling both trusted and important. However, when – two steps along the corridor, heading in the direction of his own bay – he heard his name called twice in a low voice from the direction of a large pot plant, the resurgent sense of purpose he experienced was immediately quashed. A blackened eye peered at him through a gap in the foliage.
“Quick,” whispered Quentin Quist, “before I’m spotted, tell me what was decided.”
Alan didn’t want to be sighted by passers-by talking to a shrub and he certainly didn’t want to be observed revealing the outcomes of a union meeting to a member of the Industrial Relations Section … but he couldn’t really pretend